🌙

Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your wandering gaze. "Um, I think it went alright."

A heated breath shrivels even the hairs in your nostrils, your eyes narrow slightly as you continue to press him. "Mark…honestly, as my assistant of seven years, I notice when my decisions may worry you. So, I'll ask you again,” you warn. “How do you think the meeting went earlier today?"

Mark sighed, his shoulders sagging as he finally met your gaze. "Look, Mrs. Hart, I just think...I think you should have signed that deal with GreenTech. The numbers were solid, and it would've given us a leg up on our competitors." Mark's tone bordered on insolence, his body language relaxed as if he thought he was merely offering a differing opinion.

“‘Quality over quantity’…it’s a phrase that is constantly undermined in the business world.” You chuckle lowly with an underlying menacing tone, determining that your footsteps are purposeful as you travel behind your wide office desk. “But for your sake Mr.Lee…let’s say we did sign that deal.” Mark's eyebrows raise with an attentive quirk, hoping to hear your change of heart.

“Skyrocketed to the top with our profits…”, you continue, “We’d probably make shit product too, but hey!- maybe with that money we’ll make GreenTech cover our tracks.” That’s not exactly what he hoped for, and yet he remains seated without choice but to listen. “Where’s the competition in that Mark?”

Mark, with his face flushed, leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Mrs.Hart, you have to think about the offer without playing the moral high ground here. Business is about making profit, not about making friends, or producing some perfect, ethical product." He paused, his expression turning cunning.

Your eyes flashed with annoyance at Mark's presumptuousness. You lean in closer, and for his sake, you turn your voice low with the same level of intensity. "How do you think money is made in business, Mark? By cutting corners, sacrificing quality, leaving a trail of subpar products and obviously disgruntled customers in our wake?"

“That’s not the way I see it madam“, Mark grumbles. “There will always be the next best thing. That’s why there’s competition! Just think about it! With GreenTech in our market, we will always be the best.”

Like a thick block of ice, your face hardened to its core, and your expression remains cold. "It’s a shame that you could be so wrong, Mark. Competition is about offering a superior product, not buying our way to the top,” you say plainly. “I expected more from you…my assistant of seven years."

Mark's jaw tensed as the words he’s always wanted to say battle on his tongue. "Oh please, you've always been short-sighted Mrs.Hart. With the kind of money GreenTech is offering, we could bury our competitors! We'd set the standard, not just try to keep up with it!”

That was it, the last re‘Mark he could make, and then came dangerous consequences.

“Short-sighted?! Mark…” You address coldly, "I'm disappointed. You've bought into the very thing I've always tried to stand against." You walk over toward your high ceiling windows, a view of all surrounding industrial architecture.

“Perhaps you’re short-sighted one. Quite frankly…I couldn’t envision a capitalist in my company's success. I'll be revising your position within the company. Mark Lee…”, you say with a slight head turn, “you are dismissed.”

Mark's face contorted with anger and betrayal as your malicious words began to sink in. "You seriously can’t be considering firing me over this," he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "After everything I've done for this company, you're just going to toss me aside because I have a differing opinion?"

You turn your attention back to the distant outside view, seeing it as pointless to give him the time of day. “Business comes with compromise. Your “opinion” derives from GreenTech beliefs, and based upon this conversation, you’ve tossed yourself onto their side.”

Mark burst up, screeching his sitting chair across the polished flooring. "I'm not some change in GreenTech's pocket. I just believe in seizing opportunities when we see them! You're the one who's being stubborn and stuck in your ways, Mrs.Hart!”

With his challenging words, you had to look him in the eye. To see him cower. For him to fully feel you overpower. “There it is. You, and everyone in this company, that’s your real and raw opinion about me.” You turn slightly so he can see your pleased expression and provide him a round of applause, because speaking up surely had been a feat he’s been wanting to conquer for quite some time.

"You're unyielding, Mrs.Hart, and that's what's going to be your downfall. You can't keep dismissing ideas just because they don't align with your perfect little moral compass," Mark hissed, his face reddened with boiling anger.

“Dismissed.”, you quip with the click of your tongue. You remain unmoved, calmness frighteningly rooting from where you stand. “Allow your replacement to enter please.”

Mark ferocious gaze shuffles between you and what awaits behind the door. He storms to unlock it, his hand flinging dramatically backward as he opens the door to meet his maker.

The new guy's balled fist stalls in the air, his eyes darting between you who is dangerously content, and the infuriated Mark. He hesitates to enter, uncertainty written in bold all over his face. "I, uh, I assume I'm not interrupting anything important?" he asks cautiously.

“He’s been dismissed”, you carelessly announce. “You’ll take his place for the time being.”

You smile graciously, pleased with the divine timing. Wooyoung Jung was the perfect candidate. Charming with a perfect resume, and similar to you, as you do say so fabulously yourself, looks that could kill.

Mr Jung’s eyes widen slightly, but he quickly composes himself. "Oh, is that really it? I must admit, I didn't expect to be stepping into this role so soon," he says, walking further into the room. He casts one last glance at Mark before focusing on the person he came to impress.

Next thing you knew the door slams and Mark disappears, making your eyes squeeze shut, and Mr.Jung to tsk. You blink open your eyes upon hearing the noise of disapproval he made, making you all the more intrigued to turn around and meet such a character.

With finely cut long black hair, a small, yet intimidating face, and a respectful demeanor- you were considering him platonically attractive at the least. Perhaps it wouldn’t piss you off to see his face in office every weekday.

“I admire the decoration in your office madam. Pink adds a new touch to all things business.” He grins to you with glee with a lack of oppression on his nerves.

“Why…thank you.”, you mumble in surprise. “This is short notice,” you cut in, avoiding elongating pleasant greetings. “I apologize for the ongoing…drama. But if you would like to dismiss yourself, you could follow behind Mark there. The work environment is preferably... fast-paced.”

Mr.Jung clears his throat, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "No, no, it's quite alright. I'm flattered you've chosen me to fill this role. I assure you, I can keep pace with whatever this position requires." He extends his hand towards you.

You take his hand gesturing for him to sit across from you where your ex-employee took a stand. "Mark and I have... differing views on how the company should progress." You pause, eyeing Mr.Jung curiously. "I hope this won't be an issue for you.”

Mr.Jung tilts his head as he grins charmingly, his hands slipping into each other comfortably on his lap. “Just steer me in the direction you wanna go. No matter where, I’ll always be your right-hand man.”

You smile for the first time since Mark's presence disappeared from the space. “The expectations are high for you now Mr. Jung. I carry promises like those in the front of my mind.”

His smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I won't let you down, Mrs. Hart. I promise I'll prove myself worthy of your high expectations." He pauses, "And please, call me Wooyoung."

You turn in your chair, and grab a clipboard and pen, sliding it across the desk to him. “Well Wooyoung, I hope you are ready for your first-ever business meeting.”

…

During the meeting, Wooyoung listens intently to the presentations, asking insightful questions and offering thoughtful suggestions that clearly show he's not just knowledgeable, but also cares deeply about the company's success. You couldn’t help but steal glances at him, thoroughly impressed by his intuition and outspokenness.

"I understand that we're aiming for a quick turnaround on this project," Wooyoung interjects during a discussion on project timelines. "But I think we should allocate more resources to quality assurance. Rushing might lead to oversights that could cost us more time and money in the long run."

Then there was once a marketing director, presenting a campaign idea that you seemed hesitant about. "I think we should consider a more digital approach," He interjects once again, and confidently. "Millennials and Gen Z are our target audience. They're not flipping through magazines or watching TV ads like they used to."

“He's right,” you chime in, your eyes appreciative as they meet Wooyoung's who’s sat across from you. "Let's allocate our budget to influencer partnerships and social media ads. And let's discuss this further after the meeting, Wooyoung.”

…

“This may be the first time in ages a man has kept true to his word with me,” you say to him after the meeting, “you quite literally took the words from my mouth.”

Wooyoung grins, leaning against the edge of your desk. "Well, I try my best to read the room. And you wear your thoughts rather openly on your face, Mrs. Hart."

You find this amusing, considering reading the room is your unique skill. “I don’t hold back, or rather, I can’t afford to. It was relieving to step back from being the bitchy boss for a change.”

"Well, I'm glad I could help you take a step back," Wooyoung remarks, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "For what it's worth, I find your honesty refreshing. And I assure you, I can handle the 'bitchy boss'. I thrive under challenge."

You genuinely chuckle and extend your hand for him to take. “Welcome to The “Better Business Co.”

🐈‍⬛🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

As the days go by, Wooyoung's presence starts to have a noticeable effect on the office's mood. Colleagues who were once distant or quiet are now opened up and engaged in conversations. The atmosphere is lighter, with more laughter and genuine smiles. You aren’t ignorant of the changes, and it's not lost on Wooyoung either.

One day, as he's is chatting with some colleagues during lunch, you happened to pass by the table. You’re surprised to see him laughing freely with his coworkers, his natural charm and wit shining through. You pause in place, watching him for a moment before continuing on your way, a small smile playing on your lips.

Soon, you start to realize that Wooyoung's positive energy is infectious, and you find yourself feeling more relaxed and approachable. You start to initiate conversations with your team, asking about their weekends and hobbies.

The once-stuffy office is now filled with the sound of laughter and friendly banter. But business is still business of course.

As much as you worry to admit, you look forward to seeing Wooyoung's face in the morning. His warm smile and easy demeanor set the harmonious tone for the work day. You catch yourself humming along to the music playing in the background, something you never ever do. Even the usually grumpy IT guy can't help but crack a smile whenever he walks by.

As you and Wooyoung walk down the hallway together after another entertaining meeting, your colleagues greet you with daily smiles and waves. "Morning, Mrs. Hart! Mr. Jung!" someone calls out. He was so remarkably casual, a few high-five him as they see him pass by.

You can't help but notice how popular he's become. It made you ponder your work relationships at his side. Which made you realize, ‘relationships’ weren’t in your vocabulary.

You lean over towards him whispering, “You're like the office mascot. how does it feel to be so well loved?" Your eyes sparkle as you smile teasingly.

Wooyoung grins bashfully, running a hand through his flowing hair. "I guess I'm just a people person..but you know, it's not just me. You've lightened up too. The whole office feels like a different place now," he replies, his gaze warm as he smirks cheerfully at you.

It causes you to huff as you begrudgingly confess. “I suppose I have. But I’m never letting my guard down though when it comes to my business. I’m still tough like a clam.”

Wooyoung chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I wouldn't expect anything less from our 'bitchy boss'." He winks at you, his tone playful. "But even a tough clam needs to come out of its shell once in a while."

…

The office is transformed for the night, strings of fairy lights casting a warm glow over the space. Laughter fills the air as colleagues mingle, enjoy good food, and let loose.

Wooyoung, dressed in a sharp suit, is behind the makeshift bar, mixing drinks with a flourish.

You finish a conversation and look for your new partner in crime. You realize his natural mingling nature may never be cut short from serving drinks all night long, so instead, you walk over to him yourself.

“Hey Jung, have you ever had a drink yourself yet?” You fold your arms onto the counter as you approach it. “I bet you could use it before everyone else here. After me, of course.”

Wooyoung looks up from his bartending duties, flashing you a grateful smile. "You know me too well. I've been so caught up in making sure everyone else is having a good time, I haven't had a chance to enjoy anything myself." He reaches for a clean glass, preparing himself a drink.

You wait until he’s finished and raise your half-empty glass for a cheers. “To our partnership…and the grand endeavors we’ll be rewarded along the way.”

Wooyoung clinks his glass against yours, his eyes meeting yours over the rim. "To partnerships, and proving that business and fun can be compatible." He takes a sip, his gaze never leaving your face. "You did an amazing job with this party by the way."

“Oh dear”, you snicker, “if it weren’t for you, a party would be the last thing on my checklist. We did an amazing job.”

He shakes his head, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Don't sell yourself short, Mrs.Hart. You're the one who decided to reward the team. I just helped you execute your vision." He leans over the counter with a playful wink, going over the remainder of his drink into his mouth.

Your face becomes flushed, flicking your wrist in distraction to swig your glass, only to spot it empty.

What's worse is that in truth, you had become a bit tipsy.

"Besides," Wooyoung continues, misinterpreting your flustered expression to be unphased, "it's not every day I get to work alongside such a... power boss." He winks playfully, grabbing a bottle behind the bar to refill your glass.

“A power boss?” You murmur. That’s a new one, but it’s the best name by far. Looks like I finally found someone to put up with my bitchiness.” You lift up your glass in celebration, slaying your arms over the stool in victory.

Woo laughs heartily, clinking his glass against yours once more. "And I love every minute of it." He takes a sip, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"You know…”, he trails off, “some people might say we make a pretty great team, both in and out of the boardroom."

“Yeah?” You murmur, blowing out a harsh breath. Mostly due to the burning alcohol in your stomach. “Who said that?”

A mischievous grin appears on Wooyoung's face as he leans in closer. I might have overheard a couple of our colleagues discussing earlier. They were saying how well we complement each other, and..." He pauses for dramatic effect, “how our dynamic is almost...romantic?” He raises an eyebrow with an unveiling expression, gauging your reaction.

The office has been buzzing with such rumors for weeks. What goes around comes around to you like clockwork. But the folks in the office have been careful not to address either of you directly. "But we'd make a terrible couple, right?"

You freeze in disbelief before drunkenly waving off such a claim. “Damn right. We’re both too stubborn. We’d be unstoppable then.”

Wooyoung chuckles, taking another sip of his drink. A rather large one in comparison to the lasts. "Exactly..besides, I couldn't handle being bossed around 24/7." "Though I must admit, there are some perks to the idea." His gaze flickers to your lips briefly before meeting your eyes again.

“Oh yeah? Well, lemme hear 'em.” You suddenly become confident with the liquid courage, and he is no help, he continues what he initiated with the liquor flowing like blood in his system.

Wooyoung leans in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Well, for one, your... assertiveness would be quite... stimulating in other situations." He smirks, watching your reaction closely.

The sudden change of mood makes you spit out a little laughter and nearly fall out of your seat- to which Wooyoung catches you, but almost falls over himself.

You lean in and whisper childishly with a hand hovering over the sides of your face. “Do you mean like…

“Sex?”

A brief widening of Wooyoung's eyes occurs, followed by a soft laugh, his face flushed. "Eh, erm, yeah...that's one of many perks that came to mind."

You giggle in amusement, wiggling a teasing finger at how heated he became at his own jest. Just as your moving close to his chisled cheek, with his eyes allured on your dazed face, you lose balance from out of your seat.

Wooyoung helps steady your waving form, his hands are gentle, and firm. "Ah...see? You're drunk sweetheart. "I'm not sure that's an appropriate topic for the office party anyway."

You groan in annoyance and set down your glass. You lean forward again, trying to maintain contact with his deep eyes as your eyes blink out of sync. “What happens to putting the fun in business”, you whine. “Your a little…party pooper. I wanna go home.” Your head wanes back and forth, then tumbling down to smack the countertop.

Wooyoung sighs, rubbing his temples. He looks around the party, which has started to wind down, and he decides then, it's probably for the best. "Alright, alright. Let's get you home." He carefully moves around the bar to pick you up, cradling you in his arms.

You continue on, whining and complaining about wanting to go to bed with your arm thrown around his neck-pulling him down in the slightest. “Hey you…party pooper…tuck me in already”, you burp.”

He trudges you successfully out of the office, ignoring your complaints. Once you're both in his car, he carefully buckles you into the passenger seat before getting in behind the wheel. As he drives, he can't help but glance over from time to time. It was extremely rare to have ever seen you like this.

Wooyoung pulls a quick hand off the wheel and sends a voice text to your HR representative, asking them to wrap things up and make sure everyone gets home safely. He then focuses back on the road, determined to get you home without any more eventful detours. "There, all taken care of," he says, more to himself than to anyone else.

A sudden road bump pangs your head into the door, and you moan painfully, waving a measly finger at your subordinate.“Hey, don’t drink and drive!”

Wooyoung can't help but adore at your drunken concern. "Don't worry, I'm perfectly sober. I only had the drinks we shared. You, on the other hand..." He glances at her, shaking his head fondly. "What am I going to do with you, madam?"

You frown with etched brown, drunkenly trying to think long and hard about what you should do. It makes your headache worsen even more and you simply give up. “Arghhh, I dunno…”

A warmth spread through his chest at your petulant expression. He pulls up to your apartment building and parks the car. "Come on, let's get you inside." He reaches across to unbuckle your seatbelt, sliding his hands around your waist to help you out of the car carefully.

You don’t know what happened in between but you have already made it to the elevator “Eight, room 816,” you whisper. The door closes as you both elevate to the eighth floor. You lean on Wooyoung when you stumble, his hold is automatic, and he finds it so amusing. “You’re so warm.” You drunkenly express, “like my blanket.”

Wooyoung chuckles softly as he supports your weight, his hands resting comfortably on your hips. "I'm glad I can be your human blanket." He guides you out of the elevator when you arrive at the floor with a ding and down the hall to your door. "Now, where are your keys, sleepyhead?"

“I won’t tell you that they’re in my purse.” You whisper, and quite literally waving a finger ‘no’.

He sighs and carefully sets you down on the floor, kneeling in front of you to dig vigorously through your deep designer purse. "You're making this much harder than it needs to be madam," he mutters, finally finding the keys.

“Sorry.” You sheepishly mutter.

“I forgive you.” Wooyoung unlocks the door and pulls you inside, guiding you to the place you've wanted to be all night long, the bedroom.

He sits you down softly on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of you, gently removing your feet from your gruesome hot pink heels.

"There, that's better, Wooyoung proclaims. “Now, let's get you under the covers before you pass out on top of them."

In a way, you make things a small bit easier, smiling and pulling your body in the sheets with him like a lazy rag doll. “Ahhh…home sweet home.”

Wooyoung tucks you into bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin as if you were his child. A strand of hair is brushed out of your face by him in another sign of parental affection. "Sleep well. You’re going to need it.”

He pulls back as you nuzzle in warmth, speculating a small glance of discomfort in your features. At first, he hesitates, but then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the harsh kiss between your eyebrows.

Wooyoung lingers for a moment, his lips still against your forehead, before gently pulling away. To his surprise the crease melts flat, ceasing in appearance.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself as he watches over your form. "Mrs.Hart," he whispers softly, "We need to talk."

Without speaking any further, he leaves your apartment shortly after. He didn’t expect a response of course, nor for you to remember these moments in the next morning. It was more so of a practice run, a severe need to ease relief from the front of his mind.

The drive home is spent lost in thought, the gold city lights blurred outside his windows. Once he arrived home, he stripped down to his boxers and fekk into bed.

But sleep is harder than most nights, and it’s all your fault.

…

The next morning, Wooyoung strides into the office with a purpose. He's dressed sharp, his mind focused solely on business. At first glance, you would have never thought anything worrying was crushing on his nerves.

He greets his employees with a polite nod, and his face derives from anything non-neutral. As he settles behind his desk, he pulls out a folder containing the day's agenda.

You, on the other hand, are hungover. Someone looked after you this morning-setting out your clothes and saving you lots of time and embarrassment in the process- because you were started to settle on PJs.

All alone in your office, you suffer in silence from your headache, drinking both tea and coffee to wake you up and liven your mood.

Wooyoung walks in happily as he does every working morning, noticing your slow movements and frequent face-palms from his office. He suppresses a smile, instead walking over to your office with two ibuprofen tablets and a bottle of water. "Here," he says, setting them down neatly on your desk. "For your head."

You greatly take them as soon as they’re placed in front of you, swallowing one dry as you down the water to prepare for another. “Wooyoung…thank you for this, and for getting me home safely. From this headache, I can imagine I was a hot mess.” You pull your hands to smooth the sides of your head, moaning as the pain subsides.

He leans against the nearest wall with his arms crossed. "You were," he says bluntly, a small smirk playing on his lips. "But I took care of you, and that’s what I'm here for." His gaze intensifies, holding amusingly onto yours.

You hiss from looking up toward the ceiling lights. “Yeah but last night might’ve been a little extreme, and it won’t happen. Anyway, what’s on today’s agenda?”

He pulls out a folder from under his arm and walks over to set it down on your desk. "Today, we're finalizing the contract for the new club downtown."

“Good”, you scan over the contents inside the folder with a breath of relief. “Nothing that over-exerts the energy that I don’t have. Today should be easy.”

Wooyoung straightens up, his smirk deepening. "Just leave the heavy lifting to me, my hungover delicate flower. I'll make sure everything runs smoothly."

You chuckle at his typical teasing. It was never too much. Just unpredictable, but effective. “I’ll treat you to dinner after work. It’s the least I could do for my non-professional-like behavior.

Wooyoung's eyes glint with excitement. "Deal," he replies. "But tonight, I choose the restaurant. And…," he adds, shifting aimlessly on his heel, "you're not driving. I'll pick you up."

Without a beat, you throw your hands up beside your head without banter. “You don’t hear any complaints from me!”

He grins at you wolfishly, clearly pleased. "Good. Because I have the perfect place in mind”, he says cheekily. “Now, let's get to work, Madam Hart. We've got a contract to finalize." He winks at you and saunters out of your office, whistling an original tune.

…

As the day progresses, Wooyoung does indeed take the lead, handling the more demanding tasks with ease. In admiration you watch him, impressed by his imitation of your assertiveness and confident demeanor.

As the discoursed work day came to its end, the business still stood on all fours thanks to Better Business Company’s Mr. Jung.

True to his word, Wooyoung arrives at your apartment later that evening. He's dressed for a casual outing, his long hair tucked back into a ponytail with two neatly placed front strands. He rings the doorbell, a bouquet tucked under one arm.

Your company comes as expected as you lie idly on your couch. You walk to answer the door, looking more refreshed and rejuvenated than earlier today in a pink slip-dress. "Hey…you look nice."

"You look… well-rested," Wooyoung amends, smiling. "For you Madam. They’re pink!"

The large bouquet of petunias came out in surprise. You would’ve seen them sooner if you weren’t processing your focus in his face before it could make its way down to the rest of his body. “Oh…Wooyoung I- what are these for? I’m already in your debt. I don’t need you to buy me flowers.”

"Nonsense," he replies, pushing the bouquet firmly into your arms. "Consider it a peace offering. For last night, and for being such a trooper today despite your hangover." He grins mischievously.

You turn foot into your apartment as you roll your eyes. “Well let me just set these in my vase, and we can get going to this mystery spot.”

Wooyoung nods, watching as you bustle around and make picky remarks about the secret place he selected. He notices little details - a book on the coffee table, a photograph on the wall, a stack of unopened mail. He files these away in his mental library, eager to learn more about you outside of his paycheck. "Ready?" he asks once you return, his hand waits for yours to hold.

“More than I’ll ever be.” You take his hand as the tips of your fingers brush over his palm. But once you’ve made it outside your door, you pull it out of his subtle grip.

Wooyoung snickers under his breath, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't worry, it's not a surprise skydiving session." He places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of the building and down to his car.

“That would be such a dick move after a hangover,” you scoff as you approach the door.

"Mmm, note to self: no extreme activities post-Mrs.Hart’s bender." he chuckles, moving around to open the passenger door for you.

On the drive there it’s no different. Wooyoung fills the silence with baited banter, making you fall for it so gullibly, despite your usual self.

The car arrived at a nondescript building. Wooyoung leads you up a flight of stairs to a rooftop patio. String lights twinkle overhead, and the air is filled with the sizzle of cooking and the low murmur of conversation. He guides you to a small table in a quiet corner.

You nod approvingly at your new surroundings, smiling warmly at Wooyoung who has been watching your reaction with glee. “Fresh air, check. Warm high-calorie food, check. Nice company….check. This may be the ideal hangover spot. Well played Mr. Jung.”

Wooyoung grins, taking his seat after pulling out yours. "I have my moments."

He picks up his menu, scanning it for a few seconds before setting it down without a second glance. Rather he looks across the table at your downturned eyes. "Now, let's see... what do you hungover crave? Greasy food? Carbs? Something spicy to clear out those sinuses?"

“Mmm…”, you hum, dazzling over the menu while scooching playfully on your seat. “I’ll have a mix of all the above.”

"Excellent choice," Woo says, approvingly. He flags down a waitress, placing an order for two of their special, ‘Hangover Helpers'.

While waiting for your orders, you decide to pick up on less frivolous conversations. “Did I do anything odd that made you uncomfortable while I was drunk? I swear I can’t remember a darn thing besides going to bed.”

Wooyoung leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "No, nothing too out of the ordinary," he says, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Just the usual drunken musings and some...affectionate gestures."

You squeeze your eyes shut and clench your teeth in frustration. “Dammit! That is one of the things I didn’t want to hear! Did it make you uncomfortable?”

His smirk widens into a full-blown grin. “You drunkenly telling me I'm ‘so dreamy' and trying to hug me was adorable. It didn’t make me uncomfortable in the least, I just wish I had recorded it."

“Okay…”, you start with a genuine laugh, “I don’t even have to be sober to know I, in fact, did not say-“

"Oh, yes you did," Wooyoung insists, his eyes dancing with amusement. "And you also informed me that my hair is 'like satin'. Your words, not mine." He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand.

“You truly amuse me”, you bitterly scoff.

"Oh, but you did," he continued, leaning forward. "And then you proceeded to pat my cheeks and declare that, ‘I had such a sweet face'. You were quite taken with my face actually."

Your eyes lower in a deadpan expression. You reach forward to grab a menu, fanning it in your face. “I have a feeling that I was more infatuated with my bed than anything.”

"Ah,” he concedes with a chuckle, “but the bed was a close second. "You did have a rather passionate reunion with your pillow when I finally got you into bed." He shakes his head, still grinning. "I swear…your drunk self is a riot."

You huff quietly with a small smile that dissipates in seconds. “I’ve only heard that a couple of times with Mark…he’d just let me lay on top of the bedding- and forget about setting my clothes out for tomorrow. He said I was so impossible to deal with, he couldn’t even take off my shoes.”

Wooyoung's expression softens, his humor fading for a moment. "Well, I managed," he says quietly. "It wasn't so bad. Though I will admit, you were a lot more childish than usual.”

Your eyes snap up from his use of words- your turn the menu down in disbelief. “What! Oh gosh… I don’t think I wanna know what happens next.”

"Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad," he groans, his grin returning. Before he could further explain the waitress serves your platters.

Wooyoung dives into his food with enthusiasm, occasionally stealing glances at you teasingly as you prepare to eat. He watches as you take a big first bite, your eyes fluttering closed briefly in satisfaction. "Good?"

Your eyes feast on the rest of your meal rather than the man who invited you out to dinner. “Breakfast never tasted so good.”

"I'm glad," Wooyoung mumbles, his mouth full of food. He swallows and takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. "Though I have to say, you seemed to enjoy your pillow just as much last night. Quite the dramatic reunion with it."

“Okay, let it go!” You chew with a small laugh, and there was more where that came from for the rest of your dinner.

…

Wooyoung mimics your every giggle to your apartment, leaning against the closed door. "Well, at least this time you're sober." His grin is quick and charming. "Mostly."

You hold back a smile and push him away from the door, fumbling while grabbing your keys that fell to the bottom of your purse- giving Wooyoung major deja vu vibes from last night. “Well I promise you won’t have to cuddle me in bed this time- and set out my outfits.”

When you finally found your key, you held it up like a bar of gold, quickly inserting it through the lock and entering the apartment.

You turn to Wooyoung, but the intensity in the air fills with an odd lingering desire to stay in each other's company. The night was still young, and the office was closed for the weekend...

“Would you like to come in?”

His gaze follows into the apartment, his eyes lingering on you as you turn your back to him, walking towards the hall to your bedroom. If he said no, you’d have to awkwardly walk back to the door, and slam it quickly to just blame it on you still being hungover the next day.

The intensity in the air is palpable, the unspoken desire to prolong this moment hangs heavily. Wooyoung steps inside, closing the door behind him. "Just for a minute."

You approach the bedroom door, opening it up just a bit with a small creak. “I’m just going to change back into my PJs. Make yourself comfortable if you’d like.”

Wooyoung watches as you disappear down the hall. He doesn’t understand why his shoulders drop from tension as you leave the room. He lets out a slow breath, trying to rein in his thoughts.

He walks over to the gray velvet sofa with pink pillow decor, sits down, and runs a hand over to the back of his head to remove his hair tie- dislodging a few strands from its careful styling.

Moments after you come back out in your pink (of course) satin pajamas- making yourself comfortable on the couch with glasses of water for the both of you.

Wooyoung's eyes follow you as you re-enter, his gaze lingering in satisfaction in the way the satin clings to your curves. He takes the glass of water you offer, your fingers brushing briefly. "Thanks," he murmurs, taking a sip to distract himself from the sudden dryness in his throat.

His change of demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed by you, part of being a good CEO is reading the bodily behavior of your colleagues. “You sure that’s all that went last night Mr. Jung? I feel like you might be disassociating with some kind of- PTSD.”

His smirk revives at your teasing tone, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Very funny," he drawls, setting his glass down on the coffee table with a deliberate clink. "I'm just thinking, that’s all."

You weigh your leg into a cushion, settling your back into a pillow in the corner. “A glass of water for your thoughts?”

Wooyoung's expression suddenly turns serious, his gaze intent as he peers over at you for a few heartbeats. "Just...about how different this is from last night," he says slowly. "And how much...I don't want it to end."

A tapping sound clinks on your glass from your fingernails as silence reigns after his confession. “I respect you for being so open about that, I know that wasn’t the easiest thing. Which is why…I too feel the same way.”

His eyebrows melts and his pout lies flat as relief etches into his features. "Good," he breathes. Leaning forward, he sets his glass down. The movement brings him closer to you, and the space between you both shrinks in distance.

“Oh, come on.” You whine, the sudden moments of silence were becoming exasperated. “When the spotlights on you, you want to shrivel up in the dark and be nonchalant? What’s bothering you Wooyoung?”

His chest tightens at your words, his heart pounding in his ears. He looks into your eyes, seeing the warmth and understanding there, and it's like a dam starts breaking inside him. "I'm scared," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sensing the seriousness that arises, you sigh in guilt, setting your water down as you gesture toward your chest for Wooyoung to lie upon. “I won’t push it.”

He hesitates for just a moment before slowly leaning forward, resting his head on satin-clad chest. Your warmth envelops him, your laundry wash filling his nostrils. He exhales shakily, his arms coming up to wrap around smoothly around your waist. "I'm scared of messing this up."

Your face scrunches up in confusion. If anything, everything he’s done so far is miles away from a fuck up. “You don’t need to worry. The business thrives with you in it. If anything I’ll slip up before you do.”

Wooyoung lets out a huff of laughter at your comforting words, his arms tightening around you as he exhales another snapping breath. "That's not what I meant," he says quietly. His fingers trace irregular patterns on your back through the satin. "I'm scared of scaring you off. Of wanting too much."

You scoff, shaking your head with worry and whispering, “I’m sure whatever you have planned for the company will be in its best interest. You cook up great innovations Wooyoung. I trust you most.”

His breath regulates at your revelation, a warmth spreading through his chest that has nothing to do with body heat. He tilts his head to look up at you, his eyes shining marvelously with emotion. "You trust me?" he asks softly, almost desperately.

“I never thought I’d see the day I say it to any man…but yes!” You chuckled. “I trust you, Wooyoung Jung.”

His face breaks into a wide, heartfelt smile. "Good," he murmurs, before leaning up to lay back on his elbows. When he pulls away, he props his head on the top of the sofa, his voice is barely a whisper. "Because I trust you with me, Mrs.Hart."

A hand you had casually been held up where his head lied poked him on the forehead. “That’s what makes us so compatible, partner.”

‘Partner’, he thinks, the word resonating to the deep thoughts within him.

…

In the following week at the office, you and Wooyoung have fallen into an upbeat rhythm. You spent hours debating over contracts, brainstorming new evolutionary ideas, and sharing laughter over late-night work sessions. One evening, as you’re wrapping up, Wooyoung leans back in his chair, rubbing his drowsy eyes.

You shut off your desktop, holding the power button until you see pitch black. “This week catching up to you too huh?”

Wooyoung nods, a rueful smile on his face. "You could say that. I feel like I've been running on caffeine and adrenaline." He stands up and stretches, his shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his toned stomach. "What do you say we call it a night?

Your jaw tenses as you take an accidental peak at his abdomen, you grab a pen and scribble on a sticky note- alleviating your focus elsewhere. “I’m up for it. Tomorrow is our day off, and we’re caught up for the next couple of months if things go to plan.”

"Mhm, and things will go to plan," he bursts out confidently, rounding his desk to where you scribble your thoughts on paper. He comes up behind you, and your doodles come to a slow. It wasn’t until you felt massages to your shoulders that the tension melted under his fingers.

You moan softly, tilting your neck for Wooyoung to access those sore spots your massage gun touches every hard work day.

His grin widens at your quiet moan, his thumbs working the knots out of your pointed shoulders. "Mmhmm, just like that," you murmur approvingly. As he works, he leans down, his breath fanning over your ear. "Have I told you how much I appreciate you lately?”, he devilishly whispers.

"Not nearly enough," you jokingly reply, your voice low.

Wooyoung huffs, continuing to massage your shoulders, his touch easing as he feels you relax under his ministrations. “You're the backbone of this company, Mrs.Hart. And not just the company...me too. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Your eyes snap open, you grab onto the hands Wooyoung held over your shoulders in a still. “You know that goes both ways.”

Both of his hands smooth over your back blades as he backs away to turn your chair around, dropping to his knees before you. His hands take claim off you this time, thumping in your lap. "Yes, it does," he agrees softly, his eyes focused on yours in a deep search.

The office is quiet around you, the only sound is the soft hum of the computers on standby. There was something about him at this moment that made it hard to swallow. To move, to just breathe. He just looked so striking under the one ceiling light that illuminated the room.

“Okay…”, you sufferingly clear your throat, “let’s get a move on. If you keep doing that time will be pouring into tomorrow.”

Wooyoung nods as his head casts downward with a wicked grin, reluctantly releasing onto your hands. He arises first, helping you to your feet. "Alright, alright. Let's go," he groans, walking with you towards the elevator. As you both step inside, he hits the button for the ground floor, leaning against the wall behind you.

You mindlessly look at the secured sliding doors, dreaming about the freedom outside of it, wondering what your day off would entail.

The elevator begins to descend, the soft hum filling the silence between them. Wooyoung watches your blurred expression through the reflective steel walls of the elevator. He places his hands tentatively on your shoulders once again. "A massage for your thoughts?" he mimics from last week's hang out.

Your eyes shutter as soon as you feel rhe contact of his warmth. “I’m just waiting for tomorrow. Mentally, I’m already there.”

Wooyoung chuckles, pulling off once again to stand by your side as the floor gets closer for departure, bumping your hip with his own. "Me too. It's going to be a good day," he comments, his tone filled with promise. The elevator dings, as the doors slide open. He places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you out into the lobby.

You both walk out to your cars which are now parked next to each other- because it just makes sense with how often you work together.

As you both approach the cars you push start on your keys, and you both arrive at your drivers' doors simultaneously. "And Mrs.Hart?" You look up to meet Wooyoung, who is already eyeing you. "Drive safe, okay? Text me when you get home?"

You giggle as you chew nibbles on your lips. “You know I’m no good at that. I’ll probably be blowing boogers in my sheets by the time I get home.”

Wooyoung pulls open his door with a chuckle, shaking his head. "Fair point. Just ask your Alexa, she’ll do all the work.” He opens his door, sliding into the driver's seat before leaning over to roll down the passenger window. "Goodnight, Mrs.Hart."

You slide into your car, mimicking his action before waving at him with a small smile. “Goodnight Wooyoung, drive safe.”

He waits until your car pulls out of the parking lot before putting his car in gear. He watches your taillights until they disappear around the corner, a contented smile on his face as he starts the drive home.

…

Wooyoung wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside his window. He stretches flexibly, the blankets roll away from his bare chest. He stands up to freely pull off his boxers, padding naked to the bathroom.

After completing his morning routine, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads downstairs.

He eats his eggs and rice slowly, his mind drifting to the possibilities of your whereabouts. He thinks about your strength, your confidence, your unyielding feminist nature.

He thinks about kneeling before you, about your hands gripping his hair, about your voice ordering him to... He shakes his head, trying to dispel the thoughts.

He hears a distant ping from his coffee machine and walks back into the kitchen to pour himself a mug, adding plentiful spoonfuls of sugar before taking a seat at the table. As he sips his coffee, his mind wanders back to you.

He remembers how you handled a difficult client last week. How you stood tall, your eyes blazing with anger as you dressed the man down. He remembers the way your voice dropped to that low, commanding tone when you were displeased. He swallows hard, his body reacting dangerously to the memory.

He takes a shuddering breath, his towel tenting obscenely in his lap. He knows he shouldn't be thinking about his boss this way. It's inappropriate and unprofessional. But he can't help it. The thought of her dominating him, controlling him completely, sets his blood on fire.

Coincidentally, he receives a text later that day as he's lounging on his bed, flipping through the channels on his TV.

You: I know it's our day off but could you come over?

You: I need some brawn over here.

Wooyoung: No worries.

Wooyoung: I haven’t moved from my bed since I ate breakfast this morning. Coming over.”

In no time flat, he quickly gets dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie before making his way over giddily to your apartment. When he arrives, he knocks and hears a voice yelling from inside. “Come on in!”

He walks into you trying to carry a box into your room. Your face is flushed with red, and strands of hair fall out piece by piece out of your bun. "I swear, if I break a nail..." you muttered under your breath.

Like a track star he quickly strides over, wrapping his arms around the other side of the box. "You can let go, I’ll take care of it," he says, easily lifting it out of your hands. He carries it into your bedroom, placing it on the floor beside your bare mattress. "What is all this stuff woman?"

You follow him inside, sighing at all the packages you have yet to unbox. “It’s all for my queen-size four-poster bed. I should’ve let those guys charge me to build it.”

Wooyoung's eyes widen as he processes the implications. A queen size bed with four posters...perfect for-

tying someone up?

He swallows hard, stressing to keep his composure. "That's... that's a really nice bed," he manages to say, his voice slightly strained.

“Yeah…I figured it looked nice with a canopy,” you remark, “it’ll make this space less boring I guess.”

Wooyoung nods, his eyes darting to the bedposts. He imagines being bound to them, helpless, at mercy. The thought makes his heart race. He turns away, busying himself with disassembling the box. "What all do you need help with again?"

You turn to him awkwardly with an embarrassed grin. “I think I need you for the whole build… if you have the time?”

He starts to talk but he hesitates, struggling to blindside his racing mind. Being alone with you for an extended period, in your personal space... It's dangerous territory, given his feelings. But he can't say no, not when you’re looking at him with the eyes of a vixen. "Of course," he hears himself say.

“Really!” You gawk in excitement, hugging him only briefly. “Ugh, where have you been since I moved into this place!”

“I don’t know…when did you move in?” He childishly muttered.

You roll your eyes, playfully smacking his chest which he rubs onto delicately after with a pout. “I’ll help you, of course, and you’ll be out of here in no time!”

As you begin to skim over the directions, oblivious to his inner turmoil, Wooyoung takes a deep breath, stilling himself. "Alright, let's do this."

…

The next few hours are spent reading a complex manual the team deciphers with experiments- and oftentimes- chatting breaks that could’ve been replaced with work being done.

As the two of you build, your dynamic of ‘partners’ begins to shift. You laugh together at each other’s frustrations, your shoulders brush as you lean over the instructions. Wooyoung finds himself relaxing, his earlier anxiety replaced by a comfortable camaraderie.

Until...

"Okay, now we need to attach this to the post."

You stand above the mattress to hold each piece in place while Wooyoung reaches around to the front of you to secure it with the provided hardware.

Again, experimentation is the most convenient strategy- well… more to one party than the other. As your bodies press close, his chest connects to your back. His breath catches at the contact. He fumbles with the screwdriver, his hands suddenly become clumsy and the nail unscrews itself from the hole. "Shit… sorry.”, he whispers.

“Don’t fret”, you gleam, “just screw it in a bit more.” You assist him as you tip your head back against his shoulder, giving him better access to properly screw into the hole. "Here, like this," you say. Wooyoung swallows hard, his throat crumbled dry. He can feel your breath, warmth brushing against his neck. He pushes to focus on the task at hand, trying to ignore the distraction you unknowingly present.

He's hyper-aware of every inch of your body against his. He finally gets the screw tightened, then pulls back abruptly, as it doesn’t screw in any tighter. "There”, he breathed out in relief.

You squeal in excitement, jumping down from your bed. “Holy shit…we’re finally done, and it looks exactly like the picture on the box!”

Wooyoung nods, climbing down and trying to regain his composure. The bed stands proudly in the center of the room, its canopy draped along the edges so sinfully. "It looks great," he manages to say, his voice a bit hoarse.

An adrenaline rush pulses through your core as you jump to lightly bounce on the mattress, zooming to every corner.

Wooyoung laughs weakly, running a hand through his hair. "Hey get down, don’t erase our hard work!" he says teasingly. You walk down to the foot of the bed where he stood, towering over him in an effortless and poweress stance, poking out your tongue with a silly expression.

He avoids looking at you after you bounce away, afraid his feelings might be written all over his face. "Well, I suppose your zoomies mean that my work is done. I should probably go.”

His discern punches guilt into your chest. His energy couldn’t equate to match yours right now, and it’s all because he took on the weight of putting the pieces together. “Wooyoung wait!”

He turns hesitantly in the door frame, watching as you hop down from the newly built bed. "Thank you…for today. I couldn't have done it without you." You bite your lower lip, dithering to say…"Stay for dinner?"

It's a recipe for disaster. But he can't bring himself to say no.

Wooyoung's heart skips a beat at the invitation. He wants to stay, and he wants to spend more time with you. But he knows it's a bad idea, and that he needs to set boundaries for himself. He opens his mouth to decline, but the words stick in his throat. "Okay," he hears himself say instead.

“Great! And then you’ll be on your way home, I promise!”

Wooyoung forces a smile, nodding in agreement. He follows you to the kitchen, his mind racing. He knows he's playing with fire, but he can't seem to help himself. As you start pulling ingredients out of the fridge, he offers to help, hoping the distraction will keep his feelings at bay.

He watches as you bustle around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients, and humming under your breath. Every now and again you’ll point to a spot in the kitchen for an ingredient and he’ll fetch it for you like a puppy.

And boy did his tail wag at every command.

…

“Okay, that’s enough now” you direct in a monotone voice. “Just give it to me Wooyoung.”

He looks up from the cutting board, his eyes meeting yours. You’re leaning against the counter, your arms crossed over your chest. Your gaze is intense, and your expression is unreadable. "What?", he asks voice barely above a whisper.

“The veggies!”, you vigorously point, “you’re gonna cut them too small!”

"Oh," he says, his voice coming out choked. He quickly moves the cutting board out of his reach, his hands shaking slightly.

You push off from the counter and move closer to him, your movements careful and deliberate. "Here, let me," you say in your more homely voice.

He steps aside, his heart pounding in his chest. He watches as you finish chopping the vegetables, your hands sure and steady.

As you work, Wooyoung can't help but stare at you. The way your hair cascades near your back, the curve of your waist, the strength in your arms. He's so caught up in admiring you that he doesn't realize you're finished until you turn back in his direction. "There”, you whisper with a satisfactory smile, "dinner should be ready in another ten minutes.”

"Great," his voice sounding strained even to his ears. He clears his throat from the itchiness, "Is there anything else I can do to help?" He's desperate for a distraction, anything to keep his mind off the way his body is reacting to your proximity.

“No, you’ve done enough. If it makes you feel better I can just give you a bite to go.” You turn to him as you mix around the ingredients from sticking at the bottom of the pot. Slightly worried about his oddly anxious nature.

"I'm sorry, I'm just..." Wooyoung trails off, unsure how to finish. He's just what? In love with you? Desperately attracted to you? Terrified that you might notice the way he's been looking at you?

You sigh, slowly walking up to him and touching his shoulder. “You're overthinking too much, and you’re probably pushing your body beyond what it can bear Wooyoung. Lay on the couch for a bit, I’ll bring dinner to you.”

In coerced agreement, he nods, relief washing over him at your touch. He lets out a shaky breath, feeling like he's teetering on the edge of a precipice. He turns and walks to the couch, sitting down heavily. As he lays back, he closes his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. “Get your shit together man,” he whispers amongst himself.

You enter the living room minutes later, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of your homemade chicken and vegetable stir fry, a side of steamed jasmine rice, and a glass of water. You set it down on the coffee table in front of Wooyoung.

“You wanna sit up so you can properly put some fuel in your body?” Wooyoung sits up, his eyes fixed on you. The way you lean over to put the tray down causes your blouse to gap slightly, offering him a tantalizing hint of cleavage. He swallows hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat.

As Wooyoung starts to lean backward, you plump the throw pillows behind him, your fingers brushing against his shoulder. He stiffens at your touch, and you notice his reaction, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

The contact lingers for a moment, with your faces close. Wooyoung can smell your perfume, something light and floral that makes him want to bury his face in your neck. You blink, breaking the spell, and step back. "Eat up before it gets cold," you mutter in a slightly breathy voice.

He feels both unnerved and invigorated by you’s directness. It’s as if you stripped away some of the layers of polite distance that usually exist between you two, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

You join him in eating and cars rev as they pass by now and again in the silence. You chew softly and grow more annoyed with Wooyoung's continuous acts of behavior. You thought the food would cheer him up but by the way he’s still scooching on the opposite ends of your couch- you know something’s up.

"You're being awfully quiet," you acknowledge, tearing the silence. "And you keep scooching away from me, so, let’s talk." you take a sip of your wine, your eyes narrowing as you study him.

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at his hood collar as if it's suddenly too tight. "I, uh, I'm just not used to you being so... nurturing, I guess. It's throwing me off."

You laugh loudly, shaking your head in surprise. "Wow, not even a little bit subtle, huh?", you set your wine glass down and turn to face him fully. “Did I ruin your plans for today? I will grant you a free vacation day from work. I mean we’re already caught up with the progress we’re making.”

Wooyoung's shoulders relax, and he lets out a small laugh. "No, seriously, don’t bother. It's just... different. Unexpected. You're usually so... focused on work. Seeing you like this, taking care of me, it's...nice." He pauses, then adds quietly, "...a little scary." your eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of hurt crossing your face before you disclose your expression.

"Scary? Because I'm being nice to you?" your voice is carefully neutral, but there's an undercurrent of confusion and slight offense.

“I don’t know it feels…motherly?”

You throw your head back and laugh, a rich, throaty sound that fills the room. "Oh my goodness, Wooyoung. I'm 29, not 60. I think I can take care of you without having to be Mrs. Weilderman from next door."

Your laughter eases the tension, and Wooyoung feels his body unwinding. "Alright, alright, not motherly. Just... different. And I like it," he says, giving you a small smile. He takes a deep breath and continues, “Maybe even more than I should." He pauses, looking down at his hands as he wrings them in his lap. "I think I might be um..."

“A mommas' boy?” you joke, tapping the shell of your elbow into his slender shoulders, causing him to rock right.

“I am my momma's boy,” he admits, “and I love her to death, so you can’t shame me.”

“Awwww how cute~ I don’t think I’ve seen you become such a sap. Looks like we’re both seeing different sides of another tonight.”

Wooyoung encircles his small face frame that holds a big package of handsomeness. “No shame.” You giggle, swiveling your wine before tossing back the remaining liquid.“But, there’s this other thing. I can’t find the word for it, but it’s like this feeling of me just… naturally wanting to do anything for you. It never feels forced on the job.”

“Awe, well aren’t you perfect for employee of the month.” You sigh contentedly and ponder his heartfelt confessions. “Okay…” you nod, “let’s try, devoted? Indebted? Grateful?”

Hiss eyes flick over your face, he tilts his head like a lost puppy, shaking his head when the words just didn’t hit a ring in him. “No? Naturally, doing anything…for me? Without feeling forced…

“Submissive?” you whisper, looking down in shock from the slip before you look back up at him.

Wooyoung's head snaps up, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear. "How did you...?"

“Oh…”

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I mean it’s only natural! As your..subordinate."

You grin mischievously, your eyes gleaming with amusement. "I mean it is a bit of a shock, but we can talk about it.” you lean forward, poking him playfully in the chest. He reaches up to rub over the area, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “You were a bit like this the other night. I think you said something about scaring me off?”

Wooyoung chuckles nervously, looking back at you. “I guess I just... I just wanted you to see me as more than just your subordinate. And I guess this is me ruining my chances.”

“I guess that sort of depends on what you want then. You smooth a hand over his shoulders, trying to mimic the calming massages he gives you under stress. “We work pretty closely to where things are just natural between us now, it wouldn’t necessarily be ruined.”

Your words send a thrill through Wooyoung, and he bites his lip, his heart racing. "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at you, his eyes searching yours for any hint of what you might be thinking.

“Well… whatever it is that you're beating the bush around.”

Wooyoung's words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken desire. He looks up at you, his eyes pleading, and his heart pounds like a bongo in his chest. “I want to serve you outside of the office, provide you relief from a shitty work day, and more beyond than just a back massage.”

“Tell me the about the- ‘and more’ ” You inch closer with dimly lit slender eyes and coax Wooyoung's shaky hands with your hot pink sharp stiletto nails.

He shudders as you's nails trace over his skin, his resolve weakening. "I... I want to worship every inch of you," he breathes, his voice trembling with barely contained desire. "To use all of me for your pleasure in ways you've never experienced before. I’d kiss the ground before you.”

You lean in completely and abruptly stop at his trembling dolly pink lips. “How about you shut the hell up, and kiss me now?

The sudden change in your demeanor sparks immediate action from Wooyoung. He leans in, burrowing his fingertips directly onto your scalp, pressing his hot lips to yours. The kiss starts chaste before growing more passionate.

As you pull apart, his eyes dilate at your lips as he whispers, "That's what I've wanted to do to you every time you've snapped at someone in a meeting.”

You chuckle, leaning upward to press your thumb over his wet lips. “That would’ve been a real power move hm? It would’ve given those uppity dipshits more of me to talk about.”

Wooyoung's heart races as he looks at you, taking in your amused expression. "Yeah, it would have gave them more to focus on than their egos." he agrees, his voice still breathless from their kiss. "But I think I'd prefer it if you saved all that fire for me. Just me." He reaches out to gently stroke your cheek.

“You like seeing me upset?”

“I thrive on it every day I come into the office.”

“You’ve never given me a reason to be upset...”

“That’s because all I want to do is please you."

He glances down at your collarbone slipped from your disheveled top, tracing it in memorization. “Your smile is always rewarding to me, especially when it’s directed to only me.”

Your eyes flick up to his while your hands become curious about his body. “So, this word for you…submissive.” You twiddle with the strings of his hood, pulling it as it scrunches around his venous- covered neck. "In what other ways did you want to explore that outside of the workplace again?”

“Well.. just as you would in the office…you make the rules Mrs.Hart.” He grabs onto your hand, conversing almost completely with his own.

Your expression softens briefly at Wooyoung's touch, but then your gaze hardens as you consider his words. You pull back slightly, your hesitation palpable. "That would be... complicated," you murmur, your voice laced with uncertainty. "My reputation, the company... if word got out..."

Wooyoung watches you stand and smooth out your clothes, your movements precise and calculated- disrupting the easy flow. He feels a flicker of confusion, wondering if he's misread the situation entirely. He sits in contemplation, his mind racing with possibilities, trying to understand what's going through your mind.

He swallows hard, his expression serious as he listens to your concerns. "I understand," he says softly, his hand dropping from her cheek to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "And I don't want to put either of us in that situation."

Although his words were assuring, his anxiety betrays him, He decides to approach you cautiously, not wanting to ruin the progress you both made. He stands up and walks over to you, his movements slow and deliberate. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, entwining his fingers with yours.

You breathe out softly and look upon your hand with his in-fitting connection. But then you let it go again. “I might’ve initiated things too quickly, and it isn’t your fault. I like you Wooyoung…maybe too much." You walk over toward the door, holding the handle as an indication of the next step that had to be taken. “Let’s dial this back and call it a night. I’ll see you at work?”

Wooyoung’s heart sinks slightly as you release his hand and step back, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He looks at you, searching for your face for any sign of hope, but your expression is resolute. He gets up accordingly, meeting you at the door.

"I'll be heading home now, my boss is counting on me to be well-rested for tomorrow's meeting," He says with a small, forced smile. His eyes, however, betray his true emotions, flickering with a mix of hurt, confusion, and unfulfilled desire.

The door clicks and you breathe out a deep breath your face hardened to obtain.

”Business and pleasure, an easy recipe for disaster.”

🐈‍⬛🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

Episode 2

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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©️1117feverlessdreams, 2025

Much love,

“Get your damn self together,” he mutters, running a hand over his clothed face. He locks his front door behind himself and tucks his keys into his pocket securely. “She’s just a woman, not the bloody devil incarnate.” Though perhaps you are a siren, at the very least.

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this—first, texting your number and now, walking over to your place, though only after checking and scoping out the address you’d given him on Google maps. Just to be sure.

It’s not too far from his own apartment complex, which explains why you ended up bumping into him at the supermarket that he frequents when he must.

Eventually, Simon finds himself standing in front of a small, but neat town house; his sharp eyes staring owlishly from behind his balaclava as he observes the illuminated windows. He’s been standing in the shadows across your street for a good ten minutes, but so far, he hasn’t quite gathered the courage to just bloody walk over there and knock on your door.

Finally, he decides that he’s being a complete tosser by standing here and letting his thoughts get ahead of himself, and he finally pushes off the brick wall with one last drag of his cigarette before he flicks the bud onto the pavement as he crosses the street to your front door.

It’s 7:18 PM when he gives the door two solid knocks, heart thudding against his ribcage.

The dull sound of keys unlocking the door can be heard on the other side before warm light floods from your hallway onto the porch as the solid oakwood door opens like the gates to Valhalla, granting him view of yourself—cosy yet elegant, wearing a plain beige apron with colorful wildflowers stitched onto the fabric and a genuine smile plastered on your pretty face.

The sight alone is enough to cause his breath to catch in his dry throat as he finds himself face-to-face with you again, and a wave of adrenaline rushes through his veins, mixed with a sharp jolt of arousal at the sight of you in that cinched apron and bare feet, rocking a snug pair of light grey sweatpants and a Henley shirt with its sleeves rolled up.

He hates to admit to himself that he is swooning already. Even casual like this, you look every bit a goddess to him since he first laid eyes on you at the supermarket, like every bloody wet dream he’s ever had since his youth and everything he’s ever secretly yearned for.

Simon clears his throat, hoping like hell you didn’t notice how his pupils have dilated when your gaze first locked with his or how his hands are balled into tight fists at his sides like he’s ready to stand at attention.

“Evenin’,” he finally grunts, his gaze flickering over the hallway inside your house before slowly returning to your face, trying to decipher your reaction to him.

He can feel his fingers shaking as he shoves his hands into his pockets, a feeble attempt to remain cool and collected on the outside while he’s falling apart on the inside—suddenly self-conscious and all too desperate to not mess this up.

“Good evening, love.” Your honeyed greeting rolls off your tongue like velvet, and you’re grinning as if you’re well aware of your damn effect on him.

Leaning against the door frame, you give him an easy once-over, deciding that albeit being late, he did clean up nicely.

“Why are you still hiding, handsome?” you ask bluntly, arching one eyebrow and cocking your hip out while making a loose gesture at the balaclava covering his face. “Been wondering why you’re wearing it, actually.”

The fact that you’re calling him handsome so casually makes his knees weak, the balaclava suddenly too hot, too tight, and too itchy on his face as his cheeks start to burn.

He’s been called many things in his life: Tough, scary, deadly, stoic—handsome, though, is a bloody first, and Simon swallows audibly, his gaze locked onto your beautiful face.

For a second, he’s tempted to just rip his trusted mask off, but he hesitates. Revealing himself to you, after only having known you for barely a day, feels like a violation in its own way.

“To hide my face,” he answers eventually, mentally smacking himself. It usually sounds less cringy whenever he’d given this exact answer in the past. “Uh, personal reasons. Work.” He clears his throat, shifting on his feet. Bloody fucking hell.

“You’re... ah–” he begins, trying to find the goddamn words in this thick mess of a brain, “not weirded out?” A slight furrow forms between your eyebrows at his question, and he quickly adds: “by it. The mask, I mean.” He points at his covered face, feeling like an utter numpty.

However, if nothing else, your expression shows curiosity and open acceptance, rather than the aversion or immediate discomfort he always experiences, and when you simply give him a slight shake of your head, he exhales a slow breath of relief.

“Should I be weirded out?” You blink up at him with bright doe-eyes, fluttering your lashes at him and Simon feels his cock twitch in his pants.

He can’t help the huff of a laugh escaping him, his wide shoulders slumping a bit as he shakes his head in defeat. Of course, you’re not weirded out. That was clear the moment you’d decided to acknowledge him today. Nothing seems to keep you from being so brutally straight forward. It’s both as admirable as it is unnerving to him.

“Most people are,” he admits, shifting on his feet as his blood begins pooling dangerously low. “Been told I look like I’m plannin’ a bloody robbery most days.” He tries with the barest hint of a joke, and he nearly winces as soon as the words leave his daft mouth.

Your eyes twinkle with mirth and glee as you regard him. All awkward and obviously out of his depth, yet brave enough to battle his deep-rooted distrust by picking up his phone to text you and then showing up on your doorstep tonight.

Already so obedient, this one.

A sugary smile tugs on your lips. “Well, if you do end up robbing me, it’s been my own fault,” you quip dryly, straightening up to invite him inside. “Why don’t you come inside–” You pause, gazing up at him expectantly.

Your playfulness nearly manages to distract him from the fact that you want his name.

His heart flutters in his chest like a bird ready to take flight, beating way too quick, too hard, and Simon feels like a complete tosser once more for not giving you his name sooner. You’re just being nice to him, he tries to remind himself. This is your bloody nature, nothing more.

“Simon,” he tells you after a moment of hesitance, his voice barely above a low rumble. “My name’s Simon.” He takes a heavy step over the threshold into your hallway, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “You’re not afraid, then? Invitin’ a bloody stranger like me into yer house?”

Closing the front door behind him, you purposely leave it unlocked despite your habit to lock it immediately, sensing that you’re the one with the upper hand here—and the responsibility to make him feel comfortable, at ease. It’s an exhilarating feeling.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Simon?” You’re chuckling as you squeeze past him to take front; leading him towards the kitchen like an unleashed dog while your hand is already itching to put a proper collar on him.

“Adventure?” Simon repeats, dark eyes fixed on the curves of your back and hips as you walk while he follows you like he’s under some sort of odd spell.

He’s hyper aware of every sense, every little detail while he follows you through your home, your safe space, and Simon is so damn tense, he fears he might pull a muscle with how hard he’s clenching; a part of his mind that he cannot ever shut off going into battle mode the moment he steps into the entry hall, mapping out everything in his brain—from the locks on the front door to the size and structure of your hallway and possible escape routes.

“I do have sense of adventure,” his gruff voice rumbles, slightly muffled by his mask. “Just a healthy amount of caution to go with tha’... unlike you.” He quips dryly—and regrets it immediately.

His gaze briefly flickers over the walls, taking in the few pieces of art and the neat interior, personal bits and bobs, and family portraits. Everything in this house screams cozy and proper, and it’s a crass contrast to his own sparse flat.

“Right,” you giggle, amused by his attitude. “Well, Simon, I do hope you’re hungry and not a picky eater.”

As you approach the oven, you peek inside at the rosemary chicken and veggies that have been roasting for a good hour while the pots with mashed potatoes and gravy are kept warm on the stove.

“I figured you don’t want anything fancy, so I didn’t set the dining table in the living room. We’re going to eat here at the kitchen table.” And while your voice is saccharine as you speak to him, your tone doesn’t leave any room for objection.

Glancing over your shoulder, you can’t help but smile when you spot him standing in the open kitchen entrance; too wide and tall for your narrow hallways and low ceilings. “Would you like a beer?”

Experiencing this kind of domesticity almost knocks the air out of his lungs in a strangely pleasant way, causing him to clench his teeth for a fraction of a second to suppress the shiver running down his spine from the sudden rush of excitement. This whole thing is so oddly normal, he barely knows how to handle it.

Simon slowly walks closer to your kitchen table; his gaze focused on the food you’ve cooked as his eyes darken. The fact that you’ve gone through all this trouble to prepare a proper homemade meal for him, leaves him reeling.

“Aye, beer’d be nice. Thanks.”

You can hear the scraping of a chair over the kitchen tiles as you grab a cold beer bottle from the fridge, and when you turn around again, Simon has seated himself at the head of the table as if he already belongs there naturally. Your heart flutters at the sight, but you manage to suppress the Cheshire cat grin tugging at your lips.

“Hope you like pale ale,” you remark as you pop the lid of the bottle before placing it on a coaster in front of him, and when you brush your hand over his broad shoulder, you can feel his muscles flex under your featherlight touch. “There you go. Cheers.”

And Simon’s brain short-circuits for a moment as soon as you touch him. The heat of your soft fingers burning through the fabric of his shirt and straight into his skin, causing a violent shudder to rake through him and his heart to jolt in unison with his cock like he’s been hit with the barest wave of your power.

“Tch... Thanks.” He lets out a soft huff, trying and failing to play it off, pretending that he didn’t want to lean into your touch, didn’t want to bare his neck and show you just how starved he is for physical touch—the touch you’re willing to give a wretched man like him so easily, seemingly without thinking twice.

He can still feel the phantom touch long after you’ve moved past him to retrieve your own drink, a glass of red wine, before fetching two dinner plates from a cabinet.

Simon is staring after you, unmoving, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table like a bench vise, when you put on some oven mitts like a good little housewife to retrieve the chicken and veggies as if nothing happened, like you didn’t just awaken something inside him that he believed cold and dead.

Simon is still too dumbfounded to fully grasp the situation, watching as you move around in your kitchen like a dancer. He feels like an intruder, an outsider on this domestic scene, and it feels so unfamiliar and yet so bloody right, his head is spinning.

His gaze drifts over to the food, mouthwatering and stomach rumbling, and when you place a loaded plate in front of him with a little ‘voilà’, all he can do is stare at it—at you—as if you’ve just handed him the bloody Holy Grail.

“Christ,” he manages to utter; his throat dry as a desert. All he wants, all he should need to do right now, is to dig into this delicious meal, but he can’t help himself as he stares at your face and those ample tits filling out your shirt istead.

Meanwhile, you’re very much aware of the effect your brief touch has had on him, and you’re secretly relishing in the way his mass flexed under your fingertips, all power and brawn; how his pale lashes flutter almost coyly whenever you catch his gaze, his eyes deep like molten honey.

Simon is a man right up your alley—a mean-looking, snarling beast who’s most likely never experienced a gentle touch, a sweet praise, or a full undisturbed night of sleep in his life since weaning from his mother’s breast.

You can’t wait to unravel him, to peel away those gnarly layers he’s obviously built around himself after dealing with decades of hardships, to make him submit and melt in your embrace as you fulfill all the sugary promises you'll be cooing into his ear soon.

The look in his eyes, as he stares down at the meal you’re setting in front of him, is worth quite literally gold, and you can’t help but let your gaze linger on his face with a satisfied hum when he finally yet tentatively pushes his mask up over his nose to take a drink from his beer. He looks half a second away from drooling, and you lick your own lips like a wolf licks its chaps as you watch how his pale throat bobs with each gulp.

“Tuck in, love, before it gets cold,” you chirp as you take off the apron to drape it over the back of your own chair before you take a seat across from him.

Your words make him finally snap to attention, forcing himself to look away from you and down at the steaming food on his plate, and Simon swallows thickly, throat clicking with restraint.

“Thank you.” He mutters, lifting the fork while a lump of something he can’t quite identify gets stuck in his throat.

After dinner and a pleasantly trivial chat, Simon is in heaven, sat back in his chair like a smug, spoiled tomcat, his chest slightly inflated with content and his eyes half-lidded in an absolute state of bliss and nirvana. Everything feels soft and warm in this moment—his belly now full enough to stretch out the fabric of his shirt around his gut.

It almost leaves him feeling full on sentimental.

His gaze is glued to you, following your every little move; every lick of your fork, every subtle shift in your eyes as you catch his stare.

He’s already on his third beer, feeling the slightest buzz rushing through his system.

“You’re good, big guy? Need anything else?” you ask with a soft chuckle, observing the man who looks about ready to fall asleep as you start clearing the table.

“Yeah, ‘m good,” he promises, a hint of a lazy drawl in his gruff voice. It just sounds right, like his accent bubbles up to the surface now that he starts feeling relaxed around you. And while he’s sits there, at your kitchen table, he watches that lovely sway of your hips as you flit about your kitchen—clearing the table and loading up the dishwasher with practiced ease, humming a gentle tune to yourself.

Simon can’t hide the slight smirk pulling on his lips as he keeps his mask rucked up, his gaze drifting over your ass, taking in every curve of your body. He feels strangely content and at ease in your presence—unabashedly feeding right from your hand both literally and metaphorically.

“Well, actually,” he begins almost playfully, licking his chapped lips, “whot’s for dessert?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, you’ve already done way too much for him as it, but judging by your reaction, you don’t take it a such—which makes his stomach drop so hard, he’s about ready to vomit from the sudden rush of anxiety.

Your eyebrows raise at his response as you shut the loaded dishwasher, and you glance at him over your shoulder, trying to get a read on him, which proofs difficult. The nonchalance and dryness of his tone don’t quite match the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, even through the shadow of his mask, so you decide to take a gamble.

Chuckling as you turn to face him fully, you lean against the counter, your hip jutting out in a confident stance. “Depends. What do you fancy?” You tilt your head to the side as you regard him with a sly smile, counting off while tapping your manicured index finger against your chin:

“Let’s see. I got ice cream, chocolate, some leftover apple pie, and… me.”

Simon is lost in a daze of sensations now, his usual conscience and alertness vanished while his body has taken over. He’s somehow ended up on your couch, that was a quick and fuzzy mental note he’s made some unknown time ago—your body now perched on his strong thighs, fully in charge and in control of him after unzipping his jeans and pulling his cock out with implicitness, as if it belongs to you.

“M-mmphh–“ He groans again, fingers digging into the material of your couch cushions to try and anchor himself to reality, his eyes unfocused behind the balaclava that just barely covers the bottom half of his face.

His shirt is rolled up to his collarbones, his bulky torso exposed to your eager eyes with no way to hide anymore—not when his flushed prick is currently twitching in your grasp as you pump his thick length leisurely with both hands, squeezing his ruddy tip while your thumb swipes over his weeping slit with each stroke, using his watery precum as lube.

“You have such a pretty cock, Simon,” you coo, nosing along his exposed, stubbly jawline, lips brushing over pale skin. “Did anyone ever tell you that... sweet boy?”

“Fuuuuck,” he whines all gravelly, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment and mental overload while his head tips back against the headrest, baring his throat to you fully. His eyes are rolling up into his skull while his broad chest rises and falls with every ragged breath, and you can practically watch his thick veins pulsate in his neck and arms.

Simon can’t take it. None of it. He’s bitten off much more than he can chew this time and now he’s struggling to deal with the consequences. It’s dangerous—you’re fucking dangerous, the way you have him wrapped around your pinky, handling him like a rescue worker would a fighting dog.

“N-No,” he stutters his admission, and he’s not sure how much longer he can resist your touch. “No one did. Ever.”

“Tsk.” You click your tongue in disdain, though your frown melts away as soon as you pull back to look at him—only to see how wrecked he already is. “Can’t have that, love. You do have a pretty cock... and a nice pair of balls, too.” And you pick up your pace some, stroking his shaft firmer and faster while the slick, obscene sounds cut through the silence of your house.

He groans low in his throat, his cock throbs in your hands and your eyes crinkle as you watch him blush a deeper shade of pink under your praise, unable to meet your eyes at this point. “Are you going cum for me already, hm?” you purr, eyes glinting with mischief and glee.

You bite your bottom lip as your own heart flutters with excitement. “Gonna cum for mommy?”

Simon’s eyes fly open at your words, head snapping forward while his heavily dilated pupils fixate on your own glossy gaze as he exhales a shuddering breath, his mouth going dry, toes curling inside his boots, his vision blurring at the edges as if you’ve just reset his whole being to factory settings. He’s a goner.

“M-Mommy,” he whines, and it feels so bloody good to say it, to be able to let his guard down wholly. “Fuck, ‘m gonna–“

“Gonna what?” you prompt, a wicked smile tilting your lips despite the rush of affection stirring in your chest. Simon’s reactions are so delectably unfiltered, raw, and sweet, it makes you want to give him the entire world. “Gonna make a mess all mommy’s fingers like a good boy?”

Simon lets out a choked moan, hips jerking almost involuntarily into your hand. He’s lost all coherent thought, his face flushed behind the balaclava, and he might as well let you do whatever the hell you please with him.

As if his skull has been cracked open like a quail egg, all his dark thoughts have seeped out of his brain for once, allowing him to finally indulge in something so divine.

“Feels good, mommy,” he slurs, barely recognizing his own voice anymore. His hand reaches out, pawing at your plump hips like a drowning man, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’re going to vanish into thin air if he lets go of you a smidge. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

You hum in delight, smiling so wide your cheeks start twitching as you watch this tank of a man crumble under a few saccharine words and a pair of soft hands on his neglected cock.

“Come on now, love. Show me exactly how good you can be for me.”

The need to watch and make him come undone under your touch, to feel his balls tighten and his shaft throb in your grasp as he erupts with his orgasm, is more intense and urgent than it ever has been before.

Meanwhile, Simon is teetering on the edge of sanity or his climax, he can’t tell anymore. His entire body is taut like a bowstring, his tawny eyes now glassy with arousal, unseeing, unthinking, merely focused on your weight on his lap, your thick thighs bracketing his and your supple hands on his cock, and then you tell him—be a good boy—and something snaps inside his brain.

Simon’s breath stutters in his chest, and he goes rigid like a steel rod, unable to do anything but obey. “M’comin’,” he whimpers a warning, his voice thick and guttural. There’s a note of despair in there, too, like he’s begging for permission, and his muscular thighs tremble so hard underneath you, it feels like he’s playing Bumpety Bump Rider with you.

You lean in, trapping his cock between your bodies as you stroke his prick faster, crooning into his ear: “Let go for me, sweet boy.”

And it’s all Simon needs.

His balls draw up against his crotch, his mouth opens with a sharp gasp, and he makes a sound. Something primal, guttural, a raw and feral noise that comes from deep down his chest, somewhere he didn’t even know was still alive because he can’t remember the last time he made that kind of sound, if ever.

You’re holding the strings, and he’s your bloody puppet. “Come for me, love,” you command again, so soft and sugary, it leaves his clenched teeth aching.

Those words are like a trigger, and a long, guttural moan rips from his chest as his body convulses; thighs straining, muscles flexing, back arching off the backrest while his last braincell makes him hold onto your hips to keep you from dropping off his lap.

He’s coming and suddenly, every other time he’s touched himself before you appeared in his life, seems like time wasted completely. Nothing could have come close to what you’re doing to him, and Simon fears, nothing will, ever again.

His orgasm is explosive and messy, and he feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams; his vision whitens and his eyes roll back as he spills over your fingers and knuckles, rope after rope of his sticky cum coating his buff chest and clenching stomach like a dam that has been broken.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Look’it this!” Your delighted voice is the only thing keeping him from fainting on the spot. “That’s a good, good boy.” You’ve taken him to oblivion and back, given him his first hand job in his miserable life, all while you’re so blissfully unaware of it.

Your words and praises—so goddamn soft and sweet—are the only thing keeping him grounded while his brain turns to mush, his breathing turning ragged like a wounded animal on its last breaths. His eyes flutter close behind the balaclava, utterly speechless, as he lets himself drown in your presence, your warmth, your kindness.

He is yours. Every single rotten inch of him.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were at the gym.” The scowl softens―even more so when you close the distance and slowly crawl onto his lap, knees bracketing his meaty thighs on either side as you straddle him. His hands come up naturally to rest on your backside, groping your ass cheeks through your jeans as his head tips back to peer up at you. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “So thoughtful,” he croaks, pupils already dilating and swallowing up the baby blue of his irises. “But I missed my woman. Always do, ye know tha’, right?” 

Bracing your hands on his shoulders, you start rubbing and caressing the sore muscles, nodding absentmindedly. He’s still warm from his recent shower, his golden skin lightly flushed, and dark mohawk damp while the fresh scent of his minty two in one bodywash and shampoo clings to him. 

Johnny leans his head back against the couch, eyelids drooping with a soft sigh as he enjoys your gentle massage and the weight of you on his lap. It’s the missing piece of truly returning home and all he’s going to be craving on his leave for the next two weeks. 

His fingers dig into the plump fat of your arse through the rough fabric of your jeans, like a kitten making biscuits, then his gaze drifts over to the coffee table and the black bag resting on top of it. 

“So... what did ye get, hm?” he asks curiously. From the looks of the volume, you bought quite a few things. 

Trailing your fingertips along his collarbones where they peek out from his tank top, you draw your thumbs up to trace the curve of his thick neck with a look that borders on hungry as you observe how his pulse throbs below his skin. 

After licking your lips, you answer: “A few surprises for you to celebrate the start of your leave, baby. It’s something uh... something I think you’ll like a lot.” 

Dark eyebrows draw together in a curious and intrigued frown, hips shifting underneath you as he sinks deeper into the cushions, adjusting his grip on your body. It’s subtle, but his beginning restlessness is enough to let you know that you have his full attention―like dangling a treat in front of a puppy’s snout. 

“Oh, aye? A kitchen or bedroom surprise?” He lets out a boyish little laugh as you lean back to grab the bag and place it between your bodies. “Both, I suppose,” you answer with a pondering pout. “Depending on where we use it.” 

He snorts, heart skipping in his chest as you begin rummaging through the contents of the bag.  

“I just have a few questions, okay? Nothing bad, though.” And your own heart flutters nervously as your fingers wrap around the black soft leather collar. The small heart shaped name tag jingles softly as you pull it out―stainless steel glinting in the daylight with Mommy’s Good Pup engraved on it in cursive letters. 

“Like... is this too much?” you ask, lashes fluttering with nerves and excitement as you show off the collar. His collar. 

Johnny gulps audibly. Bright eyes widening comically as you reveal your surprise―or one of them at least. His cheeks flush a soft pink as his heart begins to pound blood through his veins, most of it rushing south and into his head simultaneously, nearly making him dizzy. He practically stares at the collar dangling from your fingers. The engraving on the tag causing his cock to twitch in his briefs and the softest gasp to hitch in his throat. 

So, you did pick up on the hints he has been dropping for the past weeks. 

“No, it’s... it’s perfect,” he manages to stammer, unable to tears his gaze away from the collar. “Ye could never have somethin’ like this be too much, luv.” 

Licking his lips nervously, like a dog licking its chaps, he reaches out with sweaty palms to take the gift from your delicate grasp.  

The black leather is soft and supple, obviously top-quality, the tag cool against his skin. It’s not too heavy, just enough to be a comforting pressure around his neck when fastened around it. A shudder runs down his spine as he runs his thumb over the engraving, tracing the letters that would soon rest against his skin.  

He clears his throat before speaking: “So, ye’ve picked up on my hints, hm? And–” he clears his throat again and finally glances up at you again, his voice soft and strangely vulnerable, a hint of fear and excitement swirling in the depths of his eyes. “Ye dinnae think it’s... weird, do ye?” 

A part of him is still unreasonably terrified of your reaction, even though you’ve already bought the collar, making the first huge step into the direction of this new kink he’s all too excited to finally explore with someone he trusts and loves more than he ever thought possible. 

However, another part of him is utterly elated and eager to finally have you put the collar on him, to have you claim him the way he has been dreaming to be claimed and loved since first laying eyes on you. 

You can almost see the insecure and doubtful thoughts play in his head like a horror movie before you take the collar back to unbuckle it swiftly. “No, not weird at all, baby.” You assure him with a small shrug. “I just wish you would’ve felt comfortable enough with me to just... tell me or talk about it, y’know? That’s what the John MacTavish I know and love usually does.” 

His chest deflates as he exhales the deep breath he was holding, nodding eagerly. “I... I jus’ wasn’t brave enough,” he admits softly, his Scottish accent thicker than usual. “Ye ken I’m usually pretty open, but... this was different. It felt like something special and weird, something I wanted to keep just for me. Until I met ye.” 

Your soft hum of acknowledgment and understanding makes him relax into the cushion, though his cock begins to throb and harden as you bring up the collar to his thick neck, your eyes locking with his in question. 

“May I collar you now, baby? Make you my sweet pup officially?” you ask playfully, already fitting the leather around his neck, but waiting for his permission to fasten it. 

The words Mommy’s Good Pup glint up at Johnny, making his heart race and his cock twitch again, nestled under your crotch. He feels the anticipation building inside him, the need to give himself over to you completely slowly bordering on overwhelming. This is what he’s been dreaming of and it’s finally becoming a reality. 

“Aye,” he breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, ye can collar me, love. I’m all yers.” 

Your own heart beats rapidly as you buckle up and secure the collar around his neck, listening to his words and seeing his pulse in his neck throb so deliciously. 

“I know you are, baby, and I love that, but there’s some stuff we need to clear up before we do this, okay?” you remark thoughtfully while flicking the little name tag with your fingertip with a soft giggle before rubbing your palms up and down his buff chest. “What exactly is this about? Do you want to be used? Need more attention and loving? A little bit of degradation or more praise? Talk to me, Johnny. I wanna understand this new... experiment.” 

Johnny's breath catches in his throat as you secure the collar around his neck, the leather moulding perfectly to his golden tanned skin. He can feel the weight of it, a tangible reminder of who he belongs to officially now―in a way he’s never quite belonged to anyone before.  

His pulse races beneath your fingertips as you flick the name tag, the jingle echoing in his ears like a promise of things to come. 

He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he tries to find the words to express the swirling thoughts and desires in his head. Your supple palms feel like brands against his chest, even through the fabric of his tank top, your touch igniting a fire deep within him, like searing napalm spreading through his veins. He wants to lean into you, feel your warmth and affection wash over him. 

“It’s... it’s about givin’ myself over to ye completely,” he starts to explain, his voice now low and heavy with emotion. “I want to be used for yer pleasure, to be the instrument of yer own desire. Want to make ye feel good and worship yer bonnie body like ye deserve.” 

He reaches up to cup your face in his large, calloused hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones gently. “I need yer attention when I’m home. Yer focus, yer love. I want to be the centre of yer world, even if only fer a moment. And... and I want to be pushed, to be tested. I want to be praised for bein’ a good boy, but... I also want to be punished when am bein’ bad.” 

A fierce blush stains his cheeks now, but he keeps holding your lovely gaze, determined to be honest with you. “I want to be degraded; to be told ‘m jus’ a dumb animal, a set of holes f’ye to use. But I also want to be cherished, to be held an’ kissed an’ told that ye love me. I want it all, hen. I want everythin’ you can give me.” 

You hum and nod along, leaning into his touch as he lists of his deepest desires, needs, and wants while you continue to rub his chest, feeling his muscular thighs tense as you straddle him, cock twitching and swelling to live as you sit on his crotch. His boxer briefs doing little to nothing to hide his growing arousal. 

“Mhm, yeah,” you rasp, pinching and rolling his nipples through his shirt with half-lidded eyes, thoroughly enjoying the flush on his cheeks. “That sounds very lovely to me, baby. Thank you for telling me.” 

You keep toying with his peaking nipples as he begins to squirm and breathe harder. “But my good boy needs to tell me about his safe word again before we start doing anything, okay? Can you do that for Mommy?” 

Johnny gasps as your fingers find his nipples, the sensitive buds hardening under your teasing touch. His hips buck up slightly, seeking more friction, more contact. The growing bulge in his briefs throbs and twitches against your clothed core, his cock aching to be freed. 

“Y-yeah, of course,” he pants, his cheeks burning hotter under your intense gaze and the shift of your tone to something more dominant, soft yet demanding. “My safe word... is Loch Ness. If it’s too much, I’ll say Loch Ness.” 

His hands drop from your beautiful face to cover your hands with his own, pressing them more firmly against his chest. His heart races beneath your palms, a staccato beat that matches the pounding of his cock against the confines of his underwear. 

“Please, Mommy... I want to be so good fer ye. I want to give ye everythin’ you need,” he nearly whimpers, his voice raw with desire. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m yers.” 

“Loch Ness,” you repeat evenly with a few nods, allowing him to guide your hands for a moment as you start grinding your hips to stimulate his bulge when he bucks his hips with a soft grunt. “So... let’s say, whenever you’re in the mood to play, you will put on the pretty collar I’ve bought you, okay? And vice versa. I’ll ask permission to put it on you when Mommy would like to play with her sweet pup. Sound good?” 

Johnny shudders as you grind your hips against his, the friction of your rough jeans sending sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine. His cock throbs harder, a damp patch forming on his boxers as his arousal grows. He grips your hips tighter, pulling you flush against him as he rolls his own hips up to meet yours, letting out a shaky breath. 

He has officially ascended and found heaven; there is no other explanation for this. 

“Yes, Mommy,” he gasps. “Whenever I want to play, I’ll put on my collar fer ye. And whenever ye want to play, ye can ask to put it on me. I’ll always be ready for ye, though.” 

He leans in to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. “I want to be ready for you all the time. I want to be a good boy, always eager and attentive. Yer good pup, Mommy.” 

“Good,” you reply with a soft gasp, observing as his eyes begin to gloss over while he submits to you so willingly, letting go of any stress or troubles from his work as his brain melts out of his ears metaphorically. “Good fucking boy, Johnny.” You coo at him, one hand clutching his shoulder while the other grips the sofa’s backrest for leverage as you begin to dry-hump his cock more fervently. 

“My sweet boy, hm? Are you gonna cum in your undies for Mommy now? Gonna show me how desperate you are for me?” 

The bag crinkles and slides off his lap with your movements, but neither of you cares. Johnny lets out a low moan as you hump his crotch, his fingers digging into your hips as he bites his lower lip, determined to follow your wish and command as he focuses on the feeling on top of you and the pressure around his neck while the tag jingles cutely against the collar. 

The pressure and friction are enough delicious torture to push him closer to the edge embarrassingly fast; his hips bucking erratically, chasing the pleasure you’re giving him so freely.

“Oh fuck... Christ,” he pants harshly through gritted teeth. “I’m so feckin’ desperate for ye, Mommy. I f-feel... ‘m gonna... Fuck–!” His cock jerks and pulses rhythmically, tip leaking more precum and staining his boxers.  

Johnny’s been wanting and craving you since returning home late last night; too late to disturb your peaceful sleep for a welcome home quickie, which has only left him even more pent up after hitting the gym today. 

“Please, let me... I–I need... ‘m gonna cum. P-Please, let me cum!” He admits shamefully, face burning hot with humiliation and arousal while you give him a first taste of exactly what he asked for―and it’s almost too thrilling and too much already, if it weren’t for the way you moan along with him in pleasure. 

With a strangled cry and his eyes squeezing shut, Johnny comes undone. Cock pulsing and jerking as it erupts in his boxer briefs so hard, his cum soaks and spurts right through the fabric, painting his boxers and your jeans white. His bulky mass shudders and convulses, hands gripping you possessively as he gets lost in the throes of an intense, shameful climax. 

Meanwhile, you watch and feel him come with a smile. Your own soft moans overshadowed by his as he makes a mess between you two. 

Cupping his face with both hands, you hold him steady as he continues to pant and shudder, your breaths mingling briefly before you capture his lips in a deep, filthy kiss; tongue delving past his lips to claim his mouth and get a first real taste of his submission while Johnny whimpers into the kiss, his body still trembling and quaking with aftershocks. 

“Oh, fuck,” you groan after pulling back slightly. “My good fucking boy. Came so fucking much for me, hm? All for Mommy, sweet pup.” 

Your praise washes over him like warm milk and honey, wrapping him up in a blissful feeling of home. When you pull back, he chases after your lips with a soft whine, hands roaming your flanks, desperate to keep you close. 

“A-Aye,” he stammers weakly. “All f’ye. I couldn’t–couldn’t hold back, not when ye’r doin’ all this f’me. I’m so sorry, I jus’ couldnae control it. It’s embarrassing.” 

In unison, you both peer down at the mess he’s made with his massive load of cum, a mix of shame and pride warring in his expression while your foreheads rest against one another. 

You click your tongue in reprimand, shaking your head with a soft smirk as you nuzzle your nose against his.  

“No, not embarrassing, baby. Never embarrassing. I love it when you cum quickly, when I make you feel so good and horny that you can’t help yourself but cum for me. Okay?” You’re practically cooing at him as you start caressing his muscular torso again, rubbing your palms along his arms and shoulders. 

Johnny shudders at your gentle touch, his skin tingling with goosebumps and his cock giving a feeble twitch of renewed interest. Your reassuring words make his heart swell with happiness and love, and he leans into your caress, craving more of your touch as he soaks it all up with greed. 

“Really, Mommy?” he asked softly, a hint of wonder in his voice. “Ye dinnae think it’s gross or pathetic? Am glad I could make ye feel good, but... I wanted to last longer for ye. I wanted to worship ye properly before I lost control.” 

He peers up at you with a mix of affection and determination, his hands sliding down to your hips again while the smell of you and his drying cum fills his nostrils. “Can I make it up to ye, Mommy? Can I worship yer gorgeous curves properly, now that I’ve calmed down a bit?” 

You keep caressing him sweetly, feeling his skin break out in goosebumps beneath your palms while his bright blue eyes sparkle with wonder and adoration, causing your own chest to heave and blossom with warmth, butterflies going rampant in your stomach. 

But you shake your head. “No, Johnny. It’s not gross or pathetic. I like exploring this kink with you. I love that you want to do this with me. You’re mine, baby. My sweet Johnny, and I’m yours. All yours.” You lean in to kiss the tip of his nose, his scruffy cheek, his lips―each sweet kiss serving to underline your statements, your claim on each other. 

“How about we stay in today, hm? Order some food later and just... keep playing a bit, hm? What do you say?” 

A blissful and cheeky smile spreads across his face as he nuzzles into your touch, savouring the closeness. Before he answers, he turns his face to capture your lips in another deep kiss, groaning contentedly into your mouth. 

“Mmm, I like the sound of that, Mommy,” he murmurs roughly, his hands sliding around to cup your plush rear, giving you a squeeze and pulling you harder against his lap despite the mess. “Stayin’ in, orderin’ food, playin’ with my beautiful Mistress... sounds like a bloody perfect day.” 

He pulls back slightly to gaze into your eyes while his hands tug on your shirt to pull it from the waistband of your jeans before they slide under the stretchy fabric to explore the supple skin of your back until you arch into his touch, ass grinding over his softened prick again. 

“Aye, let’s stay in, order a feast, and see where the day takes us. I want to spend every moment I can worshippin’, pleasin’, and lovin’ ye, hen.” 

Your eyelids flutter closed with a soft sigh as you let him caress and explore your body for a moment, listening to his words before your eyes flutter open again. 

The black collar you’ve bought him looks so good around his throat, along with the little dog name tag, that you can’t help but touch it again before you glance at the bag still resting and half-spilled beside you on the couch cushion. 

“I've bought more than this collar, y’know,” you say, biting your cheek to keep yourself from grinning too wickedly. “But before we continue, I want you to get naked for me... and I want you to stay naked for the rest of the day, except for the pretty collar... and the butt plug I’ve bought for you.” 

Butt plug. 

That makes his breath hitch even sharper while your fingers trail along his collar, his hands still underneath your shirt. Nervousness and excitement flash in his bright eyes as he swallows thicky, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. 

“Butt plug?” he repeats softly, a hint of awe in his voice. “I cannae believe ye’d spoil me so.” He slowly pulls his hands away from your body, more than reluctantly. 

Johnny has shoved quite a few fingers up his own arse while exploring himself in the past, has taken your fingers on multiple occasions now, and even that small pink love egg vibrator that he usually uses on your clit―but he’s never taken a butt plug.  

“Not just any butt plug,” you announce, already reaching over to pull it out of the bag. “It has a tail, too!” 

And when you present it to him, Johnny’s eyes nearly roll back into his skull as a feverish wave of desire and arousal overcomes him while he mentally thanks any god that is responsible for bringing you into his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he groans, chest heaving with deep breaths as he watches your fingers curl around the stainless-steel plug―with a beige fluffy tail attached to it. “Didn’t think white would suit you, so I picked beige.” 

You sound so giddy and eager, it’s maddening, and Johnny can feel his cock slowly pulse and throb back to life despite his release mere moments ago. 

“Oh, aye?” His voice sounds breathless as he reaches for the hem of his tank top to follow your other instructions, more than eager to get naked for you. He pulls the soft blue fabric over his head and drops it next to him haphazardly. “I don’t care much about the bloody colour as long as ye find it pretty, love.” 

Your soft chuckle is music to his ears, and he must force himself to nudge you off his lap, so he can tug his ruined boxer briefs down next while you sit back on your haunches next to him. Standing up, he shimmies out of the sticky, uncomfortable fabric; muscles rippling with his movements as his soft cock is exposed, his naked body now fully on display for you, except for the black collar around his neck. 

The dog tag jingles softly as he sits back down on the couch, his muscular thighs spreading as he gets more comfortable, his expression a mix of vulnerability and excited anticipation as he meets your eyes again. 

“Like this, Mommy?” he rasps. “Is this what ye wanted to see?” And he spreads his legs more, needing and yearning for all your attention on him while his impressive cock and balls rest between his thighs, framed by dark, unruly pubes that connect to a thick happy trail. “Am all yers, ready to wear whatever ye bought me, ready to be yers in every way.” 

“Fucking perfect, sweet pup,” you purr hoarsely after watching him undress for you, and you reach out to caress and rub his chest once more, feeling his coarse dark chest hair under your fingertips before you lightly tug on his rosy nipple with a pleased smile, eliciting a gasp from him. “I want to put the tail plug inside you,” you remark, feeling his heartbeat thud against your palm while his fat, spent cock throbs between his meaty thighs. “Can I?” 

If Johnny had a tail, it would certainly be wagging right now, but alas―he can merely nod eagerly to show you how much he’d enjoy that, eyes sparkling with glee and trust as he scrambles on the couch to get in position for you. 

Scooting toward the edge of the couch cushion, and without hesitation, he lifts his legs and spreads them wider, putting his whole business and tight, puckered hole on lewd display for you. The musky scent of his sweat and arousal fill the air even thicker now as Johnny reaches down to hold himself open, his fingers sinking into the plush flesh of his ass. 

“Please, Mommy,” he whines needily, his hips lifting slightly as if offering himself to you. “Put it inside me. Claim me, own me, make me yer good boy.” 

“Aw, my sweet boy.” You rub his taut belly teasingly. “So fucking needy, hm? Fuck, I love that.” Pulling back, you get up from the couch and grab the sex toy. 

It’s not too big for him, you made sure of that when you bought it, measuring it with your fingers to compare the thickness, knowing that he’s taken three of your fingers in the past before. 

“Stay here and keep presenting that pretty asshole for me, yeah? I’ll clean this and get the lube.” You announce, caressing the fluffy tail along his arm playfully before leaving the living room. 

Johnny keeps shuddering and trembling even as you leave the room while your sweet praise rings in his ears like the echo of a gunshot, making him feel cherished and desired.  

The plug you’ve bought isn’t ginormous, but it’s certainly bigger that anything he’s taken up his arse before―and the thought of that furry tail wagging from his ass sends a thrill through him that nearly makes him feel drunk with desire and need. 

While you’re gone, he focuses on keeping his ass raised and spread, his puckered hole clenching and fluttering as the cool air from the AC brushes over his flushed skin. He can feel his flaccid cock starting to swell and lengthen again, the knowledge of what is about happen arousing him immensely once more. 

The sheer thought of having the toy stretch him and have his insides moulded to its shape enough to have him moan quietly, knowing he’ll be feeling that delicious ache for days as a reminder of your touch and claim on him. 

After a few minutes, you return, wearing nothing but a short black silk robe, holding the trusty bottle of lube and the tailed butt plug in your hands. 

Seeing that Johnny is still in the same position on the couch—keeping his legs up, hands under his bent knees while his ass rests on the edge of the couch seat, presenting his puckered asshole for you—pleases you more than you could’ve ever imagined. 

His face is flushed, his cock fully hard again despite having cum just a few minutes ago. It’s a sight to behold and one that makes your pussy even wetter as you approach him on bare feet, dimming the lights on your way over to him for a more sensual atmosphere. 

“Such a good boy, Johnny,” you praise him with a smile. “Doing so well for me, baby.” 

Getting down on your knees in front of him, you put the toy and lube down before you start massaging and groping his plump ass and the back of his meaty thighs while you watch his fat prick twitch and leak onto his stomach. 

“You’re okay, yeah? Talk to me.” 

Johnny’s breath catches in his throat at your return, azure eyes widening at the sight of you in the short silk robe. The black fabric clings to your curves, secured with a belt around your waist like a present for him, hinting at the delights hidden beneath.  

“Y-Yeah,” he answers with genuine awe at your sweetness, though he doesn’t know anything else but love and care from you. “I’m okay, ‘m more than okay. I feel amazin’, being here for ye like this.” 

And his hips buck slightly, cock jumping as you start groping and caressing him again. 

“Fuck, luv,” he groans, his head lolling back as he pushes his ass more firmly into your touch. “Yer hands feel s’good, Mommy. I love how ye touch me, how ye make me feel. So safe and loved.” When he gazes down at you with hooded eyes, his pupils are blown wide with lust. “I’m ready for the toy, Mommy. I want to feel it stretchin’ me open, claimin’ me inside and out as yours.” 

Hearing his confirmation that he’s okay eases your own hidden insecurities and helps you relax as you watch and study his every reaction. 

“That’s good, baby.” You smile up at him, eyes meeting as he holds his legs open for you, still caressing his ass and legs. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, that you can finally experience this wish of yours with me. I’m enjoying this a lot, too.” 

Your eyes flicker to his flushed, twitching cock, and you lick your lips as observe the milky bead of precum drip onto his stomach while his balls keep throbbing. 

“Hm, but before I put the plug inside, I want you to cum again, okay? I’ll help you a bit more with that this time, I promise.” And with that, you spread his ass cheeks a little wider as you lean in to lick and suck on his plump balls. 

Johnny lets out a loud, strangled moan as soon as your warm, wet tongue starts lapping at his sensitive balls, your sweet lips latching around his flesh. The sensation sends electric jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine, making his spent cock bob against his stomach, sticky pre smearing across his lower stomach. His hands tighten on the backs of his knees, fingers sinking into the flesh as he tries his best to hold himself open for you. 

“Oh fuck!” he cries out, his voice breaking on a gasp. “That f-feels incredible–”  

His hips buck involuntarily, pressing his sac more firmly against your suckling mouth. The combination of your lips and tongue on him like this, and the filthy sight of you on your knees before him, is rapidly pushing him towards another intense climax. 

“Please, M-Mommy,” he pants harshly, his chest heaving and sweat beading on his brow. “Keep goin’, just like that. I'm gettin’ close again, s-so fuckin’ fast. Fuck! I want to cum f’ye, want ta give ye another load.” 

Listening to his wrecked voice, his moans and whimpers, makes your pussy drip and slick steadily while your cheeks grow even hotter with arousal as you taste his very essence on your tastebuds. 

Knowing that he’s already close again by the way his shaft twitches and his balls twitch on your tongue, you pull back to start peppering kisses around his sac and hairy thighs, going lower until you reach his sensitive taint. 

Leaning in, you lap and tease the area before going even lower—until you finally reach his puckered hole. And while you dig your fingers into his firm, trembling thighs, you spit on it obscenely before leaning in with a needy moan, and you start licking his hole, giving him his first proper rim job from. 

And Johnny lets out a guttural, animalistic moan as your tongue makes contact with his ass. The sensation unlike anything he has ever felt before, electric and overwhelming in its intensity. His body convulses, back arching off the couch as he fists his hands in the cushions. 

“AH, FUCK!” he roars, his voice echoing off the living room walls. “Holy shite–shite, shite... that feels... FUCK! Don’t stop, please don’t stop!” 

He’s so incredibly hard, his cockhead flaring an angry purple as it weeps a steady stream of precum onto his flushed skin. He’s whining and moaning so loud, you’re almost afraid the neighbours might hear, but his sounds are too sweet, his taste so good that you can’t really care. 

His balls draw up so tight they ache, his orgasm building to a crescendo while your nifty tongue delves deeper, probing and teasing his fluttering hole, pushing him closer and closer to a second orgasm. 

“Mommy, I’m... I’m gonna... FUCK!” Johnny yipped, his body going rigid as his climax slams into him like a bomb blast. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum spurt from his tip, painting his chest and stomach with streak after streak of his release. His asshole clenched and spasmed around your invading tongue, milking it, as if trying to coax you inside while Johnny’s eyes rolled back in his head, lost in the sensations of another mind-blowing orgasm. 

“Mommy... Mommy!” he chants breathlessly, his hips bucking erratically as he rides out the waves of his release, his speech slurring: “Fuck... s’good... so fuckin’ good.” 

You can feel your own slick arousal coat and stick to the inside of your thighs as you continue licking his rim and up his taint again while you reach for the tailed plug resting next to your knees while he’s too distracted―still coming, babbling, and shaking with aftershocks. 

Your clit throbs and pulses hotly between your folds, but you keep ignoring your own needs for now as you pop the cap of the bottle of lube open, and smearing a generous glob on the sex toy before you pull back from his ass to tease his fluttering hole with the smooth, round tip of the plug. 

“Atta boy,” you coo hoarsely, kissing and nipping his inner thigh as you slowly push the toy inside. “Relax for me, baby. You’re doing so good. So good for your Mommy.” 

Johnny’s cock continues to twitch, dribbling the last weak spurts of his release onto his stomach, coating his body hair. His bulky chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, sweat matting the short strands of his hair to his forehead, the feeling of the cool air on his slick skin and sore muscles making him shiver. 

When he feels the smooth tip of the plug teasing his slick hole, Johnny lets out a breathless moan. “Oh... oh, f-fuck.” His hips twitch slightly as you push the plug in a little further. “That feels... s-strange. But good. Oh, really fuckin’ good.” 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces his body to relax, his muscles going pliant under your teasing ministrations as you suck a lovebite into his inner thigh. “I’m ready, Mommy,” he murmurs, gazing down at you with hazy, trusting eyes like the loyal puppy he is. 

“Shhhh, my sweet pup.” You shush him, still massaging his meaty thigh with one hand while pushing the thick plug deeper inside his ass; twisting and rolling it teasingly while his puckered hole clenches around it, sucking it deeper inside. 

“Just relax and feel this, yeah? I’m gonna make you turn all dumb for me tonight. Gonna turn you into my dump, sweet pup, Johnny.” 

Johnny whines and whimpers in return, his cheeks flushing as deeply as his swollen prick at your promising words, his shaft still hard as you push and tease the fat plug deeper into his asshole, fulfilling his deepest desire to serve and act as your dumb, loyal, and utterly submissive pet. 

“Your family’s in town?”

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

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

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

“Dinner circuit?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So your fucked, basically.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

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

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You work with my daughter?”

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

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

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

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

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

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

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

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

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

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

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

“Are you joking?”

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

“No.”

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

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

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

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

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

“Have you… thought about this?” 

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

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

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

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

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

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

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

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

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

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

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

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

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

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

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

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

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

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

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

In a way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could swap me with someone else?”

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

“Touché.” 

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

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

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

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

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You smell good.” 

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

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

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

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

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

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

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

“Fair point.”)

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

At least, that’s what he says. 

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

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

“Singing your praises, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’d I do?”

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

“Looking forward to it.” 

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

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

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

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

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

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

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

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

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

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

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

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

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

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

“Why’d you leave?” 

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s perfect. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

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

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

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I remember.” 

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

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

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

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

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

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

“You’re so much more than them.” 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

An old habit. 

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

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

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

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

“Jack—“

“Please.”

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

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

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

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

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

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

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

“I wasn’t going to.”

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

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

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

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

“Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I‘ll—“

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

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

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

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

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

“This really isn’t a good time—“

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

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

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

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

“She fight back at all?”

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

“Christ.”

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

“Fuck. Do you think—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

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

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

“It’s different.” 

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

“You lost me on that last one.” 

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

“Is there a difference?”

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

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

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

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

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

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

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

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

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

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

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

“Fuck no.”

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

“I save lives too.”

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

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

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

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

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

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

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

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

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

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

It’s how they treat you. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hiding from you.”

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

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

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

“Nothing has changed.”

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

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

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

“And how do you know that?”

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

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

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

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

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

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

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

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

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

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

“But why?” 

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

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

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

You frown. “It is.” 

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

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

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

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

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

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

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

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

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

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

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

“We will?” 

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

“If you’re sure.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

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

–

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

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

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

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold. 

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

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

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

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

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

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

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

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

“That’s my girl.” 

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

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

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

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

“It’s not stupid.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

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

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

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

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

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

That’s. Hmm.

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

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

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

“If you say so.” 

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

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

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

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

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

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

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

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

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

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

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

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

His gigantic apartment. 

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

“Its not that big.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

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

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

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

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

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

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

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

“What’re’you’ making?”

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

“Oh. How come?” 

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

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

“You drink often?” 

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

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

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

“I see.” 

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

“Really?” 

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

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

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

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

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

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

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

“I like sleeping on couches.”

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

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

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

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

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

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

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

“You’re my guest–” 

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

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

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

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

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

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

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

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

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

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

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

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

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

And you love it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

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

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

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

“...Yes?” 

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

You’d nodded. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

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

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

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

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

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

“But–”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

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

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

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

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

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

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

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

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

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

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

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

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

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

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

“You do.” 

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

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

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

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

“Come here.” 

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

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

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

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

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

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

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

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

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

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

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

You frown. 

Wait. 

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

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

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

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

“Oh my god.”

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

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

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

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

It’s just like your dream. 

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

And you’re not alone anymore. 

“Yeah?” His voice is gruff and hoarse, almost like he’s keeping a whimper tight in his throat. His leg bounces as fast as his heart pounds his chest. You’re so pretty, with your pretty parted lips, and how your saliva keeps it just wet enough to shine in the warm lamp light. So plump for him to kiss and bite—

“As I was saying,” You pull your hand away, not hearing the small whine that leaves him from the lack of contact. “We need to make sure you’re comfortable for the next few hours. You said you can get agitated when there’s full moons, right?”

“Mmh.” Better a grunt than a moan. You brush it off assuming the effects of the celestial event are starting to mess with him internally.

Of course, you’re well aware that he’s got an extra pair of fluffy scratchable ears on the top of his head, an even fluffier tail protruding from the base of his spine, and sharper canines. You’re not ignorant. 

What you don’t know is that he’s much more prone to getting heated in these hours. Especially in the presence of someone who his body, mind, and soul are attuned to completely. It’s you. You're that someone.

But he has to behave for your sake. He can’t be bad, he can’t be too rash and aggressive or he might scare you off. You might not like it. But he wants you so damn bad, he can’t even hide it anymore. 

You’re rattling about restraints, something to tie him to incase he goes berserk.

Restraints. Belts. Muzzle. Chair. Tie him to a chair. He wants you to tie him to a chair.

He wants you to restrain him. He wants you to sit on his lap and feel how hard his cock is for you, feel it throb just below your cunt, grind his hips up to you still so retrained and held back that he has to beg you to ride him. He might as well ask for it. 

“…unless that’s too extreme.” You mutter, expecting a response. Nothing. Did he zone out again? What’s going on with Valko to be so distracted? He wasn’t like this last month. “Look, I know the full moon can be a messy time for you, and now that it’s a supermoon it could be worse, but I’d prefer you to actually respond— oh.”

Valko is drooling. Valko’s eyes are glazed over. Valko is blushing beyond relief. And Valko is sporting a rock hard boner.

The silence that stretches between you would have been uncomfortable, it should have been. But you seem to enjoy the rough pants that escape his lips, how his hands are balled into fists to keep himself at bay. How the veins on his neck are far more prominent now. 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, hoping you won’t say anything foolish. 

“Don’t laugh.” Valko grits, his fluffy ears drooping a little. 

“I wasn’t going to.” You say, trying to ignore the fact that your lips are twitching into a smile.

You glance down from his agitated golden eyes to his neck, to his large muscular chest covered by the black tank you always find so attractive on him, to the taper of his waist, to the pulsing print of his cock bulging against his pants.

Now that you think of it, you two haven’t shared the bed recently. You’ve both been so busy with work that neither of you have had time for each other. And you’ve been very wound up these last few days.

“I think we should figure out what restraints will be good for you.” A purr follows your words as you rest your hands on his chest. Muscular, warm, huge chest that you love to sleep on. You’re making this much, much worse and you know it. You can hear it in the groan that rumbles in his chest. 

“Oh, is it getting worse?” You play an aloof demeanour, reaching to caress the soft ears on his head, making sure to rub on that sensitive spot where his hair is its softest. A soft moan escapes Valko’s lips as his golden eyes flutter closed.

“Please…”

“What do you need me to do, my love?” Your lips ghost the shell of his fleshy ear, tongue peeking out to trace the shell. He shudders, head lowering to give you more access, hips rocking towards you so you can feel just what you need to do. 

You don’t want that, though. He has to say it.

“I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

A pained moan rushes right into your ear as he drops a part of his weight on you. Valko doesn’t want to say it but he also wants to say it. It doesn’t make sense. This heated state is driving him insane, and you’re giving him such a clear path to relief. But what he wants is different from what you usually do… will you agree?

With a shaky breath, Valko nuzzles the side of your neck, mustering the will to confess his desire. “You have to tell me no if you can’t do it.”

“I will.” You reassure him, stroking his soft hair. His arms wrap tight around you, grounding himself in your presence as the words unknot themselves to flow out.

“If you’re grossed out—“

“I won’t be grossed out, Val.” You softly say, rubbing circles into his lower back. “Nothing about you grosses me out. I trust you, so you need to trust that I’ll handle whatever you need and that I’ll tell you if I can’t. Outside of cannibalism, I'm not doing that.”

That makes him chuckle. “You’ll tell me the second you’re uncomfortable?”

“The millisecond.”

His next request comes out more sheepishly. “You’ll tell me I’m doing good?”

“I’ll put a poet to shame.”

“Pull my hair?”

“Put a collar on you too if you’re feeling feisty.”

A sigh of relief escapes Valko’s lips. Oh, he loves you. Finally, he pulls his face away from your neck to level your gaze with fresh determination on his face. “I want you to tie me to the chair, and ride the shit outta me.”

Ask and ye shall receive, as you hear them say.

It was easy to put Valko on a chair especially when he's drunk on your kisses, hungrily biting marks into your bare chest and stomach, gripping your hips so tight you’d think he’s terrified that you’ll run. It was easier to get soaked just from watching him strip for you— that, and having his fingers curl so good inside your cunt as he slurped and lapped at your clit.

The only ‘difficult’ part was restraining him to the chair, legs, arms, and torso roped tight, and that’s just because he’s antsy whenever the full moon happens. 

But something about this supermoon has got him more riled up than usual. Why, you ask?

You’ve been bouncing on the man’s cock for two hours. 

You’re not complaining, you love every second of this. Your walls are fluttering around him as he slides in and out of you so easily, caught by you keeping his fat tip inside leaking all that sticky, hot precum before you drop into his lap again and again and again. 

“Val— ooh, fuck!” Your praise has otherwise become mush, slurred moans of his name and whatever adulation could come to mind. Valko doesn’t mind since he isn't doing any better. If anything, he’s lost the need to think.

“S-So good,” His throat is torn from how loud he’s been, his hips jutting into you even with his thick, corded thighs roped down to the chair. His tail is slapping the floor, his fluffy ears are twitching. He can barely move, limbs strapped down and a collar wrapped around his neck at his own request. And he loves it.

He wants to cum so bad. But then he’d end up swelling so much that he’d be stuck for hours, just grinding and grinding and plugging his seed inside instead of feeling you slap down on him with each rise and fall of your full hips. He wouldn’t have your soft breasts bouncing in his face, or feel your hands scratch his undercut and pull his hair, or hear the hiccups in your voice or the ragged moans in his own.

Why make this pleasure so short-lived when he can prolong it? 

His cock is leaking like a faucet, keeping him smooth and wet for you to use him as you please, pulsing with the desire to just release. His sacks are drawn up tight, literally clenching with enough cum to repopulate a country, and yet he still won’t give in.

Valko drags his tongue up your jaw all the way to your cheekbone. “ ‘m I fuckin’ you good?”

“Hah— mhm. Such a good boy.” You ramble into his lips as you kiss him, slipping your tongue inside to taste him as if he isn’t all that you can sense. “So big and thick and hot… so— Valko— so full ‘f you, want you deeper, you’re so good!”

You’re on orgasm number five by now, gripping onto Valko’s strong shoulders for dear life, back arched, tugging his hair like you want to rip his red locks off. It’s the supermoon, you tell yourself, it must be shooting his stamina through the roof.

It fucking has to be if he’s been rutting into you like a bullet train without cumming even once. His girth twitches with every rock of your plush hips, it leaks and weeps inside you every time you squeeze him hard enough to cut off his blood flow. It has to hurt, prolonging his climax for this long.

Valko likes it that way. He likes the hurt. He likes the way his body just responds to you so well, like you’re made for each other. You have to be.

Your knees are starting to ache. Your thighs are burning from the constant bouncing up and down his thick length but the feeling of him dragging through your walls with each vein pressing against your walls is too good. The overwhelming bump of his cockhead kissing your cervix may just tip you over the edge again. The fucking curve of his cock and the angle just lets him reach the sensitive nerves of your g-spot so good every damn time!

You love these fucking supermoons.

“Valko,” You hum, licking his lips then his chin and jaw, your breath heavy as you maintain your pace. Just a few more and you’ll be in pure bliss. But you need him there with you. “I’m close. I’m so close. Hnn, need you— cum with me.”

“You— oh, you sure?” He whimpers, nuzzling you as you lick the tears off his cheeks. “I’ll—“

“Knot me, mhm.” You nod, rubbing your nose into his cheek, inhaling his scent. This man’s frenzied behaviour has been rubbing off on you too much, not that there’s reason to complain. “You’re gonna swell up so fuckin’ thick, yeah?”

He nods. “Gonna plug all that cum in me, keep it warm inside while you grind ’n rut into me?”

“Yeah,” He affirms, his arms pulling against the restraints. Is this what you want? You want him to bond with you to that much of an intimate extent? You must truly love him. “ ’m gonna stay in you the whole night, snug inside. But I like when you ride me.” You can feel him pouting as he pecks your skin. So cute.

“Then you’ll be a good boy, right?” You coo, your hands cupping his face as you press your thumbs on his lower lip. “Cum with me, and stay inside all night.” You fight every urge to give in to the pleasure when he bites your fingers.

You suck his upper lip, letting your moans vibrate into his. “Can you do that for me?”

Valko’s a simple man. You ask for something and he’ll give it to you with a smile. Like he is now, canines bared, tongue lapping at your fingers before he attacks your lips with a bruising, hot kiss. He pulls away just for a second to mutter against your mouth, “I love you.”

“I know, baby.” You huff, smiling into the kiss as you scratch his fluffy ears. Valko’s hips rut up faster and you can feel his cock swell at the base, almost ready to be plugged into you. Oh, he is so going to eat his cum out of you once he’s soft. “Now be good and cum with me.”