Never trust a tonberry

Your shop is rather small, but you love it.

Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.

For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.

You can make anything.

And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.

The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.

“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”

Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.

“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.

“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.

“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”

Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”

“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”

Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”

“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”

“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.

“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”

Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.

“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.

The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.

“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”

You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.

“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”

Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.

“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.

“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”

You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”

The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.

“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.

“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.

Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.

“And this?”

“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”

He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.

Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.

Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.

“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.

You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”

He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.

“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”

Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.

He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.

“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”

Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned. 

The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”

“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”

Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”

You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”

“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.

You gasp out. “Your grace—!”

Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.

You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.

“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.

“But—he just—the entire thing.”

“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”

“Can a cure be made?”

You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.

“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”

Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”

You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.

You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.

—✿—

Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.

You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.

There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.

“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”

“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it. 

Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.

“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”

“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”

You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”

“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”

Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”

In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.

“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”

You swallow, heart in your throat.

“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”

Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.

“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.

You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.

“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out. 

You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.

“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”

Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”

You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.

“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”

You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.

“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”

You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”

“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”

You swallow. “Your grace—?”

“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”

Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”

Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”

The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.

But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.

You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.

“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches. 

He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.

He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”

You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.

“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”

Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.

He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.

“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”

He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.

After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.

“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”

You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.

The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.

You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”

You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.

He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”

You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.

“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”

It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.

His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.

“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.

You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.

“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.

“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.

You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”

Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.

“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”

You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.

“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”

The pet name has you reeling.

You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”

He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.

The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.

Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.

He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.

“I—fuck… gods above…” Aerion mutters, slowly pulling out.

You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.

“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”

The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.

His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.

“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”

You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.

“My prince—”

“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more. 

Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.

“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”

You gasp out. “My prince, I—”

“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”

There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.

You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.

He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans. 

He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.

Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.

“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”

You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.

“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment. 

His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.

“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily. 

There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.

He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”

“I know,” you whimper.

The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.

“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.

“One more,” you repeat after him.

He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.

The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.

“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”

“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.

“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”

His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.

He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.

You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.

The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.

“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.

You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”

“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.

You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night. 

That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.

—✿—

Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.

“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”

Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”

You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”

The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”

“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”

“The prince,” he says pointedly.

You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.

“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”

You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”

“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”

You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”

“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.

———

be nice to the woods witch ❌

fuck her against her shop counter ✅

idiot (need him)

tags 🌿

The Danforths didn’t hide their violence. They insulated it.

The first thing the Danforth complex taught you when you took the job was that rich people didn’t silence screams—they designed rooms that swallowed them.

Sound died strangely here. It vanished into velvet walls and carved wood, into the thick old carpets imported from countries the Danforths pretended to respect and exploited anyway. It sank into the marble. It slipped behind portraits of dead men with powdered faces and mean eyes. The estate was too large, too polished, too aware of itself, all black iron gates and manicured gardens and endless service corridors designed so the wealthy never had to see the people who cleaned up after them.

Tonight, the house was eating noise whole.

Somewhere beyond the west wing, a gunshot cracked through the grounds.

Then another.

Then silence.

You sat in the private medical room with your hands folded in your lap, staring at the brass clock over the cabinet because it gave you something to do besides think. The room smelled of antiseptic, old leather, and the faint coppery ghost of blood that never really left, no matter how much bleach the staff used. The surgical tray had already been laid out. Sutures. Gauze. Hemostats. Sterile gloves. Local anesthetic. Silver scissors. Everything arranged with the quiet, awful precision the Danforths expected from their staff.

You weren’t a doctor. Not officially.

Officially, you were a private household medical attendant.

Unofficially, you were the person they called when someone important got hurt doing something no one could report.

Most estates had gardeners. Drivers. Housekeepers.

The Danforths had crisis staff.

Another sound came through the walls: a low mechanical groan, followed by the distant blare of an alarm that stopped almost as soon as it began. Someone on security must’ve killed it. The house settled again, vast and watchful.

You told yourself not to count the minutes.

Counting made it worse.

The intercom on the wall clicked alive.

Static hissed.

Then his voice poured through, low and amused and ragged around the edges.

“Grace, darling, you’re making this tedious.”

You went still.

Titus Danforth sounded different over the intercom. Larger somehow. More theatrical. Like the whole estate had been built not for parties or power or ritual, but for the particular pleasure of carrying his voice into every room.

“You can keep running,” he continued, breath faintly uneven beneath the taunt, “but there’s only so much house.”

The intercom clicked off.

A second later, a crash rang out somewhere in the corridor beyond the medical room.

Not the distant violence of the hunt.

Close.

You stood before you could think better of it.

There were voices outside. Two of them. One sharp and female, cold enough to cut through the old oak door.

“You look embarrassing.”

Ursula Danforth.

Your stomach tightened.

Then Titus, closer, rougher, amused through his pain.

“And you look disappointed I’m still walking.”

The door swung open hard enough to hit the stopper.

Titus Danforth appeared in the doorway, and the room seemed to brace for him before you did.

He was bleeding.

Not dying, your training decided for you.

Unfortunately.

He’d been hurt badly enough to look furious about it. His dark grey T-shirt was torn open at the side, the cotton stuck to him where blood had soaked through and turned the fabric almost black. The collar sat crooked at his throat, one shoulder pulled out of shape, his hair mussed like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. Blood marked his neck. His fingers. The hard line of one cheekbone. It should’ve made him look shaken. Instead, it made him look like someone else had made the mistake of touching him and hadn’t survived the lesson.

He looked less injured than interrupted.

And he looked deeply insulted that anyone had noticed.

Ursula stood just behind him, immaculate in a way that made his damage seem even more obscene. Not untouched exactly—there was a streak of dirt along the hem of her skirt, a tiny red bead near her wrist—but composed. Always composed. She looked him over with flat disgust, as though he’d tracked mud into the foyer instead of blood into the medical wing.

“You’re bleeding on Father’s floor,” she said.

Titus gave the marble a brief, contemptuous glance. “He’s hardly in a position to complain.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“Don’t be sentimental.”

Her gaze flicked to you. “Patch him up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Titus’s eyes moved to you for the first time.

That was always how it felt with him. Not attention. Appraisal. The kind rich men gave paintings, horses, weapons, and people they didn’t consider people for long.

You lowered your gaze on instinct, then hated yourself for doing it.

His mouth curved.

“Oh,” he said softly. “This one’s nervous.”

Ursula didn’t turn. “Everyone’s nervous around you. Don’t mistake that for charisma.”

“I don’t have to.” Titus’s eyes stayed on you. “Not when they’re this pretty about it.”

Your face went warm.

You reached for the gloves because they gave your hands something to do besides betray you.

Ursula’s mouth tightened. “Sit down, Titus.”

He smiled at her. “Ask sweetly.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

“And still standing.”

“Barely.”

“You wound me.”

“Someone already did.”

His smile sharpened.

“Careful, Urs. That almost sounded like love.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “Love would imply I’d miss you.”

For the first time, his smile thinned.

“I’d prefer you alive until you’re useful,” she added.

Titus laughed once, sharp and humorless. It almost passed for contempt. Then his breath caught, and the lie came apart—pain, badly hidden, worse than he wanted anyone in the room to know.

Ursula noticed too.

Of course she did.

Her eyes narrowed with something that might’ve passed for concern in another bloodline. In theirs, it looked more like calculation.

“You’re compromised,” she said.

“I’m inconvenienced.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I’m effective.”

“You lost the girl.”

That landed.

Not visibly, not to anyone who didn’t know how to watch monsters pretend not to bruise. But Titus’s face changed by a degree. His smile stayed. His eyes went colder.

“The night isn’t over.”

“No,” Ursula said. “Which is why I need you stitched and back on your feet before you become more liability than asset.”

He stepped farther into the room, the torn edge of his jacket dragging wetly against the cut at his side. For one brief second, his jaw clenched.

Then the smile returned, polished over the pain like a fresh coat of varnish.

“Always so managerial.”

“Always so disappointing.”

He brushed past her and dropped into the chair beside the examination table instead of getting onto it, spreading his knees and leaning back like this was a club lounge and not a room designed to quietly remove bullets from billionaires.

Ursula looked at you again.

Not unkindly.

Worse. Practically.

“If he bites, hit him with the tray.”

Titus grinned. “Don’t flirt on my behalf.”

Ursula ignored him. “He needs to be mobile. Fast.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She started to leave, then paused at the door.

“Titus.”

He didn’t look at her. “Ursula.”

“Try not to bleed out in front of the staff. It lowers morale.”

His smile thinned.

The door shut behind her.

Silence settled.

Not real silence. The house still breathed around you. Somewhere in the vents, air shifted. Somewhere distant, the game continued. But in the medical room, it was just you and Titus and the blood steadily darkening his shirt.

He watched you snap on your gloves.

“You always this quiet?”

You moved to the tray. “When I’m working.”

“How professional.”

“You’re going to need to take off the jacket.”

“Bossy.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

“You’ll bleed more if the fabric pulls when I clean it.”

He studied you for a second too long, then reached up with his uninjured hand and shrugged out of the jacket. Or tried to. The movement tugged at the wound and his breath caught through his teeth.

You stepped forward automatically. “Stop.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

It was a mistake, meeting them.

Titus Danforth had the kind of stare that made your mouth correct itself before your pride could object.

“I mean,” you said carefully, “let me help.”

His mouth twitched. “Better.”

You ignored that.

You came around behind him and eased the jacket down his shoulders, trying not to notice the heat coming off him. He was tense under your hands. Not fragile. Never fragile. More like a coiled thing that’d been forced to sit still against its nature.

The jacket fell into your grip, heavy and expensive and ruined.

You set it aside.

His shirt was next.

Of course it was.

You reached for the hem of his T-shirt, then stopped. “Can you—”

“No.”

You looked at him.

He smiled. “I’m wounded.”

“You just took off your jacket.”

“And suffered terribly.”

You stared at him for half a second.

He stared back, delighted.

You picked up the scissors instead.

“Shame,” he said as you began cutting the shirt open from the tear at his side. “This was Italian.”

“I’m sure you can afford another.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“That I liked this one.”

The scissors slid through blood-wet fabric with a soft, awful sound. The ruined shirt parted beneath your hands, revealing skin smeared red over lean muscle, the wound at his ribs ugly but clean-edged. A slash, not a bullet. Deep enough to need stitches. Not deep enough to kill him unless he kept pretending consequences were for other people.

You reached for gauze.

“Knife?” you asked.

“Something like that.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Neither was she.”

Your hands paused.

Titus noticed.

He always noticed.

“Oh, don’t look so intrigued,” he said. “It wasn’t Grace. If she’d gotten this close, one of us would be dead.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I appreciate competence.”

“You appreciate winning.”

His smile sharpened slowly, like he enjoyed the accusation more than he should’ve.

“There’s a difference?”

You pressed gauze against the wound.

His body jerked once, not enough for anyone else to call it flinching. His hand shot out and clamped around your wrist. Hard. Not crushing. Not yet. Just enough to stop you. Just enough to remind you he could.

Your pulse kicked.

Titus looked down at your caged wrist, then up at your face.

“There it is,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You’re bleeding too much for games.”

“Everything’s a game tonight.”

“Not this.”

“Especially this.”

You held his gaze because looking away felt worse. “Let go.”

His thumb found your pulse with insulting ease, pressed once, and lingered just long enough to make sure you knew he’d felt it jump.

You hated the tiny shock of absence it left behind.

You pressed the gauze down again, gentler this time, though you weren’t sure why you bothered. Titus felt the difference anyway. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping once beneath the skin, his throat working around whatever sound he refused to give you.

“You should let me numb it,” you said.

“No.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I didn’t ask you to make it pleasant.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You looked at the wound, then at him. “You don’t have to make everything a point of pride.”

His eyes lifted to yours, bright with pain and amusement.

“Careful,” he said. “That almost sounded like pity.”

“It was medical advice.”

“How disappointing.”

You cleaned the wound in silence after that, or tried to.

Titus didn’t make silence easy.

He watched your face while you worked. Not your hands. Your face. Like the wound bored him but your reactions might entertain him if he waited long enough.

The antiseptic made his breath go sharp again.

You pretended not to hear.

“Do they train you for this?” he asked.

“For wounds?”

“For not asking questions.”

“Yes.”

“And what’d they tell you?”

“That curiosity’s dangerous.”

His smile widened. “Sensible.”

“And expensive.”

That surprised a laugh out of him.

Real, maybe. Brief.

It turned into a wince before he could hide it.

You took advantage of the distraction to inspect the wound more closely. “It missed anything vital.”

“Lucky me.”

“You’ll need stitches.”

“Lucky you.”

You threaded the needle.

Titus tilted his head back against the chair, eyes still on you from beneath lowered lashes. There was blood drying along the side of his throat. A line of it had run beneath his collarbone before the shirt came open. He should’ve looked diminished.

He didn’t.

He looked like violence that had briefly put on human skin and found it irritating.

“Does Ursula always speak to you like that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes sharpened.

Too late, you realized your mistake.

Curiosity was dangerous.

The corner of his mouth lifted, pleased in a way that made you regret the question before he answered. “You’ve been listening.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. But you did.”

You tied off the first stitch in your mind before beginning. “Forget I said anything.”

“I don’t forget what interests me.”

You pushed the needle through his skin.

This time he didn’t move.

Not even when the thread pulled tight.

A faint sheen of sweat had gathered at his temple, but his voice stayed lazy.

“Ursula speaks to everyone like that.”

“She doesn’t speak to everyone the same way she speaks to you.”

“Because everyone else is less fun to disappoint.”

His gaze drifted over your face like he was looking for the next thing you’d give away.

“Go on, then. What else have you noticed?"

ou pulled the second stitch through and kept your eyes on the wound. “You enjoy making people uncomfortable.”

“That’s not an observation,” Titus said. “That’s gossip.”

You should’ve stopped there. The sensible part of you knew it, the trained part of you knew it, but Ursula’s voice was still in the room, cold and cutting, and Titus was watching you like he already knew you’d give him one more thing to use.

“And Ursula doesn’t sound like she’s worried you’ll lose. She sounds like she’s worried you’ll win.”

His smile stayed exactly where it was, which somehow made it worse. If it had vanished, if he’d snapped, if he’d given you anything loud enough to brace against, you might’ve known what to do with it. Instead, the expression remained polished in place while the room seemed to lose several degrees around him.

Your hand paused against his side.

Titus went still beneath your touch, not with restraint, but with the terrible patience of something deciding whether to strike

“Is that so?”

You kept your attention on the wound. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I overstepped.”

“You did.”

“I won’t again.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I liked it.”

Your hand hesitated.

His gaze dropped.

Not to the wound.

To your mouth.

Heat crawled up your throat, humiliating and impossible to hide. Titus saw that too. Of course he did. The faintest satisfaction touched his face.

“You’re very bad at pretending,” he said.

“I’m stitching your ribs.”

“And yet.”

You tied off another stitch. “Hold still.”

“Yes, nurse.”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What are you, then?”

You looked up despite yourself.

Wrong move.

Titus’s face was close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of blood on his lower lashes, the bruising starting to shadow one cheekbone, the vicious brightness in his eyes. He was hurt. Angry. Alive in a way that felt almost indecent.

“I’m staff,” you said.

His expression shifted.

Not softened.

Possessive, maybe. Amused by the answer. Offended by it too, somehow.

“Staff,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“What a small word.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

“For them, perhaps.”

You didn’t ask who them meant.

The Danforths. The Council. The portraits on the walls. Every old family in the complex hunting two women through a ritualized slaughter and calling it tradition.

Titus leaned forward slightly.

The movement pulled at the fresh stitches and made blood bead bright against his skin.

You pressed a hand to his shoulder without thinking. “Stop moving.”

His eyes dropped to where your hand rested against him, and the silence that followed made the touch feel suddenly louder than it had any right to be. You pulled away too quickly. Titus caught you before you got far, his fingers closing around yours this time instead of your wrist, the grip lower, warmer, almost polite if you ignored the flaking blood on his skin and the way he held you like politeness was just another kind of trap.

It should’ve felt less threatening.

It didn’t.

“You give orders very easily when you’re scared,” he said.

“I’m not scared.”

“No?”

“No.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your glove, slow and deliberate.

“You know,” he said, “lying to me is much worse than being afraid of me.”

“I’m not lying.”

He leaned closer.

You could smell blood and expensive cologne and smoke, like he’d been running through fire in a tailored suit.

“Your pulse disagrees.”

“You’re hurt,” you said. “And you’re bored.”

“Partly.”

“You want a reaction.”

“I want many things.”

“Titus.”

His name came out too quiet.

His eyes flashed.

For one reckless second, you understood something about him that you wished you didn’t. He liked obedience, yes. Expected it. He’d been raised on it. But there was something in him that liked resistance more. Not defiance from equals. Not Ursula’s cutting superiority or Grace’s survival-spit fury.

Something smaller.

A line drawn by someone who knew they could be punished for it and drew it anyway.

He smiled like he’d heard the thought.

The door opened.

You pulled your hand free so fast the stool behind you scraped the floor.

Ursula stood in the doorway.

She took in the scene in one glance: your flushed face, Titus leaning too close, the unfinished stitches, the blood on the tray, the ruined shirt open around him.

Her expression didn’t change.

That was worse.

“Really, Titus?” she said. “Bleeding all over Father’s chair and harassing the help? Must every injury become a performance?”

Titus leaned back, all lazy cruelty again. “Don’t be jealous because they’re better with their hands than you are with a knife.”

Ursula’s eyes moved from the stitches to you with the quiet precision of someone taking inventory, and you lowered your gaze before she could find anything else to count.

“Leave them alone,” she said.

Titus gave a soft laugh. “That sounded protective.”

“It was practical. We’re short on competent staff.”

“How maternal.”

“How pathetic.”

His smile went thin.

For one moment, they looked so alike it was disturbing. Not in face, exactly, but in construction. Two blades from the same set. One kept polished. One still wet.

Ursula stepped farther into the room.

“You’re wasting time.”

“I’m being repaired.”

“You’re playing with your food.”

Your stomach dipped.

Titus’s gaze didn’t leave Ursula.

“Careful,” he said softly.

“No.” Ursula’s voice lowered too. “You be careful. This isn’t one of your tantrums. This is the High Seat.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you? Because you’re limping back here after losing Faith, Grace is still alive, and the other families are moving while you flirt with the only person in this wing capable of keeping you upright.”

His jaw tightened, and there it was again—the names cutting through the room like a match struck too close to gas. Faith. Grace. The hunt. The game. All the violence waiting outside the door, patient and hungry, bigger than the little medical room pretending it could keep any of you safe. Titus stood suddenly, too suddenly, and the half-set stitches pulled open before you could stop him. Blood welled bright against the dark grey cotton.

You moved without thinking. “Sit down.”

He ignored you, eyes fixed on Ursula.

“You don’t speak to me like I’m one of your little committees.”

“I speak to you like someone who knows exactly what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

Ursula stared at him, her composure holding so perfectly that you almost missed what moved beneath it: not fear for herself, but fear of him.

“A mistake with a crown in his sights.”

The silence afterward was absolute.

Then amusement cut across his face, cold enough to make the room feel smaller.

It was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful.

Ursula saw it and didn’t look away. That was the terrible thing about her: fear lived in her, but it didn’t rule her. She was afraid of him, yes, but not enough to retreat. Not enough to bend. She’d killed their father beside him and still looked at Titus like he was the greater danger.

Maybe he was.

“You should go,” he said.

Ursula’s eyes narrowed.

“Should I?”

“Yes.” He sat back down slowly, gaze never leaving hers. “Before you say something honest.”

Her mouth twisted.

Then she looked at you.

“Finish the stitches. Don’t let him leave until the bleeding stops.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At the door, she paused again.

“Titus.”

He smiled. “Ursula.”

“You are not invincible.”

“No,” he said. “Just inevitable.”

She left, and the door shut behind her, leaving the room colder than it had been before she entered. For a while, neither of you moved. Then Titus glanced down at the torn stitch and sighed like his own blood had become tedious.

You grabbed fresh gauze with more force than necessary. “You ripped it.”

“So fix it.”

“You need to sit still.”

“I was provoked.”

“You’re always provoked.”

His eyebrows lifted just enough to make you freeze. You realized too late how revealing that had sounded, but instead of anger, Titus only looked pleased, as if you’d finally handed him something worth keeping.

“There,” he said softly. “That was almost a personality.”

You pressed gauze to the wound. Harder than before.

He hissed through his teeth, and you regretted it immediately—until he laughed, low and rough, too close to a groan to feel like amusement.

“You’re getting brave.”

“I’m getting annoyed.”

“That’s better.”

“You could bleed internally.”

“I’m touched.”

“You could die.”

“Everyone dies.”

“Not everyone treats it like an inconvenience.”

“Not everyone’s important.”

You looked at him then.

Really looked.

The blood. The arrogance. The expensive ruin of him. The way he sat in pain and still made it feel like the room belonged to his body first and the furniture second.

“You actually believe that,” you said.

His eyes sharpened with delight. “You don’t?”

“I think important people bleed the same as everyone else.”

“Dangerous opinion in this house.”

“It’s not an opinion. It’s anatomy.”

“And here I thought you weren’t a nurse.”

You cut the ruined stitch free.

He watched you work.

This time, when you pushed the needle through, he let out a slow breath and said nothing.

The silence was worse now. Charged. Full of Ursula’s warning and Titus’s smile and the distant knowledge that somewhere else in the estate, women were fighting to survive men like him.

You should’ve hated him cleanly.

That would’ve been simpler.

Instead, you were too aware of the heat of his skin under your gloved fingers. The flex of his stomach when the needle pulled. The way his throat moved when he swallowed pain. The obscene intimacy of repairing a man who’d go right back into the dark once you were done.

“You’re thinking loudly again,” he said.

You tied the next stitch. “I’m concentrating.”

“On my wound?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

Your breath caught, and Titus leaned forward with the slow certainty of someone who’d found a line and wanted to watch you notice him crossing it.

“Tell me,” he said, “do they warn you about me?”

You should’ve said no. You should’ve said nothing at all, should’ve swallowed the answer the way this house swallowed every scream that echoed through it. But the night had been blood under your fingernails, alarms cut short, doors locking from the outside, and rich people turning murder into ceremony. Some tired, reckless part of you had finally had enough of pretending silence wasn’t just another kind of fear.

“They don’t have to.”

The expression didn’t fall away. That would’ve been too easy. It emptied instead, mockery draining out until all that remained was attention sharp enough to feel like pressure against your throat.

“And why’s that?”

You cut the thread, the snip of metal sounding obscenely loud in the medical room.

“Because you warn people yourself.”

Titus stared at you for one long second, and the worst part was that he didn’t look angry. Anger would’ve given you something simple to brace against. Instead, he looked interested, as if you’d just opened a door in yourself and he’d decided he liked what he could see through it.

Then he laughed, quiet and real enough to be worse than any threat.

The intercom clicked on.

Both of you looked toward it.

Static.

Then the Lawyer’s voice, smooth and empty.

“All active families are reminded that the game remains in play until dawn. Any unsanctioned interference with the rules will result in immediate disqualification.”

The intercom clicked off, and Titus went still in a way that made the room feel secondary to whatever waited beyond it. The taunting ease left his face, and what remained wasn’t duty or loyalty, but hunger dressed up as purpose.

He looked toward the door like he could see through the walls to the game beyond them. Grace. Faith. Ursula. The High Seat. The ring. The altar waiting underground.

You taped gauze over the stitches.

“You’re done,” you said.

“Am I?”

“Medically.”

His gaze returned to you, and the room seemed to shrink around the attention of it. You reached for a clean bandage roll, more to give your hands something safe to do than because you needed it, but Titus caught your wrist before you could turn away. Again. This time, you didn’t tell him to let go, and the silence that followed made the choice feel louder than it should’ve. Maybe that was your mistake. Maybe it was his. His thumb found your pulse with infuriating accuracy, pressing where your body had no choice but to answer.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“So are you.”

His eyes flashed.

Pain. Anger. Interest.

“You’re very bold for someone disposable.”

You swallowed.

Then said, “You’re very arrogant for someone who’s only upright because I let him be.”

His grip tightened around your wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to empty your lungs before you could pretend it hadn’t. Enough to remind you that you were still seated while he wasn’t, still caught while he rose over you with all that ugly, effortless Danforth ownership.

Titus stood slowly this time, each inch deliberate, dragging your attention up with him whether you wanted to give it or not. The movement brought your face level with the blood-streaked bandage at his side first, then the hard, exposed plane of his stomach where the cut-open grey T-shirt hung apart around him. He was close. Too close. Close enough for the heat of his skin to reach your face, close enough to see the shallow pull of muscle under blood and sweat, close enough that your gaze dropped, traitorous, to the low line of his waistband before you caught yourself. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t careful. It was blunt and physical and humiliatingly obvious, and Titus noticed the exact second your breathing changed.

It was obscene, somehow, being that near for a reason you could still call medical.

Then your gaze lifted, and you found him already watching you.

The room went small around the look on his face.

Not warmth. Not kindness. Not even simple attraction. Something sharper than that, something satisfied and possessive, as if he’d caught the exact moment your professionalism failed and intended to keep it.

“You have no idea,” he said softly, “what kind of night this is.”

“I have some idea.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “You have keyholes. Corridors. Little pieces. You hear screams and think you know the shape of the thing making them.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing.”

“Then why are you still here?”

That did it.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time, and he didn’t bother pretending it was accidental. There was nothing accidental left in the room. Not the way he stood over you. Not the way your wrist stayed caught in his hand. Not the heat still rising off his bare skin beneath the cut-open grey t-shirt.

Outside, another shot cracked through the estate, distant enough to feel unreal.

Neither of you moved.

Titus lifted your hand slowly, still trapped in his, and turned it just enough to study the blood smeared across your glove. His blood. Your careful work. The proof that you’d had your hands on him because you had to, and kept them there a little longer because you wanted to.

His thumb dragged over the stained latex, pressing your fingers open one by one like he was inspecting the damage and enjoying the evidence.

Then his mouth curved.

Not kindly. Never kindly. There was nothing soft in it, nothing safe, nothing that pretended this was anything but ugly want finally given shape. Just intent, hot and unmistakable, sharpened by pain and blood and the unbearable fact that you were still close enough to touch him again.

“You should be very careful,” he said.

“Of you?”

“Of what you start with me.”

“I didn’t start anything.”

“No,” he said. “You just touched it.”

The space between you disappeared.

Not gently. Not sweetly. Not like a confession or a promise or anything clean enough to belong outside the walls of this house.

It was heat and blood and bad judgment.

His hand came up to the back of your neck, firm enough to stop you from retreating but not enough to force you forward. He waited. That was the worst part. The tiny pause. The chance to step back. The proof that whatever monster he was, he wanted your choice because winning it pleased him more.

You should’ve moved away.

Instead, you grabbed the torn edge of his shirt and pulled him down.

Titus made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half pain, and all satisfaction.

The kiss was ugly-fast, exactly like him. No softness at first. No patience. Just his mouth on yours, hot and demanding, his hand locked at the back of your neck while your spine hit the cabinet hard enough to rattle the glass bottles inside it. His tongue pushed into your mouth with the same entitled certainty he brought into every room, and the filthy little sound it pulled from you made him press in closer, pleased and punishing. You tasted blood where his lip had split, sharp and metallic, but he didn’t slow down. If anything, he kissed you harder for noticing, teeth catching your lower lip, tongue dragging against yours until the whole room seemed to narrow to his mouth, his heat, his body crowding yours against the cabinet. He tasted like violence interrupted, like the hunt had followed him inside and found a new way to use its teeth.

When your hands hit his ribs, the latex of your gloves dragging over the edge of the fresh bandage, Titus hissed against your mouth and bit back something ugly enough to sound like a curse before it ever became one.

You pulled away just enough to breathe. “Your stitches—”

“Fuck the stitches.”

“You’ll tear them.”

“Then you’ll fix them again.”

He kissed you before you could answer, like he’d decided your concern was just another form of touching him. His mouth came back harder, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of insistence, his body crowding you into the cabinet until there was nowhere left for your professionalism to hide. The glass rattled behind your shoulders. The tray sat beside you with bloody gauze curled like evidence. Your gloves were still stained with him, and Titus seemed to know it, seemed to like it, his hand catching one of yours and dragging it back to his side as if daring you to remember why you’d touched him in the first place.

For a few dangerous minutes, the game outside the door became distant. Not gone. Never gone. It pulsed under everything: the intercom, the gunfire, the old house with its rotten heart, Ursula’s warning, Grace running somewhere through the dark. But the medical room narrowed to heat and breath and the wet, obscene slide of his mouth on yours, to the hard line of his body pressing too close, to the way he kissed like a man trying to prove he could still take something from the night.

And you let him.

That was the part you’d have to live with later.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, not tender but precise, learning how your breath changed and punishing you for every reaction by chasing another. His teeth grazed skin, not quite biting, not quite merciful, and the sound you made against your own better judgment pulled a low laugh out of him.

“Listen to you,” he murmured against your pulse. “So careful with your hands a minute ago.”

Your fingers curled into the cut-open grey fabric hanging loose around his shoulders, then slipped beneath it to the hot skin at his waist, low enough to make the touch feel less medical than damning. For one breath, all you felt was him. Then the room came back: the blood, the locked door, the hunt still tearing through the estate beyond it.

Titus felt the hesitation and smiled into your throat like he’d been waiting for it.

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

His mouth left yours only to drag along your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear, not tender but exacting, like he was taking notes on every reaction and planning to use them against you later. Your hands slid up before you could stop them, fingers catching in his hair, and Titus made a low sound against your skin when you pulled just hard enough to make him feel it.

For one stupid, breathless second, you forgot who he was. What he was. What the house was doing beyond the locked door.

He didn’t.

He laughed against your throat, soft and wicked, his mouth still close enough that you felt the shape of it more than heard it. “Better.”

“Titus—”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I don’t know what I mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His hand tightened at the back of your neck, not cruel, not gentle, something worse because it understood both. “You’re just deciding whether you hate yourself for it yet.”

You shoved at his chest, careful of the bandage and furious that you were careful. “You’re bleeding.”

“And you’re stalling.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse by better people.”

“You mean richer people.”

That made his mouth curve against your throat, the near-smile pressed directly into your skin. “Careful,” he said. “I’m starting to enjoy you.”

“You enjoy everyone you can scare.”

“No.” His mouth moved lower, slow enough to feel intentional, his breath dragging over your pulse before his lips followed. “I enjoy when someone’s smart enough to be afraid and stupid enough to stay.”

Your breath broke before you could hide it.

His grip went still, and the whole room seemed to pause with him. It wasn’t softness that came over him. Titus didn’t soften. The change was worse than that: a sharpening, a focus so complete it made the air feel touched. Every cruel, restless, wounded part of him narrowed down to the sound you’d failed to swallow.

He’d found it.

Not the wound. Not the weak place in the stitches. You.

A terrible kind of satisfaction moved through his face, and your stomach dipped before the rest of you knew why. Not surprise. Not tenderness. Recognition. Like he’d found the seam in you and already knew how easily it would split. For the first time all night, you understood that being hunted didn’t always require running. Sometimes it was standing there with his mouth at your throat, his hand at your neck, and realizing your body wanted him closer in every filthy way your mouth was still too proud to say.

You’d seen him bored. You’d seen him cruel. You’d seen him wounded and furious and arrogant enough to treat blood loss like something happening to lesser men.

This was worse.

This was Titus no longer wondering what you wanted from him, only how badly he could make you admit it.

“Still worrying,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp you felt through his chest where he had you pinned. “The stitches. The hunt. Whether anyone’s going to walk through that door and see exactly how badly you want this.” His thumb pressed into the nape of your neck, dragging once over the first vertebrae in your spine, while his other hand tightened on your hip hard enough to promise bruises. “You should be worrying about what I’m going to do to you before they interrupt.”

“Maybe I’m not worried at all.” The words came out steadier than you felt, your chin lifting as you met his gaze. His eyes narrowed, the lazy cruelty in them gathering into something darker, hungrier, and far too pleased. “Maybe I’m wondering how long it takes before you bleed through those stitches and pass out on top of me.”

A low laugh rumbled from his chest, rough and mean. "That's cute." He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, the pressure of it against the heat gathering between your legs making your stomach clench. "You're trying real hard to pretend you don't want this. Don't want me." His hand slid from your hip to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your uniform top, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. "But I felt your hands shaking when you were stitching me up. Felt your breath go shallow when I pulled you in here." His head dipped, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "You had every chance to run."

"Maybe I like watching you bleed."

His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp nip that sent a jolt through your whole body. "Liar." His hand came up, fingers wrapping around your throat, not squeezing—just holding, a warning and a promise in the press of his palm against your pulse. "I can feel your heart racing. Smell how wet you are." He inhaled slow, deliberate, his eyes dropping half-lidded. "You've been thinking about this since I walked into your little room. Since I made you look at me."

Your breath stuttered, and he felt it, his thumb pressing against the hollow of your throat. "Maybe I have," you said, the admission scraping out of you. "What are you going to do about it?"

His grin was sharp and wolfish. "There she is." He pushed you back, your spine hitting the medical cabinet hard enough to rattle the instruments inside, the cold metal biting through your shirt. His body followed, pinning you there, the heat of him seeping through your clothes. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name." His free hand dropped to the button of your pants, working it open with rough, impatient fingers. "And then I'm going back out there, and you're going to stay right here, feeling me drip out of you, knowing I'll be back."

He yanked your pants down, the denim catching on your hips before he shoved it past your thighs, leaving you exposed to the cold air and his burning gaze. His hand slid between your legs, two fingers pressing through the slick fabric of your underwear, and he let out a low groan. "Fuck. You're soaked." He pushed the cotton aside, his fingers sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with a pressure that made your hips buck. "Look at that. Soaking wet for a man who's bleeding through his stitches." He pushed one finger inside you, then a second, the stretch making you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. "And you still want to talk shit."

"Daddy." The word came out breathy, almost a whimper, and his eyes went dark, his fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that made your vision blur. "Please."

"Please what?" He pumped his fingers faster, the wet sound filling the small room, his thumb circling your clit in rough, sloppy strokes. "Use your words, baby. Tell Daddy what you need."

"You." Your voice cracked. "I need you inside me. Fuck me, please, I need—"

He pulled his fingers out with a lewd pop, slick and glistening, and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean while holding your gaze. Then his hands were on your hips, spinning you around, bending you over the edge of the steel table. The leather restraints pressed against your stomach, cold and unyielding, as his body crowded behind you.

You heard the quiet rustle of his belt unbuckling, the mechanical whisper of his fly unzipping next, all loud in an otherwise silent room. Then you felt his cock press against your soaked cunt, the head of it sliding through your slickness, teasing your entrance. "You're going to take every inch," he said, his voice low and rough, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back. "And you're going to be quiet about it. Can you do that for me, baby?"

You nodded, a broken sound escaping your throat as he pushed inside, the stretch of him filling you, thick and hot and deep. He didn't stop until his hips were flush against your ass, his breath ragged against your ear. "Fuck," he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair. "Tight little cunt. Been thinking about this since I saw you."

He pulled out slow, dragging against your walls, then slammed back in, the force of it driving you forward against the table. His hand came down on your ass, a sharp crack that echoed off the walls, and you cried out, the sound swallowed by his palm clamping over your mouth. "Shh," he breathed, his hips setting a brutal rhythm, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. "You're doing so good. Taking Daddy's cock so well."

His hand slid from your mouth to your throat, pressing down, cutting off your air just enough to make the edges of your vision go fuzzy. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, as he fucked into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm. The obscenely wet squelch of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with his grunts and your muffled moans. "That's it," he growled, his pace quickening, his breath hot against your neck. "Squeezing me so tight. Gonna make me come."

Your body was trembling, the coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust, your cunt clenching around him. "Daddy, please," you gasped, the words barely audible. "Please let me—"

"Not yet." His hand tightened on your throat, his thrusts growing sloppy, desperate. "I'm not done with you. I'm going to fill this pussy up, make sure you feel me for days." He drove into you one last time, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he came, hot and thick, pumping into you in deep, shuddering pulses. The feeling of it, of him spilling inside you, pushed you over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you, your body convulsing around his cock as he kept thrusting, riding it out.

He stayed there for a moment after, still pressed against you, his forehead resting against the back of your neck, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

For the first time since he’d entered the room, Titus Danforth was quiet.

Not softened. Not gentle. Not safe.

Just quiet.

His hand flexed once at your hip, fingers digging in as if some part of him still hadn’t decided whether to let go. Behind you, his chest rose and fell too hard, the cut-open remains of his grey shirt hanging ruined around him, his bandage pulled crooked beneath it. You could feel the heat of him everywhere. The sweat. The blood. The blunt, obscene evidence of what you’d just let him do while the house tore itself apart around you.

Then he pulled out slowly, a wet sound that made you shiver, and you felt his cum leaking down your thigh, the absence of him making you go weak at the knees.

You braced one hand against the steel table, breathing hard, your uniform twisted, your skin damp, your body still carrying him in ways you couldn’t fix with soap or silence. The medical room hummed around you: fluorescent light, rattled glass, bloody gauze on the tray, the torn scraps of his shirt on the floor like evidence neither of you had bothered to hide.

Titus turned you around with a hand beneath your chin, his touch not rough enough to excuse your reaction and not gentle enough to trust.

He made you look at him, his thumb resting beneath your jaw, his eyes still dark with hunger and something more dangerous than satisfaction. His mouth was bruised. There was blood at the corner of it, maybe his, maybe from where he’d kissed you too hard. The bandage at his side had started to bloom red again, staining through white gauze in a slow, ugly spread.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

His mouth curved. “You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep doing it.”

A low laugh moved through him, rough with leftover heat, but it caught at the end. Pain still had its hooks in him, no matter how badly he pretended otherwise.

The intercom shrieked alive, a burst of feedback splitting the room so violently that you both jerked still.

Then Grace’s voice came through, breathless and furious, somewhere between panic and threat.

“You want me? Come get me, you rich fucks.”

The intercom cut out, and the silence it left behind felt louder than the static.

Titus went very still.

The man in front of you disappeared by degrees. Not physically. He was still close enough to touch, still breathing hard, still standing between your open legs with his hand beneath your chin and blood seeping through the bandage you’d taped to his side. But his eyes had gone elsewhere, pulled back to the hunt, back to the throne, back to the thing he wanted more than warmth, more than blood, more than whatever impulse had bent you over a steel table in a private medical room while the estate screamed around you.

His face changed with the silence that followed, hunger rearranging itself into purpose.

“Oh, Grace,” he said, almost fondly. “There you are.”

The cold of it sobered you instantly.

You let go of him, and he noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze flicked back to you, darker now, reassembled into Titus Danforth, son of Chester, twin of Ursula, would-be High Seat of the Council, with fresh stitches under his ribs, blood on his mouth, and the hunt calling him home.

He stepped back, and the absence of him felt like air returning after suffocation.

You reached for the cabinet because your hands needed something to do besides shake. Halfway there, you remembered the gloves still clinging to your skin, stained with him, tacky at the fingertips. You stripped them off and dropped them into the bin, one after the other, the snap of latex sounding too loud in the room.

“You need a clean shirt,” you said.

He looked down at the ruined grey one hanging open around him, as if only just remembering it. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“How domestic.”

“You’ll bleed through that.”

“I’ll survive.”

“That wasn’t my concern.”

His mouth curved again, faint and knowing. “Liar.”

You opened the supply cabinet and pulled out a folded black shirt kept there for exactly this kind of emergency. The Danforths had supplies for everything: blood loss, bullet wounds, ritual contamination, wardrobe replacement. The house had been built to make violence convenient.

You handed it to him without stepping too close.

He took it, and for a second, his fingers brushed yours. No glove this time. Skin to skin, brief enough to pretend it didn’t matter and warm enough to make pretending impossible.

It shouldn’t have felt like a decision.

Titus pulled the shirt over his head carefully, only wincing once as the fabric settled over the bandage. The black hid the blood better. Of course it did. Everything in this house had been designed to hide blood better.

The intercom crackled again, this time from somewhere farther down the hall, Ursula’s voice slicing through the static.

“Titus. East wing. Now.”

His eyes stayed on you for one more beat.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “She does hate being ignored.”

“She’ll notice.”

“Ursula notices everything.”

“That wasn’t reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

He moved toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the handle. For a moment, you thought he might say something cruel, or clever, or nothing at all. Instead, he looked back at you with that same terrible, entertained focus.

“Lock this door.”

You blinked. “What?”

“When I leave.”

“Why?”

His expression shifted, faint and wicked, the closest thing to tenderness he probably knew how to ruin.

“Because Ursula was right about one thing.”

Your mouth went dry. “What’s that?”

His fingers tightened around the handle.

“I bite.”

Then, after a beat, softer and worse, “Stay.”

It shouldn’t have sounded like an order and a promise at the same time.

But it did.

Then he was gone.

The corridor swallowed him almost immediately, the sound of his footsteps fading into the old house, toward Grace, toward Ursula, toward the gunfire starting up again somewhere beyond the walls, toward whatever hell waited underneath the estate with its altar and its ring and its pit full of offerings.

You stood alone in the medical room with the lock still waiting and your skin still refusing to feel like yours. Behind you, the steel table remembered everything: leather restraints shoved crooked, blood smeared across the edge in the shape of your gloved fingers, red handprints dragged over cold metal from where you’d held on while Titus fucked every careful rule this house had beaten into you straight out of your head. The trail continued across the cabinet, the drawer handle, the spot where your palm had landed when he’d crowded you back against it. Not just his blood anymore. Your fingerprints in it.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The steel table gleamed cold behind you. Your uniform was still twisted, your skin still marked by his hands, your thighs still sticky with his cum. His scent clung to you—blood, smoke, sweat, expensive cologne, something violent and warm that had no business feeling familiar.

Then the intercom clicked on again, static breathing through the speaker like the house had leaned in to hear what he’d left behind.

For a moment, you stayed exactly where he’d left you, every nerve still listening for him.

Stay.

The word didn’t echo. It settled.

That was worse.

You crossed to the door and turned the lock, not because he’d told you to.

“his name?”

“Henry— didn’t get the last. we were trying to get his heart rate down, his adrenaline was high.“ the medic explained. “besides his request to come here, he didn’t talk much after that. I assumed he was still in shock from the pain.”

“and the neighbors didn’t say anything else? where his parents are or where they work?” robby needed something. the medic shook his head. “not to me.” his head turning over to his partner. “Pzsonyi— did the couple tell you anything about the parents?”

“said they were doctors.”

and he was adamant about coming here.

“that should narrow it down. not like we have a hospital full of those—” robby said sarcastically. “we got it from here.”

robby turned and walked towards where the nurses were. the blonde already fixed on him as he approached.

“you good?” dana asked as she watched over the rim of her glasses.

Robby’s hands went behind his neck as he blew out a breath. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

he then looked over his shoulder where the boy was across the floor of the department. “the 11 year old patient that just came in” his head gestured back. Dana’s eyes following. “would you be able to work your magic and get his emergency contacts? came in without anyone. according to the EMT, his parents work here.”

the charge nurse's eyes pinched a bit. 

"they work here?" 

Robby shrugged. “I’m not for sure,” Dana gave him a look, rolling her eyes.

“one of the medics said his parents were doctors and the other told me the boy was insistent on coming here. It’s a long shot but I could only assume.” robby scratched his beard. Dana gave him a nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

His hands clapped together, grasping one another as he gave her a tight lipped smile. A silent thank you before he turned to leave. heading over to where Henry was.

Jesse was with him. A smile on the boy's face despite his damp cheeks. 

“Henry, right?” robby started as he grabbed some gloves. blue eyes stared back at him, then a nod. a quiet ‘yes sir’ given.

it was a small movement. the corner of Robby’s mouth lifted up. 

Respectful.

his attention turned to Jesse. “500 mg of acetaminophen, 350mg of ibuprofen. and let’s get him in for xrays.” Jesse nodded as he gets the meds ready.

“We’re gonna get a hold of your mom and dad, Henry– let them know you’re here.” robby circled back to the patient. The attending watching. The boy’s lips parting before licking the bottom. almost as if it was on the tip of his tongue and he decided against it. “Okay.” 

“I hear they’re doctors here, any chance I might–”

“Robinavitch.” Dana peeked in. Robby glanced up. The charge nurse's head tipped the other way. “a word.”

Robby gave Henry’s shoulder squeeze. “I’ll be right back, in the mean time, Jesse here,” hand motioning to the tall male nurse, “aaaand” Robby’s head swiveled. eyes catching two of his students.

Student and first year resident.

“Whitaker. Ogilvie.” 

the two turned when they heard their names. Robby signaling them over.

“Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Ogilvie,”

“Student Doctor.” James interrupted with a finger up. Robby paused and nodded. “Right– are going to assist.” 

“Dr. Robby, we don’t–” whitaker’s words fell short as the older man delivered a shoulder pat. “You got this.” gloves snapped off as he sailed out. The blonde was standing in the hall with pressed lips, tablet held to her chest, and an amused glint in her eyes.

“Did you work your magic?” 

A smile stretched across Dana’s face. “I feel like you’re gonna regret asking me.” she laughed. “I did— and you’re never gonna guess who mom and dad are.” 

Robby eyed her. “Who?”

Dana flickered her sight a few feet away to where the boys were. her finger pointing to the younger one who sat on the hospital bed.

“you’ve got a baby shark in there.”

Robby blinked. then let out a laugh.

not a nervous one and not an amused one. It was one someone gave when they were just given information they couldn't fathom. Or really, didn’t like. Almost like not wanting to hear what they were just told even if they asked for it and now they were suffering the consequences.

that kind of laugh. 

“of course they are.” hands rubbing his eyes as he fell back onto the heels of his feet. “Are we sure?” he squinted as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Dana grinned. “Oh, I’m sure.” 

“Did you already let them know?” robby asked.

“And what? risk the chance of there being blood in the water because I waited to tell them that their son was down here. What are you fucking kidding me? Of course I told them.” the charge nurse gave him a wide look as if not believing he really just asked a stupid question. 

He was a man afterall. 

Robby blew out a breath. “Fuck– okay. When are they–” his question answered when you guys approach. 

“Park.”

It was rare to see you both down here at the same time. Not that it never happened, it was just unexpected. The interns said it felt wrong. like seeing a shark itself in the shallow waters.

You hadn’t even acknowledged robby; passing right by. Brendon barely sparing a nod. 

“Better not have anyone incompetent with my son.” 

Henry looked up when he heard his dad. A wide smile stretching when he saw his mom. 

Your persona was washed off. Not at all caring that you were completely exposed. Out in the open. Your hand caressing his cheek, his smaller one on top. 

“Are you okay?” a quiet ask. eyes watching him as he nods. “I’m okay.” 

A satisfied smile before you press a kiss to his forehead. Squeezing his cheeks in your grasp.

Whitaker and Ogilvie just stared. One not wanting to interrupt and probably too scared to do so, while the other stood with wide eyes. His mouth parted like a fish out of water.

Brendon pressed another kiss to the other side of his head. before his eyes lift to his boy's foot. an ice pack resting on his ankle.

“is he on meds?” Brendon asked as he leaned up. his hand brushing against his son’s hair before pulling gloves out of his scrub pocket. snapping them on.

“500 mg of acetaminophen– 350mg of ibuprofen.” Robby clarified. arms crossed as he nodded.

“iced the area to—” “I’m not blind.”

Whitaker closed his mouth.

“dad.” brendons eyes caught his sons. the boy giving him an unimpressed look that you knew he inherited from the man in front of him. “don’t interrupt.”

your suppress a smile. his words sounded familiar.

brendon cleared his throat. “finish.” gaze on the r1 for a split second before he diverts it.

Whitaker looks to robby, then looks to you then the young boy. he knows now how Ogilvie felt. only this time it was a little more reassuring knowing the kid had his back. he didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

“We uh— just iced to reduce the swelling, elevation above heart level. bp now, 105/61, HR 89, 99 on room….” his eyes finding Henry’s. the youngest park giving him a thumbs up.

“xray?” you asked from the side. "dr. robby already had them in order.” whitaker verbalised.

“we’re still waiting to get him in.” the attending intervened quietly. you slowly peeled yourself away from your son. "I'll be back— make sure dad doesn't kill anyone." you joke drily as you leave.

it earns a giggle from the kid.

Ogilvie, who had been surprisingly quiet, turns to where you just left. eyes wide as his head spins. “was she being serious—”

"It was just one time." Henry shrugs.

"One?” Whitaker and Ogilvie echo. Robby’s lips pursing as he watches in amusement. head shaking at how easy it was to reel them in.

the kids lip lifts up at the corner.

“I’m kidding— it was my mom.”

Brendon laughs loudly.

Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.

The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.

You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.

The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.

You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.

“Why have I got room fourteen?”

The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.

“What about room fourteen?”

You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.

That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.

It was practically a holiday.

You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.

Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.

Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.

Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.

You knew it.

Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”

His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You keep changing my assignments.”

“I don’t make assignments.”

“Jack.”

His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.

“You have no proof.”

“I don’t need proof.”

“Yes, honey, you do.”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”

Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.

The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”

“Yes.”

That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.

“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”

“Never say that again. I’m serious.”

“God forbid a guy try something new.”

You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.

You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.

That last one was definitely intentional.

The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.

A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.

None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.

“You don’t need to look after me.”

The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.

“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”

The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.

The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.

You forced a smile. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“You still need to stop.”

His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.

“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”

A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.

You hated how easily he could do that.

As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.

“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”

You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.

You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.

Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,

“You feeling alright today?”

The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.

The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.

For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.

Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.

Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.

Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.

Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.

You were carrying another man’s baby.

The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.

Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.

By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.

You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.

Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”

You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.

“Fine.”

“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”

“I’m still fine.”

“You made a face.”

“I make faces all the time.”

“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”

“That’s slightly dramatic.”

His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.

The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.

Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.

Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

“You should take ten.”

“No.”

“Five.”

“No.”

“Two and a half?”

A laugh escaped despite yourself.

“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”

You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.

Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.

“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”

You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.

“Who says I’m tired?”

“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”

“Maybe I like coffee.”

“You hate coffee.”

Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”

His smile widened. “You told me.”

“When?”

“Six months ago.”

You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.

Six months ago.

You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.

Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.

The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.

Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.

The silence stretched. Jack’s smile faded slightly. Concern replacing amusement. “You okay?”

There it was again. That impossible gentleness.

You swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.

Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.

A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.

Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.

Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.

“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”

The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.

You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”

His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”

The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.

He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.

A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.

You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.

Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.

You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.

The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.

Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.

The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.

Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.

You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.

Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.

Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.

Not here. Not now.

The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.

You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.

That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.

Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.

Most of the time you managed to carry it.

Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.

“You missed a spot.”

You jumped.

Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.

You stared. Then frowned. “What?”

“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”

Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.

You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.

“You should go home.”

You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”

“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”

The concern in it almost made things worse.

You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.”

“Then go home, sweetheart.”

Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.

You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.

The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”

Silence.

Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.

“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”

The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.

“I go home and it’s just me.”

Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.

For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.

Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.

His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”

The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”

“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”

Your mouth opened.

He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”

“Jack—”

“You never let anybody look after you.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.

“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”

You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.

“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”

His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.

“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”

Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.

“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”

The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.

Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.

The sight nearly broke your heart.

“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. The answer came anyway.

“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”

The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”

Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.

“Oh,” he echoed.

For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.

Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.

“You make me feel safe.”

The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.

“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”

A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.

“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”

Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”

The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.

For months you’d been carrying everything alone.

Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.

The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.

For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.

Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.

Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.

Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.

The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.

For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.

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“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.