love letters sealed with a kiss

“Hey,” he said, sliding up next to you.

You didn’t bat a lash. “Hey yourself.”

“I need your opinion.”

You were still distracted on your charting, even as you said: “Yes, Robby, green does bring out your eyes.”

“What? No,” he said with a frown. He caged your body in, leaning is arm over you at the counter. “You're young.”

“That's why you like me, right?”

Robby hummed. He looked over you, making a mental list of all the reasons he loved you. “Yeah, sure, one of the reasons, so what do you think this means?”

He handed his phone over to you and finally you looked away from the charting to consider it. He watched as you read the text and saw the grainy pictures, one of him and another of Abbott, screenshots of them in backgrounds.. You didn't have to slide on any glasses or pull the phone away from you to see clearly.

Slowly, a grin broke out.

“Oh,” you chuckled.

Robby wasn't laughing and when you looked at him you realised that.

“It's nothing, it's just some meme,” you said, handing him back the phone.

Javadi had been gaining more attraction with her TikTok. She gave health advice with the background of the Pitt as her scene. It wasn't her fault- not really- if followers caught wind of the drama, friendships and hot men that worked there.

Her loyal followers had already deemed Santos as 'a hard exterior but caring soul', Whitaker with a 'heart of gold', and you 'the eldest daughter type.'

And they labelled attendings Robby and Abbott as DILFS.

Apparently they'd already explored how the two doctors would be in the bedroom.

“Okay,” he said, slowly sinking down to his knees in front of you as you swivelled your stool to face him. “But what does it mean?”

There was something hesitant in your gaze. The amused purse of your lips as you tried to stop a laugh and the light in your eyes. If you found it funny at his expense- which he had a feeling you were- he at least wanted to know what it meant.

You clearly thought he was joking. “You want to know what it means?”

He nodded.

“I can tell you at home?”

Robby let the words sink in, the fact you were undoubtedly referring to his place as home. But he didn't want to go home with you and this terrible feeling that everyone was laughing at him for reasons he didn't know why.

“Okay,” you said, holding his hands as if you were delivering bad news. “It means- and it's just Javadi's followers that think this and have clearly made this- that they think Jack is .... a more attentive lover.”

You chose your words carefully.

“ 'Eat it for dinner',” you continued. “Is a reference to how guys-”

Instead of saying anything you gave him a look and he gave you one back.

You sighed. “They think Jack eats pussy better than you.”

Robby didn't know what he was thinking but he wasn't sure it was ... that.

“I have a patient that's diaphoretic so I should probably-”

With little else to say you left your boyfriend kneeling, patting him on the shoulder as you went.

You could practically feel Robby distracted all day.

Every time you passed by the nurses area to go from one patient to another, he was there. Either sitting at the counter, head in hand and mindlessly looking through the computer or he was standing and listening to anything the one next to him was saying but you had a feeling he wasn't so much paying attention.

“Is Doctor Robby, okay?” asked Javadi. She was presenting a case to you, typically she went to you or McKay. You were sure she only went to you now as Cassy had the day off.

“Oh yeah, he's fine,” you said. It was no secret to anyone that you and Robby were dating, though you kept it professional around the ED. “Just TikTok, you know.”

Javadi smirked. “TikTok?”

“Yeah, yours.”

The smirk dampened and her eyes widened in the sort of frightened puppy way. She started stuttering over her words.

“Relax, he's not angry. At least not at you just what people are saying,” you said.

“What-what people are saying?” asked Javadi. “But everyone thinks he's hot. Really! They-they love Abbott and Robby. Seriously, people even ship them. Not that they don't like you and Robby, no they're obsessed.”

For a second you were intrigued.

In a way, maybe that should have have made you jealous or annoyed that everyone was finding him to be handsome and wanting a piece of him but if anything it made you proud. It made you want to hang off his arm.

“Some people are saying some things, nothing harmful.”

And also certainly none of their business how he ate you out at nights.

“Oh my god, I can totally tell them to stop, I can take the videos down, and I'll-I'll stop filming in here-” she stammered out.

“It's okay, don't worry,” you assured with a smile. “Get a CT and run blood toxics and come find me with the results.”

You found Robby exactly where you expected to find him, staring at the patient board without reading.

You didn’t even have time to greet him before he was speaking.

He jerked his head. “Come see a patient with me.”

So Robby led you off to exam room three, where an empty bed was made and no monitors were on. Even the lights were dimmed down low.

Robby pulled the curtains over and closed the door.

“Is the patient invisible?” You turned to Robby but hardly had time to see him before he was on you. His hands were on your hips, keeping you into him and his head ducked as he kissed you. He groaned into it, the forceful nature of his kiss having you stumbling back.

You couldn't help but kiss him back. When he started, there was no stopping. Even if you were in the hospital and desperate to keep it professional.

You shook your head, his lips moving with the movement. “Nu-uh.”

“What?” his hands came up to cup your cheeks, voice muffled with his not letting go of you.

“You're not kissing me cause people think Jack gives better head,” you said against his lips.

There was a noise of protest in Robby's throat.

“Cruel woman.”

Your hands slid up to his chest. “Wait- Michael.”

He brushed back. “What?”

“We are not getting it on here just because of some meme.”

You knew it to be the reason why almost at once. Robby was the one who had set certain boundaries in the work place. Like no making out. Yet he was the one huffing in frustration and surrendering, holding up his hands where you could see them.

“It's just some things people are saying on the internet.”

“I just don't get why,” he said, honestly. His head was tucked into his chest as he shrugged.

You were almost convinced he was upset. “I dunno. You're stern, sometimes, here,” you explained. “Maybe people saw that in the back of Javadi's TikToks and thought you had.... a hard exterior.”

“They think I'm un-caring?” he asked

“I didn't say that.”

“And Abbott?”

Quickly, you realised it was more than just feeling bummed about people thinking he gave bad head.

You smirked. “Jealousy looks good on you, Robinavitch.”

Slowly Robby sank down on the edge of the bed, sighing heavily as if this situation was weighing heavy on him.

You followed suit, sitting on the stool and wheeling close to him, treating him like he really was the patient. You knew how Robby got in his own head more times then was good for him. He didn't worry what people thought of him ever, but this was different.

“ What else is it?” you asked, softly, voice dropped low.

“Have I ever,” he began, shoulders high in tension and head low. His hands were braced on his knees. “Have I ever left you... un-satisfied?”

You wanted to laugh.

Robby and un-satisfied didn't belong together.

The nature of your jobs meant the two of you were exhausted more times than you were energised but that never stopped the two of you. If you were wanting you weren't left wanting, in fact, you'd be left thoroughly satisfied.

“Never,” you said.

He peeked at you with a little smirk.

“Those people don't know you, Robby,” you carried on, fingers circling his wrists and slowly holding him there. “They don't know what you do to me.”

Seconds ago you were berating him for kissing you in an exam room. But you leant into him and kissed his lips slowly.

“What I do, huh?” he mumbled against your lips.

“Uh-huh, things that Abbott could never.”

Just at the name of his friend had Robby grabbing you and all but pulling you over him. He leant back on the bed and slot you between his legs as he kissed you, hard. His hands couldn't find purchase as they sort every part of you, pulling our your scrub top and finding the skin there, running the back of his knuckles over.

Your hands wound in his hair, pulling until his mouth was opening up for you.

There came a sharp knock at the door before it opened. The curtains weren't pulled back but Dana's voice called out.

“Break it up in there! We need the room!”

Robby groaned, head throwing back on the cushion before you climbed off him. He didn't move even as you did.

“Aren't you coming?”

“Just... just give me a minute,” he said.

You chuckled to yourself, letting your eyes linger over all of him and left him there with the curtain drawn.

Dana was at the door, shaking her head with a chuckle.

You feigned innocence as best you could, working quick to tuck your scrub top back in and brush back your hair. “What?”

“The two of you, at it like rabbits.”

“We were not.”

“Not what I saw.”

“You didn't see anything.”

“Okay, not what I heard,” she said, lips smacking from the nicotine gum you slid onto her desk every morning.

“He was upset.”

“About that TikTok stuff?”

You looked to her. The last thing Robby needed was thinking everyone had seen the meme, that people thought he wasn't a good enough lover or whatever else he thought it meant.

“Is it bad?”

Dana shrugged. “It means nothing to me but you know guys, hurts their ego that kind of stuff.”

You nodded. You would say something in Robby was hurt. Whether it was that people thought he was a tough guy to work with or something about him that provoked the idea of selfishness.

But then they seemed to deem Abbott a capable lover, something you couldn't count on due to the fact you'd never gotten the chance to know.

Not that you wanted to.

(Except that one time in a dream before you were dating Robby)

Victoria rushed up to you and Dana excused herself. “I've just seen the post, Santos showed me,” she rushed out her words, panic evident. “Does he hate me? Oh my god, he hates me. My attending hates me.”

“He doesn't-”

“I mean it's so inappropriate, like, he saves lives you know maybe he just wants a meal cooked sometimes, not saying like- no- not that he'd ever get mad at you- or anyone for...”

You let Javadi trail off.

She blushed. “I should walk away shouldn't I?”

“Probably for the best.”

As soon as Jack walked in an hour before his shift was supposed to start, Robby stood, ready to leave.

It was rare he ever got out on time, let alone early but he hadn't been doing much work anyway, only thinking and being stuck in his own head. And sometimes with how much he thought about you: Yours.

“Thank you, brother, thank you,” he said.

Jack's gaze levelled on him. “Is everything okay?”

No, not at all. People on the internet speculated he was an asshole who'd get angry if you didn't have dinner on the table. As if he wouldn't live between your thighs if given the choice.

Robby bit his tongue and nodded.

“Hey Jack,” you greeted, coming by.

Robby's eyes followed you at once. He thought of all the plans he had in his head.

“You're here early,” you noted.

“I asked him to come by, listen, I got some errands to run. You think you're okay coming home by yourself tonight?” he asked.

There was a hint of confusion in your gaze but you didn't prod. You never did push him, always letting him come to you when he was ready. He'd never been so thankful for it.

“Er yeah, sure.”

Robby kissed you quick and hard, his hand cupping your backside and squeezing before he left you.

He only caught a glimpse of Jack digging into his phone to show you something funny. He dread to think what it was.

The last hour of work without Robby felt like a whole other twelve. Every patient answered questions too slow and chairs piled up with more minor problems. It felt like everything irritated you. Which it had.

By the time you were getting home, climbing up the stairs because of cause the elevator was broke you almost forgot all about the meme that had Robby so worried earlier.

That was until you pushed open the door.

You expected the tv on low, the lights on, maybe the sound of the shower.

You were greeted instead by a dull orange glow from the dozen or so candles lit around the living space. There was a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table and a sleek box tied off with a ribbon.

Hands landed on your hips and the soft belly of your boyfriends pressed against you.

“Robby,” you grinned, raising a hand to fall on the back of his head and stroke his hair there.

The stretch gave him perfect opportunity to pepper kisses over your neck. His other arm circled your waist, pulling you into him.

“What is all this?” you asked, eyes closing in the bliss of feeling him everywhere.

He hummed into your neck. “I just don't think you know how much I love you.”

You bit down on your lip as his hot tongue swirled over your pulse. “Oh, I think I know.”

His nose brushed over your jaw as he guided you forward, his toes clipping your heels as he didn't let you go or turn you around. He dragged you to where the present sat on the table, below the roses. His hands were large as they palmed and moved around your stomach. He breathed against your ear, your body waking in shivers as he uttered against you. “Open it.”

It was tough to do so- even to bend down and grab it- as Robby was adamant in letting you go. Eventually you got a hold of the ribbon and pulled.

He let you go enough for you to pull out the garment inside. Or the lack of garment.

It was a small set of lingerie, red and black- his favourite colours on you. The colours of seduction. There were ribbons and straps that upon just looking at you weren't sure how they were to go.

“I want you to put it on,” said Robby, head resting on your shoulder and looking. “And then I'm going to make you come on my tongue until you're begging me to stop.”

Your knees weakened but Robby still held you.

“You think you can do that?” he asked.

You nodded and gasped, smashing your lips into his. You turned in his arms, tongue's battling and arms circling him. You pressed your body into his, practically throwing yourself onto him.

The attentive lover he was he allowed it for a moment before he pulled away.

“Put it on.”

In the bedroom you stripped and with the help of the mirror figured out where everything was supposed to go. The panties did little to hide your ass but clad away your pussy, straps at your tights and bows there. The bra pushed your chest up, lace dancing over your chest.

It was sexy and sensual, knowing Robby had brought it for you and demanded you wear it. All the same, you couldn't wait for him to tear it off you.

Stepping back into the candle lit room Robby was already shirtless, sitting on the sofa with his legs wide and cock hardening.

When you stepped out, he smirked, arms stretching along the back of the sofa.

“I think I like when you have something to prove,” you said, slowly walking over, letting every step linger and make him wait for it.

Or drawing out whatever he had planned.

“I have something to prove?” he asked.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, between his legs as Robby's eyes trailed to watch you. “Don't you?” You were desperate to touch him, knowing he didn't have that planned but needing him anyhow. Your hands had only smoothed up his thighs before he grabbed your wrists.

Robby stood and pulled you up with him.

Without words he sat you down the sofa, stretching you out while he sank to his knees.

“Nu-uh,” he tutted, fingers wrapping around your legs and prying them apart, slowly. Your panties slipped and your pussy was slowly displaying itself. “You know what I want.”

“Michael-”

“What do you want?” he asked, but tonight was more about him than you. If it was about him proving something, you'd be his practise. If he was an artist you were going to be his canvas.

Your mouth just opened to speak when his thumb pressed down onto your panties. He rubs, slowly, pressing down harder till you grew wetter. Till he could feel it through the material.

His beard scratched at your thighs in the way that made you wither as he kissed at your thighs. His fingers pushed into your skin, kneading the plump of it.

“Have I ever told you, I love the way you smell.”

You gasped as he slid his thumb up and down, circling it slowly over your clothed clit.

“Have I?” he asked again, craving an answer.

“No.”

Robby was watching the space between your legs as he put his head there and inhaled.

Your back arched as his nose pressed into you, smelling and inhaling and groaning out when he was done. His fingers were pressing hard enough into your thighs to bruise. You wanted it to.

You watched as Robby darted out his tongue and ran it up and down you panties. He got a taste of you through the panties he brought.

Robby started off slow but he could never go slow. It was the way he did procedures, marking off everything first then moving around the room in seconds. It was the way he kissed, getting the same taste of your lips before sliding in his tongue and getting a taste of your spit. It was the way he fucked, slowly moving into you till your walls pulsed around his cock then he was moving like an animal.

They were small presses of his tongue then he was making out with your pussy through the cloth. He drooled against you, moaning and prodding his thumb, pressing in and out.

“God, I wanna get you naked,” he said against your core.

You didn't know if he wanted you stripped or just your core.

You chuckled breathless. “Then why dress me up?”

Robby pulled away to look at you. His thumbs hooked into your panties. “I like to un-wrap you.”

He dragged your panties down slow, grasping your legs and helping you out of them all the while keeping you limp on the sofa for him.

You expected Robby to ditch them, throw them aside but instead he shoved them in his face and inhaled again. “Oh my god,” you groaned, head landing back on the sofa.

“You're so wet and I haven't even touched you,” he said.

Finally he ditched the panties and faced your pussy.

His gaze flickered up to you and you felt exposed. A sudden need to hide came over you but Robby shook his head like he knew. Keeping your gaze he darted out his tongue and flicked it against your clit, circling your bundle of nerves.

At the devout attention your eyes fluttered shut in pleassure.

Robby sucked your clit in his mouth and pulled back with a pop. “Look at me, look at me.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were dark and wicked with want. He licked his lips and kept your gaze as he went in. He forced your legs up and apart, bending you as he shoved himself into you. He was there quick and heavy, licking and kissing till his slurping was heard around the apartment.

“Robby!”

He chuckled into you, sending vibrations up through you.

“I need your fingers inside of me, please.”

He hummed and shook his head, still occupied with dragging his tongue over you. “Not my fingers people criticise.”

You groaned.

Robby sucked some more, swallowing up your want, driving parts of your soul away while he was at it. “Spread yourself open, baby- just like that- there we go-” he guided your hands to your own core and helped you hold open the lips of you.

Then he went in with new reverence. The tip of his tongue ran miles and as you were left gasping for him, making a mess he cleaned it up from your hole to your clit and ran circles around it.

“Oh shit, Michael.”

“Feels good?”

“Yes!”

“Am I gonna make you come?” he asked, dropping his spit against you and working it in. When your fingers slipped he took over, holding you open.

Your hands went to his hair, stroking it back.

You knew your hands in his hair, or fingers threading through, drove him insane.

“Yes!”

He shoved his face in again, like a man addicted.

Sweat was starting to from along your body and the hand that wasn't in his hair groped at your own breast until you were humping up your hips to his-

“Get up,” said Robby suddenly.

He stood, his cock stretched against his pants. Robby brushed the back of his knuckles against the hard line of himself and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Up.”

On shaky legs you did so, feeling the want but the coil of release slowly eased.

Robby bent you over and continued cleaning up your mess.

It was a new angle, the sort he'd never tried and as you felt his tongue in places you'd never felt you wonder how long he'd been thinking of this. How long had he wanted you bent over, ass up in his face.

With your back up to him he easily un-hooked your bras and threw it aside.

“You think Abbott could eat you up like this?” he asked, voice only above a growl. “Huh?”

“No,” you gasped, slowly turning to jelly.

The new position didn't last long as Robby stood tall again, pressing the hardness of his cock against the curve of your ass.

You arched yourself back into him. “Please, please, please.”

“I know baby, I know,” he cooed in something that could have been sympathy in a mocking tone. “God, you feel what you do to me? Like I feel what I do to you.”

Robby turned you around and kissed you, the trace of your essence on his tongue and shared between the two of you. He let his tongue dance over yours like he wanted to share it, a hand creeping to the back of your neck and keeping you in.

You were so wanting, so needy for any part of him.

“I'm gonna lie back now,” he said against your lips. “And you're gonna sit on my face.”

You pulled back, wondering if you'd heard that right.

Robby nodded slowly, not even trying to hide as he watched your lips. His thumb came back down to your clit, circling enough to keep you like putty in the palm of his hands.

“Michael-”

He was already pulling away, popping the buttons of his trousers and making himself comfortable on the sofa.

You were standing, hesitant. “I can't sit on your face.”

He smirked and patted his stomach. “Yes you can, c'mon.”

“I'm serious.”

Robby smirked, nudging you up. “So am I.”

He was looking at you with such wide eyes, though dark. The same way he looked at you when you got something right in work. When you pleased him, when he was so proud of you.

This was for him, you told yourself as you climbed over him, allowing time to run your hands up and down the hairs of his round belly.

You watched his gaze follow yours as you trailed up and up his face, over his beard until all you saw was his eyes.

Lingering on your knees you tested how low you could get.

The tip of Robby's tongue found your centre and slowly worked you open again.

His hands wrap around your thighs and he yanks you down till you're sitting on his face with a heavenly groan.

There was no time for protests as he got to work, his tongue burying inside of you. He was so close he could hardly move, only keep himself there and suck and slurp. At every tiny move his nose brushed into your folds, nudging your clit and dragging out the need.

“Ohhh fuckkk,” you whined.

Robby groaned into you as he tried to speak, something like 'beautiful' caught between your pussy. His hands were messaging your ass and grinding you into him.

“S'too much, oh my god.”

He shook his head, wetting your core with his saliva and your need mixed.

“Robby, I can't-”

“Yes you can,” he spoke finally, pulling away enough that you could hear his voice.

Your lips pursed together as you shook your head. The coil of tightness in you grew hotter, burner brighter. It felt like your first time with him over and over again. The way his body bounced off of yours with every thrust, the moans he couldn't help let out into your neck, marking himself there for weeks.

“Please come,” he said against you now. “I need you to come on my face, baby, please.”

Perhaps the world would have liked to know there was only one thing in this word that could get Robby begging. Your pussy.

“There, huh? You like it just there?” you could hardly make out his words, like he was speaking into your very being.

Your hand fell back into his hair and you leant back, riding his face with a new passion and fever. He moved his head along with your movements and it became a frenzy of passion and need and want, the both of you moaning and uttering any words of encourganemt.

“Yeah baby, there you go- there you go-”

“Robby! Robby! Shit!”

“All over me, c'mon, c'mon.”

You still couldn't believe it, your want all over his beard, smearing down his neck and chest.

“Only making you come, making my girl come, that's right.”

In seconds you had grasped his hair, shoving him in as you let go into his mouth. He strained his neck up and kept himself open on you as he inhaled and exhaled in groans and grunts.

“Oh yes, please... yes- fuck baby,” Robby whined, spreading your cheeks to get every drop licked up. You'd think it was his own release washing over him with the noises he made and sucked out of you.

By the time you'd both calmed down and he'd caught his breath and tapped your thigh you fell lower down onto his stomach.

His breath smelt of love and sex as you lingered over him, letting Robby brush back stray parts of your hair. “Satisfied?”

“Very.” You might have seemed drunk with the way he had you coming but you didn't care. “One of the best orgasms of my life.”

He smirked at you incredulously. “Change it to best of the night. We haven't even begun.”

The meme btw ^

The others started to watch the sky as often as they watched the waves, trusting the guiding presence of the stars. But then the fog arrived, and the sky ceased to exist. 

It moved like a living thing, curling round the hull and wrapping its fingers round the masts like the groping limbs of some drowned thing clawing up from the deep. The sun had not burned through the veil in over a week. Even the most steadfast sailors were starting to look more often toward the quarterdeck for reassurance. 

Captain Steve Rogers never had been one for theatre or fear, and his calmness had steadied men through far worse than fog. 

His uniform - navy blue once, now leached to charcoal by weather and time - clung damp to his frame, the gold buttons dulled by brine. Occasionally, the blond hair tucked so neatly beneath his hat stirred loose in the wind. And it fell across watchful blue eyes rimmed with sleepless red, ceaselessly scanning for a horizon that no longer existed.

It was as though the ship had sailed into a world that was not finished being made.

Compasses spun like a drunkard, refusing to point anywhere true. The charts made no sense; every calculation put them somewhere they couldn’t possibly be. They had passed the last familiar isle two days before the fog arrived. The coastline should be visible by now, but like the sky, it remained elusive.

The only thing that had not abandoned them was the blinding pall that devoured distance and sense alike.

Until the lighthouse. That damned lighthouse. 

“Captain!”

Brock Rumlow’s voice cut through the mist like a knife, half disbelieving, half warning. Steve stepped out from under the canopy and squinted up into the fog, just making out his Executive Officer in the crow’s nest.

“There’s a light, port side. Thought it was a trick of the mist at first, but, sir, it’s steady.”

Steve moved to the rail, peering into the drowning grey. It was faint, at first, no more than a shimmer through the fog. Then it blinked. Once. Again. A slow, pale rhythm, like something breathing far away. Every rotation came with the same muffled pulse of light, bleeding through the mist - not bright enough to guide, but just enough to feel its watchful presence. Just enough to pull you in. 

Each time the light passed, the tower emerged like a stuttering apparition. Black against grey. It loomed with a kind of dreadful elegance, a single void on the horizon. The fog clung to its ribs like flesh on bone, never fully revealing the surface. Just the ceaseless rotation of that pale, pulsing eye.

Steve’s brow creased, just slightly. “There’s no record of a lighthouse in these waters.”

Rumlow clambered down from the rigging, boots thudding softly against the deck. “Maybe it’s new?” he offered, with the brittle edge of someone trying to believe it.

“Or we’ve drifted much farther than we think.” Steve muttered, mostly to himself. He didn’t sound alarmed, but thoughtful, maybe even cautious in the way a man becomes when the sea starts behaving like something unfamiliar.

Behind him, the crew had fallen quiet, looking towards the lighthouse like it might be some kind of saviour. No more talk of omens or charts. Just the deck creaking like arthritic bones, the ropes above groaning in their rigging like tired muscles. They had been in this fog far too long. The sails sagged with damp. Salt gathered on every surface in thin, crystalline veins, as if the ship itself were beginning to ossify.

Steve turned to Stark at the helm. “Hold course. We don’t approach until we know what kind of land that is - if there’s land at all.”

The crew exchanged uneasy glances, the silence between them louder than the groan of the ship. Steve’s order had not sparked protest, but surprise. The kind that simmers just beneath the surface, waiting for a crack in the calm.

Rumlow stepped in closer, his voice pitched low, meant for the captain alone. “Sir, with respect, the crew are getting nervous. And that light, it’s steady. Clearer than anything we’ve seen in days. Don’t you think maybe it’s where we’re meant to go?”

Steve didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed locked on the sweep of white that cut across the mist.

“I think visibility’s down to nothing,” he said at last, his voice calm, measured. “And I don’t want us running aground on some reef that doesn’t show up on a map.”

With a tight jaw, Brock swallowed and nodded once. But something in his gaze lingered on the horizon, to the lighthouse buried in the fog.

Steve didn’t look away from it either. His head tilted slightly, as if trying to puzzle it apart, to parse its rhythm, its source. But the longer he watched, the more it felt like the light was watching him back. Each rotation passed over the Nomad like a tongue of pale fire, licking at wood and rigging as if tasting what had come to it.

Rumlow’s voice dropped even lower, “You think maybe that’s where the Valkyrie went?”

The Valkyrie. Just the name alone was enough to make Steve pause. The Nomad’s sister ship. Missing three months now, seemingly vanished near these waters. Commanded by a good man - Captain James “Bucky” Barnes. 

Officially? Presumed lost to storm. The Admiralty had called the search a waste; gone too long, gone too far. But Steve had disagreed, insistently. He knew Bucky, sailed with him since they were boys, before anyone gave them men to lead. And Captain Barnes would not have gone down easy. Not to wind. Not to fate.

“If there’s even a chance they’re still out there,” he’d urged, “we owe it to them to look.”

That was how he’d always been. Never leave men behind. Never bury a crew without a body. He’d volunteered himself to take the Nomad out - retrace the route, follow the last ghosting of the Valkyrie’s known course.

Just a recovery mission, they’d said, a duty. And they’d assigned him a crew that was not his own, to ensure he didn’t linger too long in the hunt. His men would have followed him to the edge of the world without question. These ones, they’d hoped, would make him turn back when the search turned fruitless. 

But now, here they were. No stars. No wind. No world but fog. And the only shape left in it was a lighthouse that should not exist.

Steve blinked, finally tearing his gaze from the light. His eyes met Brock’s, tired but steady. His shoulders rose with breath, slow and measured, before he spoke.

“If the Valkyrie went there, she might’ve had reason. Damage. Crew injured. But we’re not crippled, and we’ve got no map to guide us in. I’m not going in blind, not yet.”

He turned back to the water. Fog pressed against the world like wool over the eyes. The lighthouse blinked again. 

Steve nodded once, resolute in his decision. “We stay careful and wait for the fog to shift.” He placed a hand briefly on Rumlow’s shoulder.  “I won’t risk my crew chasing shadows in fog that thick.”

“Aye, Captain.” 

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂁𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

When the watch was changed and orders were repeated, Steve stepped down from the quarterdeck and made his way back to his cabin below. 

The air was heavier in the belly of the ship, thick with damp and rusted salt, every timber groaning like it ached in its bones. His quarters were dim. A single lantern swung with the slow sway of the ship, casting shadows that seemed to move before the flame did. 

Charts were spread across the desk, dotted with bearings and notations, all meaningless now. Steve sat hunched over them, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed. He’d stripped off his coat but still felt damp; the fog had crept into everything. Dragging a calloused hand through his hair, Steve blinked down at the compass lying beside the map. Still useless. Still turning in lazy circles like a drunk sailor remembering a waltz. 

None of it made any damn sense. Every heading led to nowhere. No drift patterns lined up. He reached for his logbook, intending to write, to record something, anything that might bring order to the chaos. But the ink seemed to bleed too quickly on the page. The candlelight blurred at the edges. His fingers slowed.

Sleep gathered at the edges of him like a restless tide, luring him under.

He resisted at first, his mind too restless to sleep. Rubbed the back of his neck. Shifted in the chair. But the heaviness was strange, not exhaustion, exactly, but pull, thick and difficult to resist. His head dipped once. He snapped upright, jaw tight.

Then it started. Soft, barely a sound. 

The echo of something melodic seeping through the walls of the ship, through the brass fittings and soaked oak beams. It threaded into his mind, quiet and patient, settling amongst the fog of his thoughts, carving out a hollow and making itself at home. And still, it pushed deeper, curling warm and low in a place just below his sternum, where longing and memory and fear all reside together. He was dreaming. Or falling. Or maybe both. 

Visions of the sea rose up in his mind, yet not the familiar cold expanse that prowled outside the hull, not the greedy grey that clung and gnawed and wished to drag all things down. This sea was warmer, velvet dark, soft as the inside of a mouth.

Steve was drifting through it, though he couldn’t tell if he floated or sank. The world had no up or down, only pull. A constant, inexorable lure toward only one thing: the lighthouse. It loomed above him now, vast and depthless, its crown haloed in light that somehow did not illuminate his surroundings. He was so close he could feel it, the warmth of the light, the snatch of currents curling around his limbs like hands, immobilising. 

The water rippled, revealing eyes, open in the deep. Unblinking. Watching. Reflecting that same cursed light from above the surface. Too close, and yet impossibly far. 

As if the sea itself had grown a face and turned it toward him.

Steve jerked awake with a violent gasp, the world slamming back into place - the cramped cabin, the sharp scrape of wood as his chair skidded beneath him, the rush of breath filling his lungs.

The cabin lantern guttered low, throwing frantic shadows up the walls. His skin was clammy, his pulse feral. The taste of salt lingered in his mouth, as if he’d swallowed the dream and brought some of it back with him.

He turned, slowly, gaze drawn to the porthole. The light was still there. Each rotation of the lighthouse beam slid through the fog and across the glass like a spotlight, searching. Still watching.

But the hum was gone. The cabin had fallen back into silence, save for the low groans of the ship as it shifted on the still, breathless water. Rising from the desk slowly, Steve shook his head, as if to rid himself of whatever had slithered into him during sleep. Just a dream. That’s all it was. He was exhausted. Worried. Minds under pressure look for patterns and he’d been thinking about that damn lighthouse too long. Of course it had found its way into his dreams.

He paced once, twice, boots thudding dully against the floorboards, then turned for the door. He needed air. Needed salt and wind and human company to steady his mind.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂁𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 ˙˳⋆

When he stepped back out onto the deck, the world had not changed. 

The fog had not lifted; still wound tight around the ship like a shroud. It pressed in close, slicking across his skin with a dampness that clung to his clothes. The cold bit into him slowly, teeth sinking through his skin.

For one disoriented beat, he wondered if time had moved at all. If, instead, it had simply curved back on itself like a wave folding under, dragging him into the same moment. Same air. Same fog. Same towering blot on the horizon, casting its glare across the sea like a curse. It was not growing closer. It was not receding. It simply remained, waiting, as though the world now revolved around it.

His watch betrayed the illusion. He’d slept, if it could be called that, just over an hour. And yet it was as though nothing had moved.

Except his crew.

Warm lantern light carved trembling circles through the mist, casting his men in golden haze and long shadows. They were gathered along the starboard rail, clustered together like crows around carrion. Overlapping voices floated across the deck, carrying a ripple of unease.

Brow furrowing, Steve strode across the deck, boots striking the planks with measured weight, the sound of voices growing sharper with every step - too many, too loud, voices that carried the sour heat of argument and something darker beneath.

“I’m telling you,” came one voice, low and suspicious, “it’s not right. She don’t belong here.”

“Pretty little thing though, would be a shame to let her go back under,” another drawled, peering through a spyglass.

“Shouldn’t bring her aboard,” grunted another, older, voice chewed to bone by years at sea. “Bad luck. All this fog, compasses spinning, and now this? She’s a Jonah. Let her drown.”

“Enough,” Steve’s voice cut through the tangle with ease and the muttering fell away at once. 

They parted almost instantly, and Steve stepped toward the rail, spyglass in hand. The fog swirled beneath the low light provided from deck, pooling thick and low across the water’s skin, and for a moment all he saw was drift. It just looked like wreckage, driftwood, rope, a scrap of sailcloth tangled in splintered timber. But then it shifted.

A human form. A woman. You.

Drifting limp across the water, draped half-conscious over a splintered slat of hull like an offering. Limbs slack, pale, boneless in the cold. Mouth parted faintly. Salt clinging to skin like frost. Yet there was movement, just. The soft rise and fall of ribs was the only indication of life.

A seaweed of wet hair tangled around a body wearing nothing but a half-buttoned shirt - unmistakably a sailor’s standard issue. It clung to every curve with the intimacy of breath. White, soaked through, and thin as gauze, it gaped wide at the collar. Its hem dark with water and barely brushing thigh. Every inch of it transparent.

One of his men gave a low whistle, appreciative in a hungry sort of way. Another muttered something crude under his breath.

Steve’s breath hitched. “Jesus.”

He opened his mouth to issue the order, to call his men to help him and do something other than just watch as the sea claimed another victim, but something caught the edge of his vision.

Dark wood, warped and slightly swollen, but unmistakable. Carved faintly into the grain was the faded insignia of the Valkyrie. Faint and weather gnawed, but clear enough to make the blood slow in Steve’s veins. He stilled, the sight striking something low and solemn in him, pulling his thoughts inward, toward darker waters. It held him there a breath too long, until the voices of his crew, sharp and human, tore him back to the surface.

“Women on ships are bad luck,” someone spat. “They call the sea to swallow us. You want to bring that aboard?”

“She’s a woman,” another scoffed, lascivious and oily. “That’s all I care about. And she’s practically naked. I’d say that’s luck enough.”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension - thin, uneasy, edged with hunger. Steve’s hand tightened around the spyglass until the brass bit into his palm. His voice, when it came, was low and absolute.

“I command a ship, not a brothel,” he warned, words edged with ice. “You see a woman half dead and the first thing out of your mouth is filth?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. 

“Help me get her aboard,” Steve continued, low and final, every syllable hard with command. “Now.”

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂁𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

They pulled you from the water like salvage. Like a treasure they'd found instead of the trap you were.

The rope they lowered wasn’t elegant - a thick loop knotted fast at its end, more sling than harness. It hit the water with a dull splash beside you, bobbing once, then slackening as someone above braced the rigging. You made no effort to move to it, still draped over the driftwood, barely conscious. Or so you looked.

From the deck above, voices filtered down, rough and indistinct, before the groan of the rope ladder. Someone was coming down. A broad shouldered shadow fell over you through the fog, moving with care. When he reached you, the voice came first. A low rumble, roughed by cold and command, yet still laced with warmth.

“It’s alright,” he spoke, as though speaking to a wounded animal. “We’ve got you. I’m going to secure the rope, just stay with me.”

Then hands. Warmer than they had any right to be. Callused palms, sure fingers, touching only what they needed and not a single inch more. You flinched, of course. Twitched like something helpless. He hushed you again. “Easy,” he coaxed, “it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Safe. How quaint.

The sling was adjusted around you, tugging tight beneath ribs that housed lungs which had never once known the ache of oxygen, had never felt the brutal, mortal pull of drowning. Still, you let a strangled choke slip from your throat, perfectly convincing. Your head lolled to one side, limbs limp with the art of false exhaustion, as the line above drew taut and began to lift.

The pulley system groaned, and you rose, slow and swaying, through the breathless dark. Fog clung to your limbs like it was loath to let you go. The deck appeared in pieces: boots, knees, hands reaching. The hiss of anticipation from men who had not seen softness in months.

You kept your eyes half shuttered, lashes fluttering weakly against your cheeks. The picture of something fragile, plucked from the depths by the mercy of men. Mercy, you knew, that always came with a price. 

The rope jerked slightly as they manoeuvred you over the side of the ship. You stirred, just enough, letting soft, whimpering moan escape past your lips. Bait on a hook. Several boots scraped closer to you, and you could practically smell their hunger.

But it was the same steady hands that enveloped you once more, lifting you clear of the rope and the greedy eyes that didn’t care to hide their hunger for your softness. He drew you against him without effort, anchoring you to his chest, against his warmth, as though you belonged there, shielding you instinctively from the others. 

"Easy," he said again, close to your ear now, voice achingly gentle. "I've got you.”

You let your fingers curl into the lapel of his coat, just enough to seem desperate. He carried you easily across the slick boards of the deck, accompanied by the murmur of men who hadn’t remembered their decency. 

When he reached the quarterdeck, he lowered you slowly onto a barrel, his hands still gripping you until he was certain you were steady. You made sure weren’t, of course. As if on cue, your body swayed forward, tilting into him like gravity had a grip on your bones. Your cheek brushed the hard plane of his chest, and he caught you instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, crouching down in front of you, “Hey, can you look at me?”

Warm palms cradled your face, so large that they eclipsed your cheeks entirely. Thumbs brushed your hair aside with aching gentleness, the pad of one brushing your parted lips. You let out the faintest shiver, as though cold, though it was really restraint burning beneath your ribs. Eyes flickering open, you blinked up at him through pathetic, fluttering lashes.

Oh.

He was beautiful. Not in the brash, swaggering way of most mortal men, but in the quiet, devastating way that would’ve made your breath catch if you were capable of such a thing. He didn’t belong at sea, not looking like that.

His eyes met yours at once. Blue. Too blue. Luminous against the dimness, limned with the soft ache of worry, and framed by eyelashes far too long and too pretty for a man’s face. A loose strand of blond hair clung to his brow, damp with fog, brushing the furrow of his temples. 

And those lips. God, those lips. Full and plush, turned down in something too earnest to fake. They were a softness unsuited to cold orders and colder seas. Lips like that were made to ruin.

And yet, for all his beauty, he still bore the sea’s mark. Fair skin kissed pink along the bridge of his nose and the rise of his cheekbones - the ghost of sun long since vanished from these skies. A man shaped by wind and water. Weathered but unbent.

You blinked again, slower this time. Half dazed confusion. Half something else.

Still, you waited for it, that inevitable shift. The drop of the eyes, the slow souring of concern into something uglier. Desire, or even ownership. A hunger you could sink your teeth into. You’d seen it a thousand times. Men were simple creatures; they always turned.

But his eyes stayed on yours, never even tracing the curve of your breasts through the wet, transparent shirt clinging to your skin that you’d stolen from some long dead sailor. They remained blue and beautiful and impossibly sincere. And it made you ravenous.

Something cruel stirred in the hollow place where your heart should have been. You wanted to crawl into that gaze and poison it. To splinter that softness beneath your hands, and make him beg through those perfect lips. You needed to know what it would take to break something that gentle.

A low whistle sliced the silence, sharp and lewd. Your eyes flicked past the broad shield of his shoulders to where the rest of the crew still clustered, hungry-eyed and unrepentant. 

They craned for another glimpse. A pale flash of thigh. The ghost of a shoulder. Or your nipples, dark and peaked beneath fabric turned to gauze by the sea. 

They drank you in with the aching greed of men who hadn’t seen a woman in weeks. And even then, never like this - bare legged, shivering and wearing nothing but a transparent shirt. To mortals, an exposed ankle was a scandal. This was a damn invocation.

Their greedy stares crawled over you, hands twitching at belts, eyes sharp with the kind of cruelty that came easy at sea. One of them licked his lips. Another chuckled low under his breath.

You let a trembling whimper pass your lips and drew your arms across your chest as if the gesture could protect you. White knuckled fingers curled into the ruined fabric, as though you were ashamed and human enough to care.

But then the man in front of you moved. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it around your shoulders, firm and unceremonious. Heavy, coarse wool settled over your shoulders, warm with his heat. Far too large, it drowned you in fabric that smelled of salt and something deliciously alive. He pulled it closed around you with firm, efficient hands.

“That’s enough,” he barked over his shoulder, the edge of command hard and unmistakable. His gaze swept across the crew, lingering on the ones who hadn't looked away quickly enough.

“Back to your posts.” he said, quieter now but no less protective. “You’ll leave her be. Anyone who forgets that will answer to me.”

There it is. That claim. Perhaps he wants you for himself, and this is just personal hunger cloaked in chivalry.

The crew dispersed, slow and muttering, but they obeyed. Even the boldest among them turned away in the end, though not from guilt, just the command of a man.

And then he turned back to you, face softening again like it hadn’t just been carved from iron a second before. He reached for the coat slung across your shoulders and adjusted it with careful hands, tugging it higher to shield your neck from the cold and from their stares alike. His fingers brushed your collarbone as he worked, knuckles grazing damp skin, but the touch was nothing but reverent.

“I’m sorry for their behaviour,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving yours, “but you will be safe here. You have my word as captain of this vessel.”

Captain. Of course. So this is what held out against you. 

You’d felt that resolve in the dream, touched the edges of his mind, tasted the knotted tangle of duty and grief in his soul.

Most men came willingly. They came with hunger, lust, and darkness already peeling them apart from the inside. Their souls were already loosened, rotted at the edges, ready to be swallowed.

The song was a mercy to them - a velvet leash they begged to wear. You didn’t always need it; sometimes the lighthouse was enough. The pulsing light on the horizon, a suggestion of warmth in a world gone cold with fog and dread.

You hadn’t had anyone resist your lure in a long, long time.

Not the lighthouse keeper who’d torn his shirt off and dropped to his knees at the first note of your voice. Not the deckhand who’d fucked you in the bilge, pressing your hand to his chest like a confessional even as he wept for the wife he’d left on shore. And certainly not the captain who’d begged as you dragged him under, saltwater filling his lungs before your lips ever touched his.

Oh yes, a man’s soul could be consumed in two ways, but both require him trembling at the edge of himself in a moment of surrender. 

One you take in the water, lungs flooding, heart thrashing, the soul straining against the body’s last breath as terror carved it clean. The other you take in bed, just before ruin, when he is blinded by want, and the soul slips loose without a fight. Drowning or fucking - ecstasy and fear blurred so sweetly at their seams, and both left you wet-mouthed and lit from within.

And with this one? With something this pretty? There was no question which method would taste sweeter on your tongue.

But so far, this captain clung to himself like wreckage. The call went out from the lighthouse and he turned his back on it. The song curled round him and he did not answer.

“Come,” he said, breaking the spell of your thoughts. “Let us get you out of the cold. There’s warmth waiting below.”

You didn’t move. Not right away. Just let the tremble run its course, every delicate shiver accentuated by the size of the coat drowning you, as though the cold were sinking deeper than skin. You knew well how to feign fragility and become something that invited protection. You looked up at him, dazed and blinking slowly, lips parted like you could not quite grasp the words he’d spoken.

“Can you stand, do you think?” he asked, with that maddening, patient gentleness that made your skin itch with the desire to ruin it.

You made a soft sound and shifted, lifting yourself just barely from the barrel’s edge, biting your lip like it might hold you steady. Your bare feet touched the deck, wet wood slipping against your soles. The moment your weight tipped forward, your legs crumpled beneath you with theatrical grace. 

His arms caught you before you touched the deck.

“Steady now,” he murmured, catching you before you could collapse. Strong arms swept beneath you once more, one beneath your knees, the other curled firm around your back, holding you close against the solid breadth of his chest. “There we are. I’ve got you.”

You sagged against him, still half unconscious. He adjusted his grip, carrying you with an ease that sent a different kind of hunger curling low in your belly, and turned without hesitation toward the steps that led below.

He was taking you to his quarters.

You let yourself go soft, resting your head against his chest to feel the delicious steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. The coat slipped just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder beneath a tear in the shirt. And though you felt a slight hitch in his breath, his grip never wandered.

It was almost admirable, but he’d come around. You could feel it already. The tightness in him. The restraint. He wanted. Of course he wanted. That was why he carried you, why you wore his coat, and why he scolded his men. He wanted you untouched because he wanted you for himself. 

The ones who thought themselves kind took you somewhere private first, told themselves they were being noble, protecting you, even. They would speak softly, perhaps even brush the hair from your face before their mouth met yours. And then they'd reward themselves for your rescue. They always did.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

The captain’s quarters were quiet. A single lantern burned low, swaying faintly on its hook and casting golden veins across the walls. Its light curled into the grain of old wood, flickering across naval maps and shelves of worn books, softening the sharp edges of a captain’s space into something gentle.

His long stride crossed the room easily, slowing before the wide berth at the back of the room. His bed. 

He set you down amongst the folds as though laying a relic upon an altar. 

The bed gave beneath your weight with a low sigh, the layers parting to cradle you in their dense, lived-in warmth. A patchwork of textures met your skin: coarse-stitched navy blankets, a heavy fur throw that might once have belonged to some northern creature, sheets of worn linen, sun bleached to ivory and softened by use. The covers still held the faint heat of his body, the press of his shoulders marked faintly in the blankets’ rise and fall - a hollow twice your size. 

You lay curled in the ghost of his shape and gave a small, pitiful shiver. Without a word, he was moving again, hands pulling another blanket from the foot of the bed before gently setting it across your legs.

Behind him, through the small porthole, the lighthouse pulsed. Patient.

Looking up at him through lashes still heavy with faux exhaustion, you parted your lips in a breathless kind of mute gratitude. He lingered there, caught in your gaze, for just a breath too long.

You saw it, the stutter in his composure, the second blink that came slower than the first, the flicker of something heat flushed across the high plane of his cheek. His gaze did not drop, not quite, but it faltered, hovered somewhere near your mouth. For one aching second, you thought you had him. That you’d slipped into that crack in his restraint, and finally hooked your fingers in the seams of him and started to pull.

But then he shifted. A subtle straightening of his spine, a quick drag of air through his nose, and the spell broke.

“Captain Rogers,” he said abruptly, almost like it had burst out unbidden. The reflex a man who’d just remembered himself after nearly forgetting. The words landed too stiffly, and he seemed to realise it the moment they left his mouth. A flicker of something self-conscious passed across his face.

“That’s, uh, that’s my—sorry,” he added quickly, shaking his head, almost sheepish now. “That’s… my title. It’s not—I should’ve…” he paused, a breath, then, “I’m Steve,” he corrected finally, softer now, but more certain, like he’d found his footing again, “You can call me Steve.”

He—Steve—looked at you properly then, as though trying to offer something gentler in place of command. “Sorry. Ma raised me with better manners than forgetting to give my name.”

And then he turned away, stepping over to a chest near the wall. His movements were brisk, purposeful, trying to rid himself of whatever had overcome him for that moment. Fingers busying themselves with the latch, Steve rummaged for something without looking back.

Your hunger purred louder beneath the surface. 

Because now you’d seen the flicker. You’d felt the heat coil off him like a warning. You could taste the want in the air around him. But he didn’t reach for you like every other man before him, possessed with the kind of goodness men so often wrapped themselves in to feel righteous as they stripped you bare. It was unlike any experience you’d had before, but it made your mouth water all the same. 

Back at the chest, Steve drew a folded bundle of cloth. They were plain garments - his clothes. Trousers cinched with twine, and a shirt softer than the one that still clung wet to your skin. He brought them to the edge of the bed and set them down without fanfare or a glance below your collarbone.

“These are clean,” he said, head tilted with concern. “They ought to be warmer than what you’ve got. If you feel strong enough to change?”

You let your fingers ghost over the fabric, trembling just slightly. Then, lifting your gaze to him, you gave a small nod.

“I’ll step out,” he murmured, quieter than before, “Let you dress in peace.”

Already he was turning, gaze fixed politely away, moving toward the door. His hand paused at the latch.

“I’ll see if Cook’s left anything warm. You’ll need food. Strength.” A glance over his shoulder, not quite meeting your eyes, but close. “You’re safe here. Take your time.”

For a moment, you didn’t react. Just stared at him, lashes low, like your brain was still climbing back toward language.

Then you let it tremble out, breath first, then sound, “Thank you… Steve,” you whispered, voice hoarse, as though scraped from a throat unused to air.

He paused a moment, like the sound of his name in your mouth had startled him. His spine loosened, shoulders lowering a fraction, as something gentle folded into the weather worn lines of his face. A small, almost boyish smile, and it suited him far too well.

“Of course,” Steve replied, the words entirely earnest. A quiet nod followed, punctuating the moment like a full stop. Then he turned back to the door.

And just like that, he left you alone. No weighted silence thick with male expectation. Just the soft click of the door. 

You stared at the wood as though it might open again, half expecting to catch the glint of hunger in his eye as he returned, pretending some false errand only to find you bared and shivering. But no hand turned the latch. No boots lingered on the boards. His footsteps faded into the ship’s bones, until nothing of him remained but the coat around your shoulders.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Was it shyness? Modesty? Some strange, stubborn honour? Whatever it was, it was unbearable and addictive all at once. It made your teeth ache and your thighs clench.

Still. There were other ways to catch a thing that wouldn’t bite. Most men liked their prey helpless, some trembling thing in need of rescue, but some needed to be seduced rather than begged.

And that, too, you could do.

You slipped from the bed, the coat slithering from your shoulders like a shed skin. The shirt beneath was still soaked, still clinging, and you peeled it off slowly, letting it fall to the floor with a wet sound. The lantern light found your skin, greedy as a sailor’s gaze, kissing the shine of saltwater left across the soft swell of your breasts and the curve of your thighs. It haloed you in something mythic. Lure or not, you were a vision.

Then there was a knock. Followed by the captain’s voice, low and gentle, muffled through the wood.

“Ma’am?” A courteous pause, then, “I’ve brought something to eat. Would it be alright if I come in?”

You stayed silent, letting the pause yawn wide. Naked now in the golden hush, you made no effort to cover yourself, no scramble for modesty. The silence lengthened; you could almost feel his hand hesitating on the latch. The knock came again, a little firmer this time, the shape of your absence already sharpening his worry.

“Ma’am?” He called again, more urgent, voice a note higher, gentleness cut now with genuine fear. “Are you alright in there?”

You still gave him nothing. You could almost hear the decision happen behind the door, the quiet warring of his better instincts. He cursed quietly to himself. 

Then, finally, a third knock. Harder. “I’m coming in,” Steve warned, the words gentle but laced with an urgency that left no room for argument.

And then the door swung inward

You gasped, feigning shock, hands darting too late for the shirt that lay on the cot. Your hair spilled across your shoulders, beads of water sliding the length of your bare skin.

He froze. There was a beat of stunned silence. Crimson flooded his cheeks. Panic flared wide in his eyes. Then he scrambled to recover, voice and hands unsteady with mortified haste.

“Oh—Christ, I—” Steve’s voice cracked low in his throat as he spun around so sharply he nearly spilt the content in his hands. “I knocked and I didn’t hear you answer, I thought something might’ve—I’m sorry.”

He stood rooted, mortified, eyes fixed anywhere but you. The lamplight burnished the edge of his jaw, the muscle there ticking with strain.

“No, forgive me, Captain,” you breathed, though inside you’re reeling, half-hoping he’ll try to look, then half-astonished that he does not. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t hear you knock.”

You finally pulled the shirt he’d left you over your head in slow, deliberate motions, the fabric falling heavy with his scent. It swallowed you whole, hem brushing mid-thigh, sleeves hanging long past your wrists. You left the trousers untouched where they lay folded on the bed, a calculated omission. 

Just enough modesty to allow him to look. Just enough indecency to make him desperate for it. 

Steve remained frozen near the door, spine stiff as a masthead, though his head hung slightly, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. “I didn’t mean—” he began, voice ragged at the edges, “I—my apologies, ma’am. I shouldn’t have—”

You moved before he could finish, bare feet over old wood, closing the space between you. Your fingers found the edge of his sleeve, just at his wrist. His skin was warm. Alive. You let your thumb rest against the bone, just long enough to feel the beat beneath. He let out a stammered breath at the contact, relaxing into it. 

“I don’t blame you,” you cooed softly, peering up through lowered lashes. “Truly. You’ve been nothing but kind. I owe you more thanks than I can speak.”

Cheeks still flushed pink, Steve turned. Slowly. Warily, like a man half-expecting a trap but drawn anyway. His gaze lifted, cautious, catching only your face at first. 

Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked downward, just far enough to catch the pale length of your bare legs beneath the hem of his shirt. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking hard in the hinge, before his gaze snapped back to yours and held there, unflinching, as if sheer will alone could burn the image from his mind.

He cleared his throat. “It’s not much,” he murmured, finally breaking the silence, nodding toward the bowl he’d nearly spilled. “Just broth, but should help you feel better.” His voice was low, almost apologetic, as though the offering were meagre, rather than more kindness than most men ever thought to give.

You’d met hundreds of men who’ve fed you nothing but themselves and expected you to moan for the taste.

You watched as he set the food down on the nightstand, this captain with his broad shoulders and his careful hands and his infuriating, impossible goodness. Now you were certain - he meant it. The shame, the apology. His kindness was not, as you had assumed, the pantomime of virtue donned to soothe his conscience before indulging himself. He simply was that good.

Because this wasn’t how men behaved. Not sailors, not captains, not the devout nor the damned. Not when faced with something half-naked and grateful in their quarters, looking at them like salvation.

And you wanted him worse for it. 

It was insatiable. You had not desired like this before. Not truly. Hunger was different. Hunger was instinct, necessary and sharp. But this was no longer simply appetite.

You wanted to feel him break, to ruin what made him so good. To see that perfect mouth open in surrender. To feel defiance rot into desperation. To lean close, breathe him in as you tore his stubborn soul loose from the sinew of his body, bright and so achingly alive, and swallow it whole.

Easing yourself gracefully back down onto his bed, you slipped into the same hollow of throws he’d laid you in before. You curled your legs between you, letting the oversized shirt ride high along your thighs - a flash of bare skin that went wilfully unseen as he pretended to busy himself with something that didn’t need doing. 

The broth waited untouched on the nightstand beside him, steam still coiling faintly from the bowl. But as the scent reached you, your stomach tightened. Dead sustenance. It was a scent that turned the sea in your blood.

“Steve?” 

He turned toward you again and you met his gaze with a sweet, sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice still touched with that wounded lilt. “I think I’m still a little unwell from the sea. The broth smells lovely, I just…” You trailed off, pressing a hand lightly to your stomach, eyes low. “I’m not quite myself yet.”

He was at your side again in an instant, crouching, eyes filled with worry that made him easier to devour.

“Don’t force it,” he said. “I can fetch you something else later. Tea, perhaps.”

“You’ve been so very kind,” you replied, voice warm with pretend gratitude. “So gentle. So… sweet.” You leant forward, just slightly, eyes big and round, lower lip caught between your teeth. “How ever could I repay you?”

His breath caught. You could feel his restraint. His gaze slipped again, toward your lips, so you pushed, just a little more. Your hand rose like you barely noticed it and found the line of his forearm where it rested on his knee, fingers brushing his skin, warm and solid beneath the rolled cuff. His body shivered in response.

His gaze flicked once more, unsteady, back toward your mouth, then your eyes, then your mouth again. 

You edged just a little closer, palm still resting light against his arm, and whispered, “Isn’t there something I can do for you?”

And for a second, he hesitated. Heat, confused and uninvited, pooled in his gaze. The lighthouse beam swept through the porthole, illuminating his face for one breath, jaw tight, eyes dark with want. Finally, the soft place beneath all that control. 

But then it was gone, swallowed by guilt, or principle, or both. He pushed back on his heels slightly, as though that inch of distance could cool the heat you’d stoked between you. Then he exhaled slowly, gaze steadier now, but you could see the strain in it, the quiet war waged behind his eyes.

He pulled a chair across the cabin with a low scrape of wood on wood, and settled into it opposite you, resting his large hands lightly on his knees. The lantern above cast his face in gentle shadow, catching on the furrow between his brows, the tired edge in his eyes.

“You owe me nothing,” he said, low and sure, though his voice was a little rough at the edges, like he’d had to clear something from it first. “But, if it’s not too much to ask,” he added, softer still, “might I know your name?”

There it was again. That unbearable sincerity. That goodness that made your mouth water with the desperation to peel it from him with your teeth.

You tilted your head, lashes sweeping low in something that looked like shy surprise. “My name?” you echoed, soft, as though the question itself startled you. The smallest frown tugged at your lips.

“I…” You started, letting the word hang, then, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

It slipped out in a hush, a scared tremor to your voice. Tears welled in your eyes, limning your lashes with the sheen of salt.  You watched the sorrow bloom in Steve's face, how it called him forward like a prayer dragging a sinner to the altar. He leant in again, unthinking, his hand rising to your cheek as if summoned, wiping away a tear before retreating again. 

“That’s alright,” he murmured. “You’ve been through something awful. It’ll come back to you in time.”

He leant back further, elbows to his knees. When he spoke again, his voice was even more gentled.

“The wreckage we found you on, it looked like it belonged to a ship we were looking for. The Valkyrie.” A beat. “Do you remember anything from before we found you?”

You let confusion cloud your features as you drew your knees in a little, making yourself purposefully smaller.

“There was a storm,” you whispered. “Rocks. The ship was… breaking.” You swallowed, as though the memory cut your throat on the way up. “I remember screaming. Wood splintering. And then just… water.” Your breath shuddered, trembling in your chest. “Only water.”

When you lifted your gaze, Steve’s eyes were already on you, full of grief, raw and unguarded. The corners of his mouth were curled tight with a sorrow he tried to hide. Something greedy unfurled in your chest at his expression. This was your in.

He didn’t press you. He only nodded once, small and heavy, accepting something he had not wanted confirmed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Were the crew important to you?”

He drew a long breath, chest rising slowly beneath his shirt. His eyes did not leave yours now; they held you as if you were the only fixed point in a shifting world.

“The Valkyrie was our sister ship," Steve replied, though the words came out quiet and worn at the edges. "Went missing some weeks back. Her captain—" His voice caught. Stopped. Started again. "Captain Barnes. Bucky. He was... he was my brother in all but blood.”

Oh, you remembered Captain Barnes. Dark-haired, silver-tongued, easier to unravel than this one. 

Oh yes, you remembered the way his mouth had moved when he asked if you were some dream sent to bless him or a devil come to collect. You’d answered with your mouth on his. Dragged him under with salt on his lips. Felt his soul flutter loose like a bird with broken wings. He’d begged, near the end. Not for life, or his crew. Just for another touch.

And now, here you sat, bare-legged and aching, watching his closest friend mourn him from the same mouth that would soon tremble against yours. Strange, how fate always liked to stitch its cruelties with silk thread. 

Once, a lifetime ago, fate had sewn its threads through your flesh too. You had not always been a wave-wrought thing, built of hunger and longing. But the sea takes and takes, until you are hollowed into its likeness - a tide with a heartbeat, a hunger with a face, pulling all things toward your depths.

And your hunger had teeth now, clawing up your throat. You were losing control of it against the heat of Steve’s soul, flickering bright and untouched against the wake of his loss, begging for you to break it.

Steve had fallen quiet, grief settling over him like a shroud. One forearm braced the armrest, his other hand lifting to rake through his hair, dragging it back from his face in a slow, tense sweep. His eyes blurred at the edges as he pinched the bridge of his nose, just before his gaze dropped.

You slid from the bed, the hem of his shirt skimmed your thighs as you stepped between his thighs, so close the heat of him rolled over your skin, that his breath brushed against your sternum. 

A shiver passed through you like a tide, an aching mixture of desire and restraint.

For a moment he didn’t move, just sat, large hands splayed over his knees, shoulders hunched as though to ward off a blow.

You reached for him. One hand cupped his cheek, the other brushed back the unruly hair at his temple. The lamplight burnished his blond strands to a pale gold that pooled around his head like a saint. You coaxed his face up to yours with a pressure so gentle it barely existed, but he followed it, looking up at you, eyes like a summer sky long vanished from this sea, mouth parted in surprise. 

He was heavenly like this. All that strength, all that command, undone in a breath.

For the first time, you wondered if you could even touch it. If you could drown a soul this bright. 

Yet even he couldn’t hide the shake of his breath, or the way his throat moved as he swallowed. The beautiful, terrible struggle of a good man trying so hard not to be anything else. To stay tethered to his impossible compass of a heart.

But you had him in your claws now. Your desire was sharpening further with each touch, each trembling denial. You ached to have him, to feel him fill you, to taste him shatter.

“Steve,” you whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, tried to gather himself, tried to be a captain again. “No,” he rasped, his voice rough and uneven with restraint, “I—I’m sorry. You’ve been through hell, and here I am—”

You shushed him softly, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone, feeling the warmth bloom there. You leant in just slightly, enough for your hair to brush his brow, “It’s okay, Steve. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to miss him.”

He stilled a moment, and you watched his body process the words - the ripple through his shoulders, the breath stall in his lungs, the slow collapse of the last of his armour. He leant his head closer to you, seeking your warmth. A surrender, finally. The kind of surrender only kindness could coax from a man like him.

“You’re a good man, Steve Rogers.”

And God, the way he looked at you then. Not as a captain. Not as a saviour. Not even as a man. But as something softer, lost at sea, craving someone to hold him.

He was trembling, you realised. Quietly, almost imperceptibly. The kind of trembling that comes from being starved of warmth and affection for too long. Your fingers slid down from his jaw, and his lips quivered at the loss, tilting his head into the absence of your touch, chasing it.

But your hand found his, and you drew it up to your face, guiding his palm to your cheek. The rough warmth of him made you ache, heat blooming low in your belly despite the innocence of the touch. His palm was so large, so gentle against your cheek that your thighs pressed together without meaning to.

You turned, lips brushing the heel of his hand. Just the faintest, testing whisper of contact. His breath hitched, a quiet, ragged inhale, and his eyes widened with a hunger he seemed half-ashamed to own.

“Let me help you,” you whispered into his palm, letting the need in your voice lure him further. “You’ve been so good to me. Let me—”

“You don’t owe me—” he interrupted, voice already crumbling, but the protest died in his throat the moment you slid into his lap, thighs bracketing his, baring your exposed, aching core to the hard press of the growing need in his trousers. 

The groan that left his mouth was pure need.  “Christ,” he cursed. 

His shirt bunched around your hips, baring the moonlit length of your legs. Steve’s hands shot to your waist, instinctive and steadying, before freezing. A man grasping a the final edges of his strength.

He looked up at you, pupils blown wide, eclipsing the blue entirely. The muscle in his jaw twitched, set against want. 

“This isn’t—” he breathed, throat tight, “We shouldn’t—”

You rolled your hips, deliberately letting your dripping pussy rub against his cock, already hard and betraying his restraint, and the sound that broke from his throat was nearly a sob.

He stifled a moan, hands tightening on your waist as though to hold you at bay.

“Why not?” you murmured, all innocence and invitation.

His hands, meant to push you away, to set you aside and return propriety to the room, stayed exactly where they were. Gripping. Holding. Burning through the thin fabric that separated skin from skin. His head dropped forward, forehead pressing to your collarbone, as though the proximity might ground him. Might make this feel less like falling. 

“Because you’re— I’m—” he tried again, but couldn’t finish, the words dissolving between you.

“Because I’m what?” you murmured. “Grateful? I am.”

Your hands rose to his face, thumbs brushing the flush on his cheeks, dragging back through the tousled gold of his hair, damp from sweat and sea air.

“Because you’re a gentleman?” you whispered. “You are.”

His eyes fluttered, lashes casting long shadows against his cheeks. He looked so young in that moment. So breakable. So yours. You leant in, slow and sure, until your foreheads touched. His breath mingled with yours. You let your eyes fall half-lidded, the ghost of a smile brushing your lips.

“But I don’t want a gentleman right now, Steve.” Your voice fell to a hush, pressing a hand to his sternum, his pulse beating strong against your palm. “I want you.”

Then your mouth crushed into his, your lips meeting in a collision that tasted of heat and want and the sea itself. His breath caught hard in his chest, and for one weightless beat he didn’t move, frozen by shock, by need, by the collapse of everything he had fought so hard to hold back.

And then, God, he kissed you back.

His lips parted beneath yours with a soft, desperate sound and you drank him in. It wasn’t greedy or performative in the way a rake might take his pleasure, pressing and biting and claiming. Just aching, desperate want. His fingers clutched at your waist now, involuntary, digging just slightly into your flesh as if you were slipping from his grasp even while you sat still in his lap.

He groaned into the heat of your mouth as your hips rocked, your soaked cunt grinding against the hard line of him still trapped beneath cloth. You felt him twitch against you, felt the throb of him pulsing hot and needy.

Still, he tried to be good.

“Tell me to stop,” Steve rasped into your mouth, the words trembling between each kiss, even as his hands slid lower, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs like he was trying to remember what it felt like to touch something warm. "Christ, please, just tell me to stop.”

His mouth left yours only to drag over your jaw, your neck, the soft dip beneath your ear, kissing as though your skin were the only holy thing left in the world.

“Please,” he murmured, lips brushing your throat. You felt the ache in it, this man who had likely begged for nothing in his life, begging now, not for himself, but for your escape. “Just say it… and I will, I swear I—”

You answer with a moan, followed by another needy grind, arching against him, dragging your heat along his clothed cock again and wringing a sharp groan from the chest that usually carried command.

“Don’t stop,” you growled against his throat, open mouthed and wanting. “Fuck, Steve, don’t stop. I want you.”

That, finally, broke the captain.

He surged up into the kiss like it was oxygen and he’d been drowning. His hands found the curve of your ass and gripped you tight, easily pulling you closer, until there was nothing between you but damp heat and his pounding heart. The chair creaked beneath you, wood straining beneath the press of two bodies drawn too close. And the light passed through the porthole again, licking over you both, before returning the darkness.

Your hips rolled with wicked purpose, seeking friction, feeding it.

His tongue licked into your mouth with reverence turned desperate. But he let you guide it, let you taste him, let you press him deeper into the heavy chair, his legs spread beneath you as you straddled him like a throne.

You shifted your hips again, slowly now, the slick drag of your pussy soaking the seam of his trousers, and his jaw clenched hard against your neck. He let out a sound halfway between a whine and a curse, muffled against your shoulder where his mouth had now fallen. You felt him tremble. He was so fucking warm. So alive. So solid beneath you, thighs like stone braced between yours, his cock aching beneath thick navy cloth.

Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging until he looked up at you again.

He was panting, lips parted and wet with your kiss, blinking up at you, dazed and so gone, those striking blue eyes wild and wide with devotion. The pretty blush staining his cheekbones turned fever bright. You felt his breath catch when you licked into his mouth again, shameless now, swallowing every gasp.

Beautiful. And entirely at your mercy.

A shaky breath hitched from his chest. “You’re perfect,” he breathed, throat working around a swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing hard like the words had caught on the way out, too big and full of want to pass clean, “so perfect.”

You ground down harder in reply, the damp friction nearly unbearable now. You were so wet, it was obscene. The front of his trousers was dark with it. His hands fluttered uncertainly against your hips like he didn’t know what to do with all this wanting.

So you guided him. Your fingers threaded with his, and slowly, deliberately, you slid his hand between your legs. You pressed his palm against the hot, soaking centre of your need, grinding into it with a soft, keening whimper. His whole body jerked as his fingers slipped through the wetness staining your inner thighs.

“Feel that?” you gasped, rocking into his hand as you pressed your mouth to his ear. “That’s all for you, Captain.”

The groan that cracked out of him was raw, startled, dragged from the very centre of his chest. “Oh—fuck.”

His thumb twitched, his fingers flexed on instinct, and without needing to be told, began circling your swollen clit, spreading the slickness he found. Your mouth fell open, hips canting, and he chased the movement instinctively, before sinking a finger inside.

“There,” you urged, eyes hooded. “Just like that. Good boy.”

You clenched around him, and the broken noise that left him was pure need. Like your words had melted something inside him. Like he’d been starving for that, for praise, for softness wrapped around hunger, for someone to see how hard he was trying to be good.

“Christ, you—you’re so tight,” Steve rumbled, voice breaking open.

His free hand gripped your waist, grounding himself as he worked the first finger deeper, then added a second thick digit, stretching you just enough to burn in that delicious way.

His fingers curled, searching until they found that aching, tender spot inside you, and pressed. You cried out softly, hips stuttering, thighs tensing where they cradled his waist. That sound made him move faster, made his breath stutter against your cheek. His thumb circled your clit now in slow, deliberate swirls, just firm enough to make you squirm.

You let your head fall back, lashes fluttering, and he took it like reward. The wet heat of his mouth found your throat once more. You tilted your head to bare more of it to him, clutching your fingers in his hair as he curled his fingers just so, finding that place inside you that made stars claw behind your eyes.

“You’re good,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “You’re so good, Steve.”

He whined.

Actually whined for you, pulled from the back of his throat, fingers still stroking and curling like he wanted to crawl inside and stay there. You were dripping for him, every thrust sending slick sounds into the air between your bodies, obscene and perfect.

“Such good hands,” you purred, tilting his face up to yours again. His eyes were dark now, unfocused and glazed with heat. “Made to please, weren’t you? I could let you touch me like this forever.”

Steve moaned wantonly. His cock twitched beneath you, thick and trapped beneath too many layers.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you cooed. “Me, dripping all over your fingers, riding your hand, as you listen to how wet I get for you.”

He nodded his head eagerly, lips parted, breathless, “I want it—I want all of it. Want to make you feel good. Want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You’d never taken a man like this before. Never drawn it out. Never let yourself enjoy it, always too consumed with the end, with the soul, the devouring.

But oh, he made you greedy. For more than just the taste. For the whole experience of him. For the way his mouth trembled against your skin, the way his fingers moved in you, chasing your pleasure. He was so responsive. So good. Not crude in his want, not possessive or pushing, just offering.

He wasn’t chasing his own pleasure, he was chasing you. Your sounds, your body, your release. He wanted you to come. He wanted you to use him. He wanted to give himself away. You’d never felt anything like it. And it made you feral, twisting the craving inside you into something sweeter. Meaner. More desperate.

You wanted to sink your claws into his soul and hold it forever.

You kissed him again deeper this time, opened him like floodgates, and he poured into you without resistance. Your tongue pushed further into his mouth, wet and possessive, tasting him, claiming him. And he let you. He kissed you back with all the fervent, broken worship of a man on his knees before a God he didn’t understand but needed more than air.

He groaned into it, so sweet, so full of need it made your clit throb, your own need spiralling over.

You ground down on him, fucking yourself on his hand, and he watched you, devastated, awestruck, jaw slack and lips parted as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

His fingers were relentless now, stroking deep with every thrust with deliberate eager pressure, like he wanted to memorise you by feel. His thumb never left your clit, and the pads of his fingers were soaked, slick dripping from your pussy down to his wrist, glistening in the lamplight.

“Fuck, just like that, Steve,” you hissed, moaning softly as he grazed that spot inside you again. “So good for me. You want me to come on your fingers, sweet boy?”

Your walls fluttered again, the coil inside you tightening, threatening to snap. He felt it, that telltale clench of your cunt sucking greedily around his fingers, and his breath broke into something rough and urgent.

“I—fuck,” he rasped, barely more than breath. “Please.”

“What is it, Captain?” you teased, grinding down on his hand harder, and you felt the tension twist in your belly, drawing taut. “Want something?”

His lips were on your throat again, open and reverent, as if kissing the words into your skin. “Want to make you come,” he groaned. “Please. I want—need—to see you.”

“Good boy,” you whispered, the praise dripping from your tongue like honey, and God, the sound he made.

A low, shuddering whimper, muffled against your skin. His fingers twitched inside you, deeper, more desperate now, and finally, you came undone.

Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking, muscles clenching around his fingers as tumbled desperately over the edge. Steve held you close, one arm around your waist as you shuddered through it, letting your pleasure soak his hand, your thighs trembling around him.

You rode it out with your mouth parted, breath catching in your throat, your grip tight in his hair as you came with soft, wet sounds and possessive praise. When you finally stilled, he was trembling beneath you, mouth pressed to your sternum through cloth, his breath scorching.

He eased his hand from you with aching care, your arousal coating his fingers in shining streaks. His eyes lowered, and he brought those fingers to his mouth without hesitation. A light, pleased sound escaped him, and he licked the last of you from his knuckles like he was afraid to waste a drop.

You curled your fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up. His lips were pink, kiss bitten, and his pupils were blown wide with need. Unable you resist, you leant down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

“You want inside me, pretty boy?” you purred into his mouth. “You want me to let your cock feel my pussy now?”

He whimpered, nodding furiously, “God,” he breathed. “Please—yes.”

Oh, you were going to ruin him. He was so beautifully wrecked already and you weren’t nearly done with him. You dragged your thumb slowly across his lower lip. It trembled beneath your touch.

Your hands found the fastenings of his trousers and made short, deliberate work of them. His breath hitched when your fingers brushed against the damp front of his briefs, his cock hard and straining. You hummed softly, pleased.

“Oh,” you murmured, drawing the fabric down with slow, indulgent care, “look at you.”

His hips lifted obediently, letting you strip him, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him. And Christ, he was beautiful. Big, thick, flushed dark at the tip, veins like carved marble, twitching in the cold air. Your mouth watered.

You wrapped your hand around the base and heard his sharp inhale, followed by the whimper that he tried, and failed, to swallow. His thighs tensed beneath you, muscles drawn tight as rigging in a storm.

“Is this all for me?” you whispered, teasing your thumb over the weeping head. You felt the way his pulse stuttered under your fingers. “So hard, pretty boy. You’ve been aching this whole time, haven’t you?”

He choked on a sound, nodded. His fingers clenched on the arms of the chair. “I—yeah—please.”

“You did so well for me, going to reward you now,” you muttered against his skin. “My sweet Captain.”

He was panting now, almost shaking under the weight of it all - your praise, your hand, the sheer unbearable pleasure of being wanted. His head tipped back against the chair as you shifted forward, letting his shirt that you still wore fall from one shoulder.

“You love hearing that, don’t you?” you cooed, stroking him him in a steady rhythm, “Pretty boy. Sweet boy. My good, good Captain.”

He whined, nodding helplessly, hips grinding up into your hand. “Please. I need you—need to feel you—please, I’ll be good.”

The plea was so soft, so unlike the guttural demands of others, that it made your pussy clench around nothing, eager for the stretch of him. You released his cock then, and let it slap wetly against his stomach where his shirt had rumpled up. The sound was obscene, and the sight even better. Thick and flushed and leaking for you. 

Rising slightly, you guided the head of his cock through your soaked folds until he was panting beneath you, his knuckles white in their grip now.

His hips jerked. “Oh God, please,” he panted.

“I know, Stevie,” you hushed. “I know you need it. You’ve been so, so good.”

You angled your hips and began to sink down.

He was so thick. You felt the stretch immediately, your walls hugging him inch by inch as you lowered yourself down with deliberate, excruciating grace. His head dropped, breath stuttering against your shoulder as his hands moved from the armrest to your waist. His mouth fell open in a silent moan as your heat enveloped him.

“Oh—oh God—,” Steve gritted out, utterly lost in the feel of your heat, so tight and wet around him. 

You gasped, head falling back, your walls fluttering around him, drawing him in deeper. “So big,” you panted, “so fucking deep.”

Steve whimpered, barely holding on.

And when you finally sank fully down, taking him to the hilt, you stayed there, tight around him, letting your cunt throb with every desperate pulse of his cock, every ragged breath, every reverent moan like it was the tithe he owed you just for the privilege of being inside.

You leant in closer, your breasts brushing against his chest, your breath ghosting over his parted lips. His head tipped back automatically, offering himself up without thought. And when you dipped your head and licked a slow line up the sweat slicked tendon of his neck, you felt him melt.

“Feel how well you fit inside me, Captain?” you breathed against his throat. “Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

His groan was broken. Devotional. And you kissed him until breath became an afterthought.

He moaned into your mouth like it was pulled from somewhere deep, dragged out past the bones, his hands trembling as they slid up your back, holding you close like he was afraid you’d vanish. 

You rolled your hips just right, grinding down in a way that made your clit drag against the base of him and his cock press into that spot inside you that made cry out. Steve gasped into your mouth, eyes fluttering, and you caught the rumble in his throat, deep and broken, the sound swallowed between your lips as he bucked once, unable to help it, his whole body shaking with need.

“That’s it, pretty boy,” you urged. “Just like that. You’re doing so well for me.”

You were so wet that every grind of your hips sounded slick and obscene, your arousal coating him, sliding down the thick base of his cock as your walls flexed around him again and again.

He moaned again, sharp and high in the back of his throat. “You’re so tight, and warm, and—God, please, please don’t stop.”

You arched against him, dragging your cunt up and back down again, digging your nails into his shoulders as your walls rippled around him. His breath caught at the feeling, eyes fluttering. He looked at you like you were a vision, like a holy thing. Something between worship and ruin.

He was so deep inside you, thick and hot, pulsing against your walls like he belonged nowhere else. Like he’d been made for the sole purpose of being taken by you, here, like this.

“Does it feel good, sweet Captain?” you murmured. “Being inside me like this?”

He nodded again, frantic, gasping softly. “Yes… God, yes, feels like—” His voice caught, another desperate moan pouring from his lips. You kissed his throat, let your teeth graze the delicious, pounding pulse beneath the skin.

“Feels like what?” You bit the words, punctuating each one with a roll of your hips, slow and cruel. “Tell me.”

His hips bucked once, before restraint tugged him back down into the chair. His jaw clenched. Sweat glistened at his hairline, in the hollow of his throat.

“Feels like I’m gonna lose myself,” he whispered, hoarse and half-drunk on you. “Like I’m not gonna come back.”

You smiled, slow and sweet and predatory, and rocked down harder. The soft, broken sound he made was punched straight from his lungs, and it made your walls flutter around him.

“You won’t,” you promised, lips brushing his. “Not all the way.”

He moaned once more, a sound dragged up from deep in his chest, and let his head fall back, scrunching his eyes closed.

His body trembled beneath yours. He was so strong, so beautiful, his thighs flexed under you, his arms holding you steady, but it was all yours now. He was all yours now.

He was so close already, on the very knife’s edge of surrender. The bright heat of his pleasure bloomed in the air around you like blood in water.

You felt it when he started break open. Not just his body - though that, too, was a marvel, the way his breath stuttered in your mouth, how his hands gripped your hips like he needed something to hold onto or be swept under. But no, it wasn’t that. Not entirely.

It was the moment his soul cracked open. The moment your lips grazed the hinge of his throat, and some part of him unraveled and let you in. You felt it. Not like slipping inside flesh, but like falling into light.

His stubborn soul was finally right at the surface, soft and shining.

You looked down at him then, really looked, and it was still there, that same maddening goodness that hadn’t dulled no matter how much you’d tried to seduce it away. Even now, right on the edge of release, his heart spilled quietly through his eyes, like you were something to be adored.

Oh, and you could taste it. That sweet core of him, lit golden and trembling and so open now, almost yours, bleeding into your skin, leaking through his tongue, his cock, his fingers.

It wasn’t purity, nor innocence; he’d seen too much for that. But a light. A weightless light that clung to his soul even as his body trembled and gave under yours. Every time your cunt gripped him, every slow press of your hips, you could taste it more - that glowing centre of him, this honest, golden want.

It poured to the surface, aching and alive and so human, braided with grief and hope and everything he’d held together with trembling hands. And you, who had tasted countless, who had consumed kings and sailors and men who begged you for death, found yourself still.

And starving. You could take it. It would be delicious. All that goodness, all that impossible light, collapsing into you like a sun drowned beneath your skin. You could drink him down in a single breath and let the sea carry his bones into myth.

But you didn’t. Because for the first time, you didn’t want to end a soul. You wanted to own it.

You wanted to feel that light flicker against your ribs for the rest of eternity. You wanted to trap that impossible warmth beneath your skin and keep it. To bury it in your darkness and keep it safe, selfish and sacred. To make his goodness yours, until the world rotted, and the sea dried, and the lighthouse finally blinked and died.

You rolled your hips with exquisite pressure, and he shuddered.

“You wanna drown in this pussy, pretty boy?” you murmured, voice coated with your need. “Wanna sink so deep inside me you forget which way is up? Wanna be lost in me forever?”

“Yes,” he begged, shameless and ragged, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, teeth biting down gently against the slope of it. “Please—let me—please, I want to drown in you, I want to—,” but the sentence never ended. It bled into another moan, this one muffled against your skin, 

“Mmm,” you hummed. “You wanna come while I’m milking your cock, while my sweet little cunt’s got you locked down so tight you’ll never get free?”

He whimpered, loud, desperate, and you clenched around him, watching his eyes roll back, as fingers clawed at your hips - just trying to hold on as you coaxed his pleasure out like a riptide. You were soaking him now, your pussy a hot, tight sheath around his cock, pulling him in, dragging him under.

“My pretty Captain. Mine.” You reaped, voice low and rough with hunger as your teeth grazed his throat. “Say it. Let me keep you.”

“’m yours, please, I want to be—I am—,” he babbled, utterly gone for you, “just let me feel you, want to be yours, forever—please.”

A gasped moan tore free from your lungs at his vow, low and wretched, punched straight from the pit of your hunger. You clamped around him again and he sobbed, just once, pulled from his throat, cracked and quiet.

Your body bucked, hips stuttering above him as your cunt fluttered, aching, coiling tight around the promise of another release. It was too much, the way he said it, so broken and sincere. He gave it freely, that vow, not knowing the shape of the thing he’d handed you.

Forever.

“Good boy,” you praised, riding him a little faster now, the sounds wet and obscene, your slick soaking his cock and thighs. “I’ll be so good to you.”

He whined in answer, cock throbbing inside you. It was twitching with every roll of your body, and still he held back, held on, waiting for you, needing your permission to fall apart.

You curled forward over him, hands bracing on his shoulders, and let yourself grind down hard, chasing that high with a needy gasp. The chair groaned beneath you both, wood whining like it knew something sacred was being defiled.

“Please” he choked, voice breaking. “Please, let me, please—I need—”

The desperation in his voice pulled another high pitched moan from your chest. His soul trembled against the surface, pressed so close it was blinding. His hands shook where they held you, knuckles pale, and you could feel the tension building just beneath his skin.

You leant forward, kissed the corner of his mouth with a gentleness that made him tremble, and whispered, “Come for me, Stevie. Let me have it.”

He broke as soon as the words left your mouth.

He spilled into you with a gasp like a man drowning, clinging tight to your waist as if your body might anchor him against the tide of ecstasy. His whole frame shuddered beneath you, cock pulsing deep inside your cunt as you tightened around him, milking him, letting his pleasure flood you. 

His groan was long and helpless, cracked open at the edges, as you followed him over the edge. Your orgasm tore through you like a storm cracking open the sea, flooding every hollow inside you with heat.

Your lips found his and you sucked at his mouth, hungry, greedy, moaning against him like you meant to drink him in. And oh, how he tasted. 

His soul, sweet as sunlit water, ached with grief and hope and everything you’d never known in all your time beneath the waves. You moaned against his mouth, helpless, delirious, hips still twitching as the aftershocks pulsed through you. It would’ve been so easy to take his light. 

But you resisted. You wanted all of him.

Instead, you opened yourself, freeing the cold, bottomless hollow where a soul should have lived. It spread wide with hunger, aching with want, and you let the black thread of your essence slip into him through the kiss.

It slithered down his mouth, his throat, his ribs before sinking into his chest, coiling tight and possessive around his light. Outside, the lighthouse pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Steve gasped softly at the intrusion, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he opened further, welcoming. And you, starving, drew the smallest thread of gold back with you. Just a sliver. Just enough to live in you.

You kissed him through it, breath panting and broken, as you marked him from the inside out. As your dark thread wrapped around his light like a lover’s arms. He whimpered into your mouth, dazed and trembling, still sheathed inside your body, still pulsing softly. 

He was yours now, forever.

Still panting beneath you, Steve’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The light in his eyes flickered like a candle too close to the wind, barely holding. And all of it for you.

You dragged your hands down the flushed, trembling lines of his chest through his shirt, damp with sweat. You could feel his cock softening inside you, the last of his release spilling from where your bodies joined, seeping down your thighs like a claim. Your claim.

Your cunt, soaked and twitching with the last vestiges of climax, throbbed gently around him, reluctant to let go.

“Good boy,” you whispered, possessive and low, the praise more spell than sound. Your fingers traced his jaw, and he leant into your touch. “You did so well for me, my pretty Captain. Took me so well. Gave me everything.”

He made a small, broken sound at that, something between a whimper and a sigh. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, lips parted, still pink and swollen from your kisses, and the light in his chest pulsed with the echo of you inside it.

You watched him. The way his lashes trembled. The slow, stuttering drag of his breath. He looked spent, like a man who had finally laid down his armour.

Leaning down, you brushed your lips across his temple, a whisper ghosting soft against his skin. “Take me to bed, Stevie.”

His eyes found yours, barely. Dazed and shining and so full of you. He nodded, wordless at first, like he’d forgotten language. 

Then, soft and thick with worship, “You’re perfect.”

He shifted slowly, carefully, and you lifted yourself from him, and his cock slipped from you with a wet sound. He gasped at the sensation, already aching at the loss of your warmth. You watched, pleased and possessive, at how his flushed length twitched against his thigh, glistening with your slick and his seed.

He tucked himself away with trembling fingers, still panting, eyes on you the whole time like you might vanish if he looked away.

And then he gathered you into his arms like you weighed nothing. That strength of his, which he’d kept so leashed before, curled beneath you and lifted you with ease. 

“You feel like heaven,” he muttered, more breath than word, tucking you close as he stood. His lips brushed your temple as he carried you the few steps to the bed. “Like something I’ve been waiting for and didn’t even know I needed.”

The words stirred something low and dark in your belly. Not lust, not anymore. Something worse. A kind of longing so deep it felt like a wound.

You curled into his chest as he settled you down, his body a broad, sturdy shield at your back as his warmth enveloped you. One strong arm banded around your waist, and a leg tangled with yours. You could feel the tender touch of his other hand along your thighs, your hips, your waist.

He tucked you in further against him, fitting himself round your body protectively. His mouth nuzzled the curve of your shoulder, still murmuring soft nothings against your skin. How soft you were. How sweet. How perfect.

Fools’ words, the lot of them. 

Yet you stayed silent and soaked up his worship like something that deserved it. It was a selfish, terrible greed that belonged to dragons coiled around their golden hoards.

But you’d never had this before. There had never been after. Never any body left warm beside you. Never breath, never praise, never touch that lasted longer than the moment before their heart stopped.

And if your heart hadn’t rotted away long ago, maybe you would’ve felt guilt, or shame, or grief for what you took. But you just felt warm.

Like something ancient and wicked curled deep in your chest had finally opened one greedy eye and stretched, purring. You felt his breath against your skin and wanted more of it. His arm draped over your waist and you wanted it tighter. You wanted his pulse. His praise. His bones. You wanted to burrow inside the cradle of his ribs and make a home there.

You shifted in his arms slightly, twisting to face him, watching how his lashes fluttered against his cheek as sleep tried to claim him. You brushed your thumb across his bottom lip, and he sighed softly, leaning into your touch like a man starved.

The air felt heavy, like something was watching. Perhaps the lighthouse. Perhaps the sea. Perhaps something older still.

“Sleep, my good Captain, let the waves take you,” you whispered, voice low and honey sweet, your thumb still stroking the soft swell of his lip. “Let them rock you down beneath. I’ll protect you.”

His lashes fluttered once, twice, before they stilled, his breath deepening, chest rising and falling against yours in a slow, steady rhythm. The tension in his brow eased. One of his hands twitched where it rested against your hip, then stilled too.

Through the porthole, the lighthouse continued its vigil, pale light sweeping across his peaceful face, claiming him. You watched the last of his awareness slip under, watched the final thread of resistance slacken.

“Good boy,” you murmured, just above a breath, lips at the shell of his ear. “So easy now. So soft. So mine.”

And Steve, obedient even in sleep, exhaled like he’d heard you. As though he belonged to you even in his dreams.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

Steve woke to screaming. 

Screaming and blood in his mouth and the taste of iron in the air. The sea cradled the lower half of his body like it meant to drag him down. A dark, unfeeling mass that offered nothing and took everything. His upper half clung to a rock; he could feel the sharp bite of barnacle-slick stone tearing at his uniform.

The fog hung thicker than ever. Sight was smothered to mere metres. But the rest of Steve’s senses still forced a dreadful vision upon him. One of blood, and thrashing, and splintering wood, and wretched cries.

The Nomad was dead.

Steve’s voice cracked through the air, rough and broken, calling the names of his men. But he was met only with their screams.  

The lighthouse now loomed closer than ever. No longer a silhouette in mist, but a vast black monolith. So close Steve could almost reach out and touch its slick, decaying stone if he had the strength. The light still turned at its crown, pale and pulsing, the same ghostly sweep, slow and mechanical, like the breath of some giant godless lung.

And with each pass, it cut through the fog to reveal a piece of hell. And all Steve could do was watch. 

First, it swept across Stark, battered and bloodied, lungs snatching for air as he clung to a piece of driftwood. His mouth screamed, but no sound carried. Then the beam passed. And he was swallowed by the fog.

When the light turned round again, there were bodies, two - no, three - floating limp in the water.

Panic surged up Steve’s spine, and a sickening weight curled around his ribs. His body ached, scraped and bruised, and yet it felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.

Movement stirred beneath him.

Not the tide. Not driftwood. Something darker. Long and glistening like a leviathan’s tongue. Sleek, fast, and far too silent. 

Then the light found two more, Rumlow and Rollins, locked together in a desperate grip over the same piece of wreckage. The surface trembled. The sea quivered like something alive. Then Rollins was snatched beneath the black with a strangled scream. A spray of red bloomed across the water as his replacement.

The light passed. Gone. 

Steve’s breath caught, blinking hard, breath heaving shallow and fast. It had been a violence so swift his mind lagged behind what his eyes had already seen.

He tried to move, pushed against the stone, but his limbs were molasses, heavy and wrong. His hands slipped on the rock. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears. Or maybe that was more screaming. Distant and high, warbling like a gull, but human. Definitely human.

His vision pulsed with the rhythm of the lighthouse. Flash, horror, then dark. Flash, another name he knew, torn from life mid-scream, then dark.

The fog concealed it all again the moment the light moved on. There was no time to process, only to see and lose. See and lose. Another soul torn from the sea like meat. Each glimpse a needle under the fingernails. Each moment of darkness a breath that could be his last.

Then the next sweep of light revealed something different.

Just above the surface, almost human-like in shape, shoulders just breaching the waterline, hair trailing behind like a veil spun from ink. But it moved like no human. 

Steve squinted, chest tightening, bracing himself.

The creature plunged through the sea with a predatory grace. Easy and purposeful. Locked on another target. The man splashed in desperation, arms flailing, mouth sputtering, perhaps to cry out a prayer or plea. But then the creature cooed at him, soft and delicate.

He leant towards the silhouette, and its lips brushed his in a mockery of a kiss. And then it bit. Teeth sank into his mouth and ripped. The blood pulsed from him in thick, arterial sprays. The ocean drank it greedily.

He thrashed once, twice, then the body jerked backward like a puppet with its strings cut, arms splayed wide, the neck bent back too far. A gurgle escaped what was left of his face before the sea swallowed him whole. The light swung away, unremorseful.

Steve choked. A stuttering gasp ripped from his lungs. Salt filled his nose and throat, and the taste of iron doubled, trebled, nausea twisting in his gut. His heart punched against his ribs, mouth open, drawing sharp lungfuls of air as bile rose high and sour in his throat. 

But it was silent now. The screams had stopped. And that felt worse.

The light swung back again, over the creature. A suggestion of form mostly submerged, half-made by the dark. And it was moving towards him.

Then the fog parted, and Steve’s heart stopped. It was you.

A creature of sea and bone and abyss. A gorgeous horror. Your skin pale and slick with saltwater sheen and blood, glistening across your bare chest, streaking down your chin, your collarbones, and your breasts like tears of ruin. Mouth as red as a split pomegranate, lips wet with someone else’s end, the sharp white of your teeth just visible behind the plush curve of your smile.

Below the surface, he made out the movement of dark, sinuous muscle, flexing slow with each tilt of your hips beneath the waterline. The tail was as thick as his chest, scaled and ridged with spines. The water quivered around it like the sea itself deferred to you. You truly were a marvel of monstrous design. 

Your eyes met his, catching the faint beam of the lighthouse like polished obsidian. But the hunger in them sharpened into something possessive as they trailed over him.

He should have recoiled. Should have pushed back, screamed, fought. Should have begged whatever tattered holy thing he had left to shield his soul from what now stood before him. 

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Something in him refused.

You were beautiful. Not soft, nor safe. No. There was no prettiness in your bloodied grace, no kindness in the divine geometry of your face. You were beautiful the way shipwrecks are beautiful - glittering ruin, strewn with bones and treasure. 

And yet, your face was serene, even bared in your monstrous glory. A beauty so terrible it demanded reverence. The kind of beauty men drowned for. Death made flesh.

The moment your fingers brushed his cheek, turning him to you, still wet and stained with another man’s blood, something inside Steve settled. 

He let out a breath like something in him had loosened. Like the storm in his chest had found its eye. The uneven, panic struck jerks of his breath subsided. His ribs stopped straining like they meant to crack open. Instead, warmth spread through his spine.

You leant in close, so close the tips of your fangs almost brushed his cheek.

“There you are, my sweet thing,” you murmured, voice like a lullaby, “Still here. Still mine.”

Your hand moved from his cheek to his throat, thumb brushing where his pulse thundered. His head tilted toward the touch like it was instinct.

“You did so well. My brave Captain,” you crooned, and something inside him cracked. His eyes fluttered, breath catching not with fear but pleasure. “Held on so tight. Watched so much. Poor, brave boy.”

Steve moaned.

A soft, broken thing, barely audible, as his body sagged against the rock, strength bleeding out of him. But he didn’t care. He was watching you like you were the last thing that made sense in the world.

You pressed Steve back, gently, until his spine met the cold stone and your breasts brushed his chest, blood-slick skin against his soaked uniform. He didn’t resist, and his hands found their home at your hips, fingertips gently brushing your scales.

“Let go now,” you purred. “It’s done. They’re gone. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

You kissed him, lips still blood-warm, tongue sweeping through his mouth - yours now. He breathed into it, slipping past fear, past thought, and into the dark your touched summoned, fastening to you with the certainty of something claimed.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂁𓂃˙˳⋆

They found him adrift in the fog, clinging to driftwood long since worn smooth by salt and time.

His body was half in the water, half out, slack with exhaustion, skin pale and blooming with bruises. The uniform that once marked him a captain had frayed to shreds, threads of navy and gold dissolving into the sea.

They hauled him aboard with ropes and careful hands.

He told them his name was Steve Rogers. That he had captained a ship - “The Nomad, yes, that’s right,” - and that it had gone down in uncharted waters after a storm.

His voice was quiet, ragged from salt and sea, but certain. His gaze steady, even kind. He smiled when they offered him a blanket. Thanked them with pale lips and soft words that didn’t quite match the bruising on his throat or the hollowness in his eyes.

They mentioned the fog, how it had swallowed the stars, that it had eaten their charts alive. Steve nodded, “Yes, it comes and goes around here.”

And when one of them spoke, hesitant and anxious, of the lighthouse they could just make out through the shifting grey, its pale eye pulsing in slow, even breaths, Steve’s smile deepened.

“You should go there,” he spoke softly, but still edged with that captain’s authority that made men listen. “If you’re looking for safe waters. It’s the only thing still standing.”

They murmured amongst themselves, nodded, then adjusted the sails.

The fog began to close in.

Steve hummed as they turned the bow. A low, tuneless thing, carried off in snatches of wind. His eyes never left the horizon, fixed on the slow, mournful glow of the tower in the mist. His body was still, but his expression remained gentle.

“Soon, my love,” he breathed. “Soon you’ll feast again.”

You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.

Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.

You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.

Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.  

You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.

The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.

Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."

Jack lowered himself into the chair beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.

"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"

"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."

"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.

"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.

"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.  

"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.

You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.

You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:

"I booked us that Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."

"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.

"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."

His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.

You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"

He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the chair beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."

Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.

The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down as he sat on his shower chair. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.

Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof (swim leg) prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.

And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.

What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.

He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.

Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.

He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.

His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.

"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.

You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.

"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.

He deserved that.

"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.

"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.

"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."

Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at an institution managing over $10 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.

"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."

He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.

"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."

Jack paused. "Who?”

You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."

The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.

You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.

A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.

"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.

"A mojito, please."

"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the trees. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.

"Grazie," you said.

The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.

You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking work emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.

After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.

You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.

"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.

"You’re not from around here, are you?"

"Nope."

"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."

"Lucky them," you muttered.

"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.

"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.

He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."

"I guess."

"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."

"I’m not interested."

"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.

"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.

"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."

"Good thing I’m not yours, then."

He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.

A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.

"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"

You were shocked to see Jack standing shirtless in swim trunks and a t-shirt twisted between his hands. The afternoon light was catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.

The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his waterproof prosthetic (swim leg) caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.

"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"

"Look, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued. 

"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."

The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."

You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.

Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.

"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.

"Yeah. I am."

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."

"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."

You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.

After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."

You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."

"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."

"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that now—"

"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.

"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."

His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.

"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."

"Really?" you asked meekly.

Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

"7 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy. You had an early flight tomorrow flying out to Palermo to wrap up your vacation in Sicily and spend ample time visiting the island. It was a very much needed 2 weeks off.

Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).

"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.

"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."

You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.

"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."

"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.

"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.

You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.

A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.

"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"

A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.

"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."

You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."

"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.

His logic was a seductive trap.

"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.

He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered. "Let me take care of you now."

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.

Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.

"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw. "You’re doing so good for me."

You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.

"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."

As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his finger moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.

Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.

"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”

His movements became more deliberate with his thick finger curling slightly—and your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.

"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.

"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"

He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.

A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."

He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you whine. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a consistent counterpoint on your clit.

"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."

The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.

"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.

He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.

"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers continued pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come over and over again, just from my tongue."

"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.

"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."

He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you.

"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"

The command in his voice, and the vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.

He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.

You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.

"You did so good for me."

He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.

"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."

He draped you over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.

Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his swim leg prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger.  You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.

He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.

"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.

"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."

Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.

"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.

Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.

Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.

"I love you," you murmured.

"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.

You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.

You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.

"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.

"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"

"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."

"Tempting." His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."

You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his torso.

"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.

"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.

"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."

You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.

"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.

"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said. Her accent was a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.

He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"

"Yes," you giggled.

She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.

"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."

He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.

"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.

You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.

"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."

"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.

"Thank you," you said.

As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.

Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.

Robby: She’s so out of your league.  

Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.

Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.

Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.

Jack: I’m nervous as hell.

Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.

Robby then sent another quick message.

Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.

Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.

When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.

The familiar soft call of your name and a warmer-than-average hand on your shoulder have you stopping in your tracks. Shit! You were so close! The zeta was literally within steps' reach, but Barry Allen was just too goddamn fast.

Mentally bracing yourself, you turn to meet Barry's gaze, face devoid of his cowl, leaving you to read every ounce of concern with perfect clarity.

"Barry," you sigh, traitorous voice already a little wobbly as you valiantly tried to keep the tears at bay.

For Fuck's sake! He hadn't even said anything yet, and already you were crumbling under the weight of his stare.

"Hey, kiddo. Heard you'd hit a bit of a rough patch with Wally, wanna talk about it?"

"No." Though you try to remain strong, to sound disinterested, your traitorous voice cracks, lower lip wobbling pathetically. You maybe could have played it off, if it weren't for the sudden onslaught of tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Oh, sweetheart," Barry murmurs, already pulling you in for a hug, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. "Let's get you somewhere more private, yeah?"

Barry doesn't wait for an answer before the world is blurring around you, and within a blink, you're in a different room. It's modest, bare bones, with a small desk and bed, and you realise this must be Barry's room on the watchtower. You doubt he'd ever even used it. Why would he, when he had Iris waiting for him at home?

The thought sends a pang through your chest, a harsh reminder that your once shared space with Wally is now barren of his presence, bereft of his warmth, leaving you cold and alone.

Abruptly, the tears start anew, loud and gut-wrenching sobs filling the silence as Barry pulls you in for another hug.

"Let it out, kiddo." Barry hums, rubbing comforting circles on your back as you soak his shoulder.

"He's such an idiot!" You wail.

"Boys usually are."

"I just don't understand, why would he even—"

"I don't know, you'll have to ask him that, but I know Wally regrets the things he said." At that you pull back a little, an unimpressed scowl covering your face.

"I'm not just taking his side. You're both miserable, and I know Wally's a stupid idiot boy, but do you think maybe there could be a conversation?"

"Only if you're there to back me up." You mumble, averting your gaze from Barry's deadly earnest gaze.

"Course, kiddo." The warmth in his tone nearly makes you cry anew because for as much as you'd missed Wally, you'd nearly missed Barry just as much.

If you're being honest with yourself, you were always going to fold the second Barry turned those big blue eyes of his on you.

As if on cue, the door slides open and a dishevelled Wally stumbles in. There's a brief moment of satisfaction as you notice that Wally looks worse than you do before you betrayal shoots down your spine.

"You set me up!"

"Sorry kiddo, would it help if I said it was only because I missed you?"

Before you can respond, a pair of arms wrap around your waist, as Wally looks up at you like a pitiful puppy as Barry stifles a laugh.

"Please, baby, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it, I'm a mess without you, I can't do this without you. I'll do whatever you want, please—" The words come out rapid fire as mortification floods your veins.

"Oh my God, yes fine! Just get up!" You practically shout, accutely aware of Barry watching the scene.

"Yes! Thank you! I won't let you down!" Wally celebrates like he's been chosen to be team leader instead of you giving his pathetic ass a second chance and it's nearly enough to make you take it back.

But then he looks at you with with such adoration in those wide, watery green eyes of his and you know you never truly stood a chance against him either.

KYLE RAYNER & HAL JORDAN

You were being hunted.

Donna called you paranoid. Kori tried to reassure you that no, Hal Jordan wasn't staring at you ominously across the watchtower, plotting your death. (Though Gar insisted he was, little shithead.)

It only worsened in the week following your fight with Kyle, the feeling of being constantly watched. Everywhere you went, there was suddenly a Green Lantern staring intently.

John, to his credit, did his best to give you space, throwing you somewhat pitiful glances. Likely just checking in on you, a little embarrassing but kinda sweet. Guy just leered but had yet to try and approach you, annoying, but ultimately harmless.

It was Hal who was the problem. Hal, who suddenly stared with the intensity of a horror villain. Hal, who you swore nearly vaulted the table after a mission debrief, in his quest to get to you.

Hal, who was now chasing you through the streets of your hometown, desperately calling your name, "Why are you running?"

"Why are you chasing me?" You yelled back, stopping only momentarily to wave off a few concerned citizens with a strained smile. It's in the midst of one of these reassurances when a large green hand scoops you up and into the air.

"Hal, what the hell! Put me down!"

"No can do, little lady." His voice is a little hysterical, and it's enough to make you stop squirming and really look at him. Hal's normally perfect hair is in disarray, his skin a little paler than usual, and though you can't see his eyes behind the mask, you can practically see the widened, manic irises.

"Hal... are you okay?" You ask, suddenly a little concerned for his mental state.

"Am I—Am I okay?" He repeated shrilly, reaching out to place his hands on your shoulders, making you freeze as he suddenly leaned in as if to deliver a secret.

"You need to take Kyle back."

"Hal—"

"No, no, listen to me! He's been crashing at my apartment, figured it couldn't be that bad, help him get back on his feet, right?"

"Right?" You agreed, only to instantly feel like you'd chosen wrong.

"Wrong! At first, he was just depressed, you know how sensitive he is, but then I tried to get him to take a shower, and you know what he said? He said he couldn't even shower because it reminded him of you! I don't care what kind of sex life you two had, but the man needs to shower!"

"That's—"

"I'm not finished!" He burst, "He won't stop painting you! Everywhere I turn, there you are! I'm running out of space in my shitty apartment!"

Before you can even think to respond, a secondary green blur appears, knocking Hal away from you and disrupting the construct keeping you afloat.

A scream tears from your throat as you suddenly free-fall, heart hammering frantically against your chest until another pair of arms catches you.

"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?" Kyle's voice is frantic, one of his hands cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

"Hurt me? Kyle? What are you— Did you just bulldoze Hal?!" You yell in disbelief, attempting to turn in his arms to find the other Lantern.

"Hurt him?" It's Kyle's turn to be confused, "Why are you concerned about him? He kidnapped you!"

"Hal didn't kidnap me. Why would you even think that?"

"Because it's all over the news—Wait, Hal?"

"Yes, Hal!" An irritated voice snaps, as a scowling Hal Jordan flies toward you and Kyle, "What the hell, man, I'm on your side!"

"Hal?"

"Is there an echo in here or something? Yes Kyle! It's me, Hal, the guy whose couch you've been soaking with your tears for the past week."

"I thought—the news said you'd kidnapped her." Kyle stammered, voice suddenly a little quieter, "I thought maybe Parallax had gotten to you again."

The absurdity of the situation settles over you amidst the stunned silence, and it's not long before the silent giggles you'd attempted to hide erupt into full-blown laughter. Tears slide down your cheeks as you hold your aching side.

"Ok, well, it wasn't that funny." Hal grumps, which of course, makes you laugh harder.

And maybe, you lean a little further into Kyle's touch, a move he accommodates easily. And maybe, you don't hate the way he still feels like home.

ROY HARPER & OLIVER QUEEN

You wake to a persistent knocking on your front door, pulling you from the few hours of sleep you had managed to get. Fury and irritation flood your veins as you wrench the door open with a snarl. "Oh my god, Roy, go home alrea—" You trailed off, blinking at the sight of a dishevelled Oliver Queen instead of the ex-boyfriend you'd been expecting, "—dy"

You go to slam the door closed, but Oliver's faster, jamming his foot in the threshold, only to yelp when you nearly crush the appendage. One of your neighbours even pokes their head out at all the noise, to which you nervously laugh him off before pulling Ollie inside.

"Oliver, what the hell are you doing here?" You seethe, patience already frayed from Roy's constant attempts to contact you, raging from lengthy voice messages, to sleeping outside your door.

"Please take him back." Oliver barely waits a second before he's pleading with you.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, not you too." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Please! I know he can be an idiot sometimes—"

"Wonder who he gets that from?" You murmured, but Oliver ignored you, continuing his pitch.

"But Roy's a good kid, and he loves you! You're the best thing that's ever happened to him!"

"Yeah, and now he's sending you to fight his battles, huh?" You remained unimpressed, even if internally your heart ached with longing for Roy.

"No, Roy doesn't know I'm here; he'd probably kill me for interfering," Oliver admitted, running a hand through his hair before coming to sit next to you on the couch you'd collapsed into.

"Look, I made a lot of mistakes with Roy. Lord knows I haven't always been there for him, but somehow, despite me, he's turned into someone to be proud of. I just, I want you to remember that. To remember how much he loves you. Trughtfully, I think Roy's loved you since before he even realised what love was."

"Oliver..."

"I have to admit part of this is a selfish venture. I've always hoped I could one day officially call you my daughter."

Oliver's words bring tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and the man's face suddenly becomes comically panicked at the sight of your tears.

"Wait, no, if Roy finds out I made you cry, it's game over for me." He fretted.

"I won't tell if you won't." You laugh through the tears.

"Sounds like a deal to me."

Of course, Roy chooses that exact moment to crawl through your window, blasting Haddaway's What Is Love' through a shitty speaker.

DICK GRAYSON & BRUCE WAYNE

Of all the places you'd ever thought you'd meet your end, an elevator had never made the list. You'd forever curse yourself for allowing Batman to corner you like this, but in your defence, you hadn't expected him to launch through the closing doors like a missile as you frantically shoved the 'close door' button.

Batman hits the emergency stop button without a word, and your stomach sinks. He really is going to kill you. You broke his son's heart, and now he's here to enact parental vengeance on behalf of his beloved eldest son.

He reaches toward you, and you, highly trained vigilante that you are, freeze like a deer in headlights. Batman's hands clasp firmly on your shoulder, eyes wide behind the cowl as he looks at you with the intensity of 1000 suns. "Please take my son back."

You blink, flabbergasted as the words sink in, the dread in your gut morphing into something near incredulous. Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham and scourge to petty criminals and villains alike, was begging.

Barreling over your confused silence, he keeps going, "He got a haircut. It looks atrocious. I'm told this is a result of extreme emotional distress caused by your breakup."

Were you hallucinating? Was this some sort of alternate reality? Too dazed to even begin to formulate a response, you simply blink, gaping like a fish.

"I don't know what he did, but I'm sure it was stupid, and I will personally ensure it never happens again."

"I don't think—"

The elevator moves, and the doors fling open as a concerned-looking Superman peers inside, "You two ok?"

"Fine." Batman saunters out, not even sparing you a backward glance, no indication of the near manic energy he'd just unleashed upon you.

"Sweetheart?!" Nightwing barrels past Superman, reaching for you instinctively, only to freeze at the last second.

Despite yourself, fondness fills your heart at the sight of him, even as you cup your hand to your mouth to hide the gasp.

It truly was a horrendous haircut.

MICHAEL CARTER & J'ONN J'ONZZ

You could safely say that you liked most of your colleagues, closer to friends, really, on the Justice League. Even Guy Gardner had squirmed his way into your heart, though he still tended to piss you off most days of the week.

J'onn, though, had always secretly been your favourite. Not a fact you hid from him, it would be pretty difficult to, given his set of powers, but more so, Bea and Tora didn't pout over it.

So it wasn't exactly a surprise when J'onn sought you out almost as soon as you boarded the watchtower after a personal weekend away. What was a surprise, however, was the slight furrow to his brow and the palatable concern that seemed to be floating off him in waves.

"J'onn, is everything ok?" You mentally asked, unsure if this was a conversation to be had around prying ears.

J'onns' telepathy had never bothered you the way it still did for many others, likely what had contributed so greatly to your close friendship over the years.

"Yes, I am fine, Booster, however..." He trailed off, an interesting experience during a telepathic conversation.

"Oh, you heard about the breakup then?" You outwardly cringed before projecting a sense of gratitude that he'd thought to check up on you.

"Yes, I... heard. Loudly." J'onn spoke, horror threatening to overwhelm you as he realised his meaning. "I've done my best to maintain his, and your, privacy, but he is quite...sad."

A polite way of putting pathetic.

"Are you talking about the boss? He's been crying into tubs of ice cream all weekend."

"Skeets!" You scolded the little robot, gaze swivelling to see if there were any eavesdroppers.

"You wanna see videos?" Skeets buzzed, almost excitedly.

Yes.

"No! Skeets, that's horrible!" You tried to maintain the outraged facade, but one look from J'onn let you know your performance was weak at best.

"Not even the one where he compares your smile to the 'dawn's morning rays, chasing away the frost and bitterness of the night?'"

That's— "He said that?" You fiddle nervously with your necklace, something you just now realise Michael had bought for you.

"You dumping him has created a poet, it seems."

"What," you cough, pretending to be nonchalant, "what else has he said?"

"That you were his only reason for living and he couldn't bear to face the cold, cruel world without you."

"What?" You gasp, "Skeets, that's legitimately concerning!" Hurriedly pushing past the now seemingly callous little robot. Suddenly desperate to see the man you never stopped loving.

"Too far?" Skeets questioned the Martian as they both watched you frantically scurry to find Michael. Neither seemed too concerned.

"Not if it stops the constant barrage of sadness against my mental shields, my little friend." J'onn hummed with a commiserating glance at his unintentional companion to Michael's misery.

"Wait, I need to film this!" Skeets suddenly flew after you, leaving J'onn alone in blessed silence.

After practice, he doesn’t hang back with the guys. Instead, he’s heading over to the robotics lab to pick you up.  You’re rambling about circuits, the future of android domination, and the inevitable redundancy of human genitals or whatever to some nerd. He blushes when you press close. Toji, at the doorway, stares daggers at the lanky little shit, who obviously didn’t get the memo about his claim. 

All while you're yapping on and on, the nerd's shitting his pants as he feels someone imagining ripping him limb by limb.

“Ya like nerds, ma? That why you were practically milking his dick in the lab?” He’s bullying his fat cock inside your tight, sloppy pussy. Your ugly-ass leggings are ripped apart at the crotch, legs spread to their limits as he fucks you against some shelves in the janitor’s closet.

People outside can definitely hear the lewd squelch! squelch! of your sopping cunt, which greedily gulps his cock despite the livid ploughing of his athletic hips, designed yes for dominating on the ice, but also for putting you in your place.

Breathless and glasses askew, you reply, “N-no. Was just —ah, Toji, slow down, we're making too much noise— just excited to tell him about LADS… I think he’d -hah- really like Zayne.”

He laughs against your neck, sucking at a sensitive spot just to feel you tighten around him. Toji rips off the bandages you'd attached to your nipples, rolling the hard buds with his calloused fingers, and groaning at the gluttonous pleats that make pulling out to thrust back in oh so difficult.

“God, if your moans didn’t sound so damn good, I’d stuff your panties in your mouth.”

The janitor ends up having to clean up the clattered mess, and the puddle of your squirt all over the floor, which you would have drank up if Toji hadn't dragged you by your hair and slapped your pussy to keep his cum from dripping out, promising to feed you it later.

In the locker room, after a good game, the guys ask him why he’s even with you. They point out that you talk to yourself sometimes, that you have different pictures of pretty men in your phone case every day, wear brightly-coloured clothes you made yourself, and have only ever been seen drinking cans of Monster.

Toji doesn’t bother answering.

Why would he?

They’ll never understand your dynamic, your appeal, and the fact that he wouldn't be able to shake you off even if he wanted to. 

With the pummelling of the water, he hides the nasty slurrrrrrps! coming from your mouth as you kneel between his legs in his stall, at the very back of the showers. Toji's always the first one in the locker room after a game because he knows you'll be hiding somewhere; you love to lick, suck and fondle his balls after he's gotten all sweaty and sticky. Something about his 'musk' and 'pheromones' unlocking your 'inner moon goddess.'

You’ve got a tail plugged in your ass, all soaked and pathetic looking, but when it twitches as you clench, empowered by the taste and enormous size of him filling your throat, your hockey player boyfriend can’t help but cum hard. 

“Drink it all up— yeah, just like that, good girl.” He licks his scar when you stick your tongue out, playing with the cum on the long appendage with your long fingers, making yourself gag just for him. “Shh, keep quiet, yeah? Don’t want them to catch you, do we, doll? Alright, turn around, baby, show me your pretty pussy.”

Bent over, you smoosh your face against the cold tiles and spread your cheeks for him, purposefully clenching so he can see your juices drool out when he lifts your soggy tail up.

Wriggling your ass, you whisper, “Come and plant your seed, oh Dark Lord. Make this mudblood bear fruit for my serpent king.”

He shakes his head in disappointment but sinks his cock into you anyways, yanking your plug so he can swap it with three of his fingers. “You got back into your Harry Potter phase again, didn’t ya? Guess we're gonna be rewatching the movies again.”

Since he's started dating you, his understanding of pop culture has broadened considerably. 

For example, just recently, a new Marvel movie had come out and you couldn't stop replaying edits of Bucky. Other people would probably be jealous, insecure, or disturbed. Toji is none of those. A new fixation means you're staying out of trouble, not running around town on all fours barking at tourists and imitating the act of peeing on lampposts.

He was doing push-ups when you dropped to the ground and crawled right under his body, his arms fully extended. "Hey, doll," he grunts. "Missed me?"

"Uhuh."

That mischievous grin on your lips could only spell out one thing: trouble. 

That was how he found himself folding you into a pretzel in his bedroom, slamming the headboard against the wall with his every thrust. A white ring of cum has formed at his base, and he knows to save it for after, as a treat for you to clean up. Your pussy's beyond battered, yet it takes every inch of his throbbing cock like it'd been starved.

And despite the dangerous hold he had around your neck, you could only whine out, "Harder, Buck!"

"Yeah, Steve, take my fat cock. Milk the Winter out of my Soldie— God, these lines are so shit, ma. Who wrote this garbage?"

Nails digging into his meaty forearm, sweat-slicked and delirious, you reply with a giggle, working your ass back against his pelvis to feel his tip kiss your cervix. "My mootie. Don't worry about it. Come on, we're only in Act Two out of seven. Think you can last?"

He grunts. "Worry 'bout yourself, doll. I can do this all day."

"Hey, that's my line!"

Sometimes, your weirdness doesn't even involve him. Just last week, he came home after practice and dumped his duffel bag in the living room on his way to the bathroom, keen to get clean. When he finished, he noticed the bag unzipped and rifled through. Sighing, he saunters into his bedroom, bends down, grabs your ankle, and drags you out from under his bed.

With his boxers covering your entire face, he tuts. "What have I said about taking my shit? Huh? And what did I say about going around, sniffing my boxers like some kinda dog?" 

"That I just gotta ask." Shamelessly, you come to a kneeling position, pulling his towel off so you can nuzzle his already half-hard cock, still wearing his boxers on your head. "Sorry, Toji."

"Show me, ma. Show me how damn sorry you are."

Toji knows he should be stricter with you, but honestly when you're gagging on the entire length of his cock, massaging his balls and circling his ass, he can't really pretend to care that you're out of control.

Not a moment of peace is given to him with you as his girlfriend, that much is clear. Not when you always have a new hobby, when there's drama unfolding all the time in all the online communities and fandoms you're part of, and certainly not when your appetite is seemingly endless.

He can't even tape his new stick up for grip without you climbing on his back and laying kisses all over his neck like some koala.

"No."

"But I wanna!"

Trying to shake you off, he says, "You gotta wait. Need to get a feel for it before I keep taping."

Of course, you don't listen to him. You pepper kisses all over his face and neck, distracting with him with the marks you suck on his skin. So, he's forced to throw the tape aside and let you crawl onto the floor, between his legs. The hockey stick is hooked on your clothed pussy, pressed deliciously right against your slit.

"Needy fucking girl, aren't ya? Can't fucking wait. Well, fine. Go on, then. Make it a good one. Make it worth my damn time."

Grinding, you get lost in the friction, groping your bouncy tits over your shirt. He huffs a laugh when you meet his gaze, eyes clouded over with desire, and lick a long stripe up the shaft. "Toji," you whine, "tie my wrists to the ends and fuck me from behind, please."

"Sure, but I get to choose the movies for the next week. Getting tired of all the Lord of the Rings shit."

You moan in agreement when he suddenly tugs on the stick, pulling it hard against your pulsing clit. Your pussy juices coat the toe and he can't resist rubbing his throbbing cock over his shorts, already imagining all the good luck seeping into the stick, carrying him into victory.

"Cum, baby. Get it all wet for me, yeah? I'll be sure to thank you real good when I win next time."

Showing up to practice with a crick in his neck, Toji shrugs off any questions about it. His teammates would only tease him for being a simp if they found out he had spent hours the night before eating you out under your desk as you gamed.

He had three fingers stuffed inside your drenched cunt, curling them again and again against that gummy spot that never failed to have you gushing on him. He lapped up every errant drop, swallowing it before it could go to waste. Your thighs quivered around his head, keeping him close, threatening to suffocate him, which he didn't mind at all; there are worst ways to die after all.

"Fuck! Whose goddamn Venti is that? Did they even equip any fucking artefacts? I gotta carry this team with my Columbina. Again."

Toji fought the urge to roll his eyes, and instead focused on rolling your clit around with his tongue, teasing the bundle of nerves with his skills. Despite your less than perfect diet, he finds that you actually always tastes good. You only eat fast food and chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs, yet you're sweet, mild, and wholly addictive.

In fact, he's never tasted anything better.

Sucking hard on your pretty, little clit — partly to bring you closer to an orgasm and partly so he could bring your attention back to him rather than whatever's on your screen — he listened to your sharp intake of breath. "Ah! T-toji, be gentle. I'm still -ngh!- sensitive."

"Hurry up and win then, ma. My balls are about to fucking burst."

You giggled, brushing a hand through his hair, scratching just right and gaining a low groan out of him. "Give me one more -hah- o-orgasm and I'll let you -fuuuuuck, Toji- creampie me. You can watch it ooze out like custard filling, whatd'ya say, baby?"

"Yeah, sure. But don't make me recite any lines from whatever mafia erotica shit you're reading now, yeah?"

He bit back a chuckle when he felt you pout through some cosmic connection (your words, never his) and shoved your chair back suddenly.

Standing to his full height, he lifted your hips with him, leaving you dangling in the air, clinging to the armrests desperately as he sucked the soul out of your drooling pussy. "Yes, fuck! God, y-you're so good to me. I love -hngh!- you! Marry me!"

"Shut up," he barks, spitting on your hole and watching it disappear inside. "That's my fucking line."

Even his brother sometimes wonders why you two are even together. It’s not that the younger boy doesn’t like you, no, of course, he does — you’re nice, and you bake him cookies. He just thinks you two are so different from each other. Toji likes sports and fitness. You like anime and bedrotting.

He's brought it up before, and his older brother would only muss his hair and tell him, 'You're asking questions you're not ready to hear the answers to.'

What he doesn’t get to see, because he’s at school, is that you two have found a common ground, a way to blend your worlds together. 

Your boyfriend watches sports on the TV, beer in hand and you on his lap, arms and legs wrapped around his body. You watch whatever anime you’re obsessed with at the moment on your iPad, which you hold up behind his head, nuzzling close into the crook of his neck. Occasionally, you’ll take a long whiff of his scent or chomp on his skin, and in retaliation, he’ll rut his cock deep inside you.

Something about quality time and cockwarming really gets you going, apparently. 

“Up, baby. Need to get another drink.” He grunts when you tighten your hold around him, even going as far as to clamp down on his throbbing cock, grinding your hips around. A dribble of cum runs down his balls. “No? You’re a real piece of work. Alright, hold on tight then.”

Every step he takes drives him deeper inside you, nudging his fat cock head against that gooey spot which leaves your mewling. “Ngh, Toji, your rock-hard member is impaling me!”

Groaning, he smacks your ass. “Do you gotta call it those weird ass names, ma? Ain’t ‘dick’ just fine?”

“What about ‘manhood?’”

“Try again.”

You hum. “‘Shaft?’ Or, ‘wizard’s staff?’”

He takes a swig of his beer, sighing. “Forget it.”

Yeah, his girl might be weird, but you're cute.

Toji’s never met anyone else who can get his dick hard and leaking like there’s no tomorrow all while you ramble about which fictional world you'd love to be ‘isekaid’ into, whatever that means. You might be eccentric, but you help his brother out with his homework, massage aches out of his limbs after a particularly violent game, don't judge him for not having many real friends or for his family situation, and you push his desires to their very limits with your wild imaginations and lack of reservations. You’re incredible and people would never understand that.

He's happy, in a way none of the 'normal' girls had ever made him feel.

You're home.

And plus, Toji really doesn’t think you’re that weird, anyway.

“Hey, Toji? Can you cum inside and then eat me out? I want to record you making bubbles on my clit.”

Never mind.

Originally, you'd planned to spend the night on the couch with your tabby cat, Brutus (named in such a way so when he inevitably destroyed your furniture or knocked your favorite mug off the table you could at least find some whimsy in crying "Et tu, Brute?" theatrically), and a movie that you'd heard would make you cry. You'd been meaning to cry for a while now, but hadn't been able to find the time. You supposed you could push it to another night, depending on how long you ended up being in the hospital tonight.

You hummed along to the playlist you'd started on your speaker as you prepared a blood smear from the sample you'd been called in for.

Jack Abbot was the attending on shift in the ED this evening. You had only met him in person once or twice, but you were glad it was him and not Michael. Or, Robby, it seemed he was going by these days. You hadn't yet run into him since being back at PTMC, but you were not eager to reminisce with him, especially since it was becoming more and more clear that he had no recollection of you.

It shouldn't have bothered you so much. It had been two med school rotations and one extremely disappointing hookup when you'd both gotten too drunk after shift. But he had been instrumental in you picking pathology for residency. At the time, the decision had been full of complicated emotions, resentment, a complete misunderstanding of who you were and what you wanted. But now, well, you thought maybe you owed him your gratitude.

Your phone pinged while you were prepping your slides and you eyed it and found it was a notification from Hinge.

From Robby.

You inhaled slowly and looked away as your screen went dark. You had no idea what the fuck you were doing, chatting with Robby on a dating site. You told yourself you just were curious when your thumb tapped the heart on his profile. Middle aged looked really really good on him, you wouldn't deny that, but you still saw the baby faced, skinny rod of a med student when you looked at him. And when he'd first initiated the chat, you realized very quickly he didn't remember you.

You found yourself preening under his attention, how he complimented your photos and your mind through conversations. The both of you established early on that you didn't want to discuss work beyond confirming that you were both doctors working in PTMC. But you repeatedly dodged his attempts to meet up and grab a drink. You weren't sure how long you could keep it all up without admitting that you knew him already. Intimately, even.

You suspected soon enough, he'd get tired of trying to get you to meet up with him and move on to the next thing. But thus far, he'd been persistent, going on weeks now.

But you didn't have time for him right now so you turned your attention back to your slides. Slipping one beneath the microscope, you focused the knobs slowly, letting your world narrow to the blood sample, the blood cells.

This was why you loved your job. How easy it was to slip outside yourself and into whatever sample you were looking at. There was always a clear answer hiding in the shape of the cells, just beneath the surface. There was always a clear path to diagnosis, to treatment, to healing. Everything made perfect sense under the light of a microscope.

And this sample, as always, made perfect sense after just a few minutes. You sighed, "Shit."

You couldn't risk just sending this back via the online portal for whenever the doctor deigned to check the chart next so you picked up the phone. It rang and rang and rang.

You shook your head and put the phone back on the receiver. As quickly as possible, you documented the chart, still trying to get ahold of someone, but no one was picking up the phone. What the fuck was going on down there?

Impatient, you decided to head down yourself after saving your changes in the chart. You walked briskly towards the elevators, rocked on your heels as you waited.

The second the elevator doors opened you were knocked practically on your ass by the noise and the chaos of the ED. It was rare you came down here at all and every time you did it felt like being thrown back to med school rotations. Suddenly you were again the floundering med student constantly being expected to be on the lookout for the daggers of the other students as well as practice medicine efficiently.

But you were an adult now, not the twenty year old naive kid genius walking around on wobbly legs. Pushing your shoulders back, you shook it off and headed for the hub. Luckily, Dr. Abbot was right there.

"Your phones not working down here or something?" You asked without preamble, hands on your hips.

Abbot looked up at you slowly and then over to the phone. You followed his gaze and saw that the phone was lying off the receiver, "Ah, shit, sorry." He put the receiver back on the hook, "What could be so urgent it coaxes path from the comforts of the cave upstairs?"

You smirked, "Your patient has TTP."

He sighed and picked up an iPad, "Fuck," he muttered when he pulled up the chart you'd just updated, "Okay, um," He shook his head, "I don't think we have the resources down here to start TPE."

You frowned, "Okay… Admit to ICU, then."

He laughed, "Yeah, right. Good luck getting the charge to agree to admit a patient on a Saturday night."

You bit your lip, and then sighed, "Alright, give me… fifteen minutes and I'll be back down here with an apheresis machine, I'll run it."

He raised his eyebrows, "Really? You'd do that?"

You shrugged, "I could run apheresis in my sleep."

Slowly Abbot nodded and smirked at you, "Alright, great. Thank you."

Later, you sat in the hub of the emergency department after setting up the patient for TPE and finally opened your messages from Michael—Robby, you corrected yourself.

What's my favorite homebody up to this evening? Any way I can convince you to grab a drink?

You stifled a smirk and typed back, I'm on call tonight. Sorry, cowboy.

"Hey," You looked up to see Abbot leaning over the counter to look at you, "Seriously, thank you for staying."

"No problem," You eyed the chaos around you, "Seemed like you guys could use the help."

"Always." He laughed and nodded, "Listen, some of us in the ED are getting together for a poker night next Friday, would you… be interested in coming?"

You blinked up at him, unsure of what to make of the offer. Was he flirting or just being nice? You'd heard that Jack Abbot flirted with everyone, so likely he didn't mean anything by it at all. While you were trying to figure it out, your phone pinged again. Robby. You flipped your phone facedown on the workstation desk.

"Why not?" You said and smiled up at him.

"Great," He unlocked his phone and handed it to you, "Here, put your number in and I'll text you the details."

Having entered your information, you returned his phone to him and then he was off. Sighing, you turned back to your phone to open Robby's latest message.

They're working you too hard. I thought path was supposed to be easy?

You rolled your eyes at this, but were unsurprised. For as much as you remembered him complaining about surgeons during your rotations, that they had a superiority complex, he had the same issues. And so had you, once upon a time, but you had grown out of it.

Having a work-life balance doesn't make the whole specialty "easy."

Almost immediately, a reply was on your phone: Sorry, I didn't mean to diminish your specialty. The ED would cease to function without collaboration from path, I know that. And your diagnoses have saved our asses on multiple occasions when we were busy chasing zebras.

Well. That was new. An apology without hesitation that seemed to drip through with humility and sincerity.

Though, it also was not lost on you that he had incentive to be nicer to you in the context of a dating app considering he'd been trying to fuck you for the last few weeks.

Apology accepted, you texted back, I know your true frustration lies with the inability to have your way with me tonight. You stifled a smile after hitting send. It reminded you of being in college, the casual flirtation. You hadn't had time for this sort of thing in med school or residency, doing your best to just survive. Then, when you were finally an attending, you were so burnt out you remembered practically sleep walking through the first couple of years. By the time that was all over, you felt so out of practice you'd mostly isolated yourself until now.

You'd had a few one night stands since creating a Hinge profile, but since you and Robby had begun chatting he had taken up all of your mental space. This irritated you greatly on top of the fact that he didn't seem to remember you.

And here I thought I was doing an excellent job at concealing my desperation.

You huffed a laugh and shook your head, Could you show me just how desperate you are for me?

You fidgeted with your fingers anxiously as you waited for his response, wondering for just a few moments if you had been too brazen, too forward—The phone pinged.

You slid open your phone and felt lightheaded as you took in the photo he'd sent you. His fist was wrapped around the considerable length of his very erect cock, dark tufts of hair at the base of his fist. You had both been pretty drunk the time you'd hooked up in the darkness of Robby's messy studio apartment and as he'd had trouble maintaining an erection that night, you'd never gotten a good look at it. Not like this.

There was a lump in your throat and you swallowed hard as another message came through: The photos you sent in that pretty lingerie set will have to do for tonight.

You felt your cheeks heat and blinked the steamy feeling from your eyes. Locking your phone, you placed it face down in front of you and stared off into the distance for a while.

And after a minute or so of this, when your galloping heart slowed and lucid thinking began to ease its way behind your eyes again, you had only a single thought:

Oh, no.

***

An unseasonable heat wave had domed around Pittsburgh the last couple of days and so when Robby headed to Jack's place for poker night that Friday, the sun had gone down, but the residual heat warmed him enough that he didn't need a jacket.

He had been waffling back and forth on whether or not to skip the night all together. The week had been crushing him, slowly, a boulder rolling incremently into a brick wall, an unstoppable force.

There had been a few patients they'd lost that really stuck with him this week. They'd been short on residents which meant he'd had to do a bit more hands on care than usual.

And more and more when he found things growing particularly dark, he'd reach for you. You, with your gorgeous smile and silly cat and constant, almost oppressive optimism.

He'd tease you about it, but really he admired it. How no matter how bleak of a day you had, he had, you'd find a way to turn it on its head.

Sure, you'd had to stage the breast cancer of a woman in her thirties and the news wasn't good, but you'd gotten to hold her hand and tell her about all the ground breaking treatment that was available to her. Sure, you'd cried about her for days later, but she'd sent you a card the next week thanking you for the simple act of holding her hand. Of showing her kindness. And maybe you'd get to see her through to remission as you'd done for countless others.

That was your favorite part, you'd tell him. Diagnosing sucked, but treatment plans and seeing people through to the other side, sliding biopsies under your microscope to see healthy tissue. Remission.

"That's why you're so miserable down there," You'd told him, "You mostly see people on their worst days, you don't get to celebrate with them when they make it to recovery. You don't get to see the returns."

He craved your perspective, wanted desperately to have it himself. But he wasn't sure it was possible for him the way it was for you. With your nine to five and weekends off and time to date—though apparently, not time for him.

He had thought at first that you were simply waiting him out, waiting to see if he'd lose interest. You'd been open about the fact that your time on dating apps had largely led you to become disillusioned with the possibility of a real, fulfilling relationship. He felt the same, mostly. The only thing the apps had ever been good for was a night or two to fill the oppressive silence of his house.

But he continued trying with you, which had led to the two of you sexting and him being as open as he could remember being in recent years about how badly he wanted someone. Still, you avoided him.

He'd texted you earlier to see if you were around tonight and you had left him on read, so begrudgingly, he'd be going to poker night instead. Anything other than being alone with his thoughts tonight after they'd lost a woman with eclampsia and her baby.

But when he walked into Jack's living room, a beer in hand, he was stunned to see you sitting on the couch, immersed in conversation with Mckay and Al Hashimi.

Your eyes darted to his and then quickly away, but he saw the way your eyes widened and your chest swelled. You didn't know he was going to be there.

"Hey man, you made it," Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder, "Glad you came."

But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you, "You invited path?"

Jack followed his gaze, "Oh, yeah, she helped us out last weekend with a TTP patient. Figured it was only polite. Honestly, I didn't think she'd come. Why, do you know her?"

With effort, Robby tore his eyes away from you, "Wha—? Oh, no. No more than you do, you know, the rare occasion path comes down."

Jack narrowed his eyes at Robby, "Right," he said slowly, "Okay. Well, can I interest you in a round of Blackjack?"

Robby chuckled and shook his head, "No thank you, learned my lesson years ago not to play cards with you."

Jack smirked and watched as Robby's gaze flitted back to you, "I think she's too well adjusted for you."

Robby's head whipped back around, a hot flush crawling up his neck, "Excuse me?" He said through nervous laughter.

Jack shrugged, "I'm just saying, she seems like she wouldn't tolerate your bullshit and you'd probably get bored at how… normal she is."

Robby blinked at him, "Who said I'm interested?"

Jack rolled his eyes, "Please, don't insult me, brother. The last time I saw you look at a woman like that was the first time you met Heather. And you'll recall she also was unwilling to put up with your bullshit."

He knew Jack was mostly being playful, but it stung nonetheless, the thought that someone else besides himself thought he was incapable of being in a healthy and loving relationship. That no one in their right mind could want to stay with him.

For just a second he was eight years old again wondering if he was such a terrible, rotten son that it'd pushed his mother to end her own life—The thought rushed up against the dam in his brain and just as quickly receded. He wouldn't think about that. Not now. Not here.

He forced a smile for Jack, "You don't need to remind me. I remember."

After a moment Jack squeezed his shoulders, "But what do I know, hm? Go shoot your shot."

Robby rolled his eyes, "You have far too many Gen Z staff on your shift."

But still, Robby wandered over to you eventually, surprised to find that he was a bit nervous, "Is this why you didn't answer my text earlier?" He asked quietly as he sat down.

You turned just a bit towards him, "I didn't think you'd be here, honestly. It doesn't seem like your scene."

He laughed, "Meaning?"

"Meaning it's too… jovial," You teased.

He ran a hand over the back of his head, "Well, I'm glad I came. It's nice to finally meet you in person."

You grimaced, "Yeah, we've met before, Michael."

He frowned and turned fully to you, "What're you—? No we haven't."

You nodded slowly, "We have, yeah. We went to med school together. Did rotations together."

For a moment he paused and tilted his head, turned your name over in his head, "No… No, you're too young to have gone to med school with me—" His eyes caught on your wrist as your fingers tapped lightly against the glass of your beer bottle. A tattoo in looping scroll that read As you wish. With a dagger beneath the words. The feeling of nostalgia almost violently overtook him. There was only one other woman he'd ever met who had that tattoo of a quote from The Princess Bride in that exact spot.

"Bambi?" He asked, sounding almost breathless.

You wrinkled your nose and turned away from him, "I always hated that nickname."

But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you. There were a million thoughts running through his head as suddenly images flashed behind his eyes, the two of you twenty years younger and constantly at each other's throats, desperate to prove you were better than the other. But the first thought that he blurted out of his mouth was, "You went into pathology?"

You laughed and shook your head, "I knew you didn't mean it when you said you respected my specialty—"

"That's not what I meant—"

"What else could you have meant by the condescension dripping from your tone right now?"

He opened and closed his mouth before hanging his head, "I'm just… Surprised, is all. You were… a force in the ER. You could have had your pick of any emergency medicine residency in the country, surely."

You stared ahead for a few moments, tightlipped and eyes glossy, "Emergency medicine nearly burned me out just at rotations, I imagine I would have been… a shell of myself had I stayed. And at the time, you certainly agreed."

He huffed in indignation, "That is categorically false, I thought you were brilliant."

"Well you sure had a funny way of showing it. Talking over me, talking down to me in front of attendings, basically celebrating every mistake I made—"

"Everyone else practically worshiped you. I was just trying to make sure I wasn't overlooked. You know how cutthroat it was down there—"

"Exactly," You nodded, "Which is why I'm actually grateful for the way you treated me. It wore me down enough that I knew if I couldn't get through even a rotation or two, there was no way I'd make it through a residency. Not in that environment."

He pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, "Look, I'm… I apologize… For how I spoke to you back then, I was a stupid kid, I was just trying to survive as best I knew how. It's not an excuse, I just. I'm sorry."

You didn't seem upset as you looked at him, eyes gently passing over his face. You lifted the beer bottle to your lips and he watched the lights refract off the glass.

"It's fine," You said eventually, "You were far from the only reason I went into path."

"Why didn't you say anything? When we—When we started talking? Why didn't you tell me?"

You shrugged, "I thought maybe you'd forgotten me altogether. Or worse, that remembering me would mean you'd no longer be interested."

You carefully avoided looking at him when you said this, but screwed your mouth down to the side as you chewed your cheek.

Robby sat back and took a sip from his own beer, "It seems like I should have been the one to worry about that. Since I was the one who treated you so horribly."

You cleared your throat and turned back towards him. He was struck again by a sense of nostalgia at the intensity in your gaze. He had nicknamed you Bambi all those years ago because of your skittishness, the way that everything seemed to terrify you. Despite how smart you were and how clearly gifted a doctor you would become, you were easily startled and easily overwhelmed by the din of the emergency room. It hadn't been all that uncommon to find you in the ambulance bay after a hard case, slouched on the ground against the wall, hands trembling as they cradled your face.

But it had also been the intensity in your eyes, how every emotion was always so clearly reflected in their glossy pools, that had been the real inspiration behind the nickname. He had never intended it to be cruel, though it appeared that's how you'd interpreted it. It was something he had admired about you, the ease with which you'd connected with your patients because the empathy was so clear on your face. Of course, he had never told you that. Afraid to let on to any perceived weakness around you.

He suspected, though, that you hated the nickname because he had also used it as a weapon against your naivete. He remembered the ways he'd called attention to your age and when the Bambi nickname had spread there had been no way for you to escape it.

Now, though, your eyes were glossy again and he felt bowled over by the way you stared at him, a wistfulness in your expression, "Are you actually sorry or is it just that you think I'm hot now?"

He was so surprised by your question, he gave out a short laugh, "Please, I thought you were hot then, too."

You snorted, "Well, now I know you're lying."

"The nickname Bambi, if nothing else, implies that I found you adorable at the very least."

You rolled your eyes, "Even if I agreed with that assessment—which I don't—it was very clear from that one time we slept together that you were uninterested—"

"Woah—woah—woah— back up. When we slept together?"

You looked at him blankly for a few moments, "Oh my God," You said quickly, seemingly embarrassed as you looked away from him, "You don't remember. It was so bad you don't even remember."

Robby's brain was still working overtime to catch up with you, "Hold on—I would remember sleeping with you."

You stood up from the couch, and he remembered this about you—You had been spooked, you were about to dart back into the woods, never to be seen again. But he stood at the same time, towering above you, "Don't go," he said quietly, "whatever happened was twenty something years ago, it doesn't mean anything—"

"It does to me." You said firmly, "Excuse me," And you forced your way past him.

Robby watched you walk away for a moment, then turned his head to see Jack shaking his head, a slight smirk on his face. A very blatant I told you so if Robby'd ever seen one.

"Shit," Robby muttered under his breath and hung his head.

***

TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO

Michael was being very touchy that evening and overly kind, paying for your drinks and wrapping an arm around you in the booth. It was making you shy. Despite the way he talked to you, at you, over you, there were cases every now and then when you caught him looking at you with what looked like awe or reverence. But just as quickly, it'd dissipate and you'd be left wondering if you'd imagined it.

"Let me walk you home," he said, slurring only a little, his words just slightly stumbling into one another like dominos. He wrapped your jacket around your shoulders as he spoke.

"I'm fine," You smiled at him, "I think you're the one who needs to be walked home."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, a boyish grin on his face, "You got me. I do need to be chaperoned home if you would be so kind."

You rolled your eyes, but secretly you were pleased. You wanted to be his friend, wanted him to respect you so you didn't have to keep having panic attacks alone in the bathroom. You were still very much like a scared little kid in that way, just wanting at least one other person to just see you, truly.

So you allowed Michael to swing his arm around your shoulders as he directed you towards his place. It was just a couple of blocks from the hospital, but when you got to the building, a rundown, brutalist slab of concrete, you frowned, "You live here?"

"Now, don't sound so disgusted, princess," he teased and pulled you along behind him inside the building, "Not all of us have wealthy parents to fund our gorgeous apartments in buildings that have doormen."

You felt your cheeks heat, "That's not—That's not entirely true." He looked at you dubiously, eyebrows raised, and you furrowed yours, "I pay for my utilities," You grumbled.

He chuckled and ran a hand over his jaw before sliding his key into his door.

"If it's not too revolting to you," He said softly as he pushed the door open, "You're welcome to come inside for a drink."

Something changed in the tone of his voice and as you tried to place it, you saw the way his eyes roved down your body.

You had never had sex with anyone before, had never had the time. You were in college by the time you were fifteen and because you were so young no one really wanted to hang out with you. You didn't get invited to parties or study sessions (unless someone was trying to inadvertently get you to do their homework). Once you got to medical school, you were still only seventeen, still too young for any of your peers to show much interest.

When you turned twenty one, the shift had been subtle. But suddenly, you were being included to go out for drinks. Then people raised their eyebrows less when you said you were in med school. The stares lingered longer and traveled farther.

And now Michael was looking at you like that, too.

Maybe you should've thought it over more, said goodnight and gone straight home. But you were so painfully lonely. You should've hated him for the way he'd treated you, but it only spurred you on. You were used to having to compete for scraps of love from people who seemed to not like you much. Had been doing it since you learned to talk.

So you followed him inside.

It was freezing inside his apartment. So cold, in fact, your breath was beginning to cloud in front of you.

"Jesus Christ, Michael, is your heat broken or something?"

"Uh, no," He said from the kitchen. You heard the sound of glasses and bottles clinking before he reappeared, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, "Just… trying to conserve. But we can turn the heat on for you, princess." He said with a wink.

You sat on his couch with your arms crossed and felt your lip jut out in a pout, "I'm not spoiled, you know. I just—It's just as cold outside as it is in here. Can't be good for you. Or the pipes."

"Many of us," He said as he poured you each a glass, amber liquid sloshing up the sides, "Had to learn to live without. I didn't grow up in a mansion like you."

You scoffed, "I'm not the sort of rich you think I am, I grew up in the suburbs. My parents still have to work for a living. Yes, it was comfortable, but we're not fucking millionaires. We don't have, like, a fucking second house in the Hamptons."

He nodded, "Still seems pretty rich to me."

You rolled your eyes, "Well, what do your parents do then?"

That insufferable smirk finally fell from his face and for a second you felt vindicated.

"If you must know," He started, staring intently at the liquor in his glass, "I don't know who my father is, never met him. And my mother killed herself when I was eight. I found her swinging from the rafters one day when I got home from school."

You stared at him, stunned, while he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another, "My grandparents took me in after that and then when I was sixteen, my grandfather died. When I was twenty, my grandmother joined him. So now it's just me."

He raised his glass, forced smile on his face, "May their memories be a blessing." He said, and tossed back the entirety of his drink in one go.

"Michael," you said softly, reaching for him when he began to pour more whiskey, "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Not unkindly, he pushed your hand away, "You know, I've been thinking that I want people to start calling me Robby."

You frowned, thrown by the change in subject, "What?"

"Yeah, I just, people have trouble with Robinavitch. And Adamson asked me, if he could call me Robby. And I—I really like him and I want him to like me so I think—I think I'm just gonna have everyone call me Robby. It sounds friendlier, don't you think? Once I become a doctor? Doctor Robby."

You felt a sort of tenderness towards him now, after he'd revealed so much of himself to you. You had the distinct urge to hold him, cradle him to you, tell him it was all going to be okay.

"I like Michael," You said quietly, "If it's alright with you."

Finally he met your gaze again and his eyes softened just slightly. Slowly, as if afraid to scare you off, he reached a hand out to cup your cheek. When you leaned into his palm, he stroked his thumb against your cheek bone.

"Sure, Bambi. You can still call me Michael."

You couldn't say which of you closed the distance first, just that the next thing you remembered, his warm, wet mouth was on yours.

At first, the kisses were slow and hesitant. You remembered it was you who deepened it, a whine clamoring out of your throat and into his mouth.

Before you knew it, you had climbed into his lap and pushed him down into the couch. You felt him harden against you and it felt instinctual, the way your hips ground down against him, chasing the friction.

"Fuck," he breathed into your mouth, his hand cradling the back of your neck, "This good?"

You nodded fervently, "Do you have a condom?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Are you sure?"

You nodded again and so he pushed his hand between you, pushing his hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a foil packet.

You blinked, "Were you… planning this?"

"No," He said and teared the packet open with his teeth, "But I like to be prepared just in case."

Rolling your eyes, you pulled back to allow him to push his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprung up between you and you felt your breaths grow shallow as you watched him work the condom on.

Carefully, you hiked your dress up to your hips, hoping he didn't notice the way your hands shook. His eyes stayed on yours as you shifted your underwear to the side and slowly lowered yourself onto him.

"Oh, God." He sighed, sounding just a breathless as you felt at the stretch of him. It burned for just a moment, almost pleasantly, "Look at me," He said and your eyes locked back on his.

You leaned your forehead against his as you slowly moved your hips along the length of him, "Is this—Is it good?" You asked, your voice small and uncertain.

"Yeah," He said quickly, pushed his mouth up into yours, "So good," he whispered into your mouth.

But less than a minute later, the sensation changed. It was difficult to move against him, in fact, you weren't even sure he was inside you anymore, "Did you—I mean—Are you—soft?" You could hear your own panic and desperation in your voice as your hips slowed.

A scarlet flush was creeping up his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, I—I think so. S'probably whiskey dick." He finally opened his eyes and maybe sensed your impending humiliation, "Hey—hey—it's not you," He cupped your cheeks with both hands, "It's not you, I swear, you're perfect."

He pulled your face down to his again and you allowed yourself to get lost in the taste of him again, "It's me," he murmured between kisses, "I'm fuckin' defective, it's my fault."

"Michael—"

"Come up here, sit on my face," He said abruptly.

You raised your eyebrows, "Wh—what?"

"Please," He said, sounding desperate, "Please, I wanna taste you. Lemme take care of you."

You sighed and hid your face in your hands, "You don't have to, like, make it up to me—"

"I want to," he said again, "If you do, too. Please."

You couldn't deny that the idea of it had embers of arousal stirring in your belly. You hadn't prepared for the possibility of someone's mouth on you like that, but you didn't want to admit that to him. You didn't want to have to explain the depth of your inexperience lest it kill whatever remained of his desire.

So, you swallowed and moved your way up his body, let him position you, his arms wrapped around your thighs and pulling you to his mouth.

You were immediately overwhelmed by the sensation, gasping and whimpering when he moaned against you, your whole body twitching as it reverberated through your core.

But again, it wasn't long before things slowed, and then—stopped completely. Blinking, you looked down and saw that Michael had fallen asleep.

No, he couldn't have—could he? You leaned in a bit closer, leaning back to fully pull yourself off his face. Oh my God, was that drool on the corner of his mouth?

Mortified, and at a loss for what else to do, you carefully and quietly climbed off him, grabbed your things, and slipped out of his apartment. Heels in hand, you paused outside of his door and exhaled in relief.

You left his apartment feeling even more conflicted about him than before and also feeling a bit dejected. This was the guy who had once tripped you up in a trauma and then said "Don't worry Bambi, it's normal to be a bit wobbly on your legs when you're still just a fawn."

It shouldn't have surprised you at all that he found you unattractive, that obviously he had only allowed you to initiate because you were sat in front of him, willing and able. Like an idiot. Like the naive little kid he had told everyone you were.

You felt stupid and humiliated. And God knew you didn't believe in the fucking patriarchal construct of virginity, but you couldn't deny it made you feel a bit bitter that you had wasted it on Michael Robinavitch. You wouldn't make such an idiotic decision ever again.

He could say a lot about you, but you'd never made the same mistake twice. You didn't intend to start now.

***

Robby watched you through the glass, leaned over Jack's balcony with your arms wrapped around yourself.

This had to be a new record of how quickly he could fuck things up with a potential romantic partner. Once he'd recognized you, he'd felt stupid that he hadn't recognized you immediately when he saw your profile. And maybe there had been some familiarity there, something he'd mistaken for instant attraction and chemistry.

That said, he had wracked his brain and the two of you sleeping together he was near positive had never happened. Or at least, for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. And yes it was true he'd always given you a hard time, but he had also always been enamored by you. Honestly, he'd thought it'd been obvious, especially towards the end of M4.

So he found it hard to believe that he wouldn't remember that. But he also didn't think that you were a liar.

Carefully, he slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The night had cooled significantly since his arrival and as he got closer to you, he saw goosebumps along your arms. You didn't startle when he came up next to you and positioned himself at such an angle as to shield you from the breeze.

"I'm sorry that I don't remember," He said softly after a few moments, "But I'd like you to tell me about it, if you're up for it."

You shook your head, "It's not your fault. It was really horrible, I don't blame you for not remembering."

He groaned, "You know, you could say a lot of shit about me and I wouldn't blink, but hearing I'm bad in bed is a new one for me and I'm not a fan."

You laughed and turned to him, "Oh yeah? You've become something of a casanova in your old age?"

He winced, "Not that old."

You hummed and turned back towards the treeline, "What was it? That made you finally remember me tonight?"

"The Princess Bride tattoo."

You looked at your wrist, "Huh. I would've thought this was one of the things you picked on me for behind my back. Called it childish."

He shook his head, "Nah, The Princess Bride's a classic. I actually always really liked it, thought it was romantic."

You rolled your eyes at that, as if you didn't quite believe him, but didn't comment further. After a moment you sighed, "It was during MS4. We were almost done with our last rotation in the ER and some of the residents invited us out for drinks."

"Oh," Robby said, frowning, "I do remember that. I got really drunk and you walked me back to my apartment."

You nodded, "Right."

"But we didn't… I invited you in for a drink and…" He trailed off. He was drawing a blank, "Did you come inside? I just thought… You never liked me, I thought for sure you declined. I don't remember anything after that."

You narrowed your eyes at him and then sighed, "Well, you did down something like three fingers of whiskey in quick succession once we got in your apartment so I guess it's possible you blacked out."

"You always made me nervous so it's no surprise I drank so much."

You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, but then shook your head quickly, "Yeah, I guess that was it."

"Then what happened?"

You sighed, "We really don't have to rehash this—"

"Please," he pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "I want to know."

You shook your head and then shrugged, "Fine. About a minute after you put it in, I was riding you and you went soft. So then you… you asked me to sit on your face instead. Which I did. And a minute or two later you… fell asleep."

Robby was silent for a moment as he processed what you'd said. You were deliberately looking away from him, running a hand nervously over the back of your neck.

"Wow," He said finally, "And you still liked my Hinge profile decades later?"

You gave a short laugh, "I was curious if anything had changed, I guess."

He hummed, "A lot has changed, I would say." He ran a finger lightly over the back of your arm and watched as goosebumps spread—But you didn't move away, not even when he bent to your ear and said lowly, "I'd like a chance to make it up to you."

You swallowed and then turned to face him, your faces impossibly close, "Have you ever been married, Michael?"

He frowned and pulled away marginally, "Um… no? Have you?"

You shook your head and looked off into the distance over his shoulder, wistfully, "I got close, once." You sighed, "Listen, I'm too old to be doing this… friends with benefits, situationship, whatever, bullshit. Sex is great, but I have plenty of vibrators that do the job just fine and without the emotional turmoil. So I'm not interested in casual sex. I'm looking for a partner, not a dildo. If you want me you'll have to romance me and mean it."

Robby's eyes roved over your face. Maybe it was your shared memories or the fact that you knew him before he was broken beyond repair, but he felt a tender ache in his chest looking into your eyes. Just as warm and inviting as he remembered.

There were few people these days who could entice him to commit to anything. A real relationship meant having to open himself up to someone else. Allowing them to see the ugliest parts of himself and hope they didn't leave. It usually ended in him lashing out instead so at least he had some semblence of control over the end of the relationship.

Or at least, that was the hypothesis of his last therapist, who he still wasn't entirely sure wasn't full of shit.

But either way, when he thought about pursuing a real, full relationship with you, he didn't feel his usual urge to run. Instead, he felt a curiosity. The need to take you apart, to learn you like he would a medical procedure.

Maybe he wasn't broken after all. Maybe he could have full, healthy relationships like everyone else.

He brought one of his hands up to your neck, watched how you tried to stifle the urge to lean into his touch—Good, you were touch starved, just like him—and his thumb lightly toyed with one of the hoops hanging from your ear.

"'As you wish'." He said softly, a smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward.

"What? You don't believe me?" He tilted his head downward to force eye contact with you, "I've been the one begging you to go on a date with me for weeks."

"A date?" You raised your eyebrows, "They're calling a drink at the bar before taking someone to bed a date now, are they?"

He scoffed, "What, so you want a string quartet and a night out at the ballet?"

You furrowed your brow, "And so what if I did?"

He stared at you for a moment and then chuckled, "Then I'd tell you to wear your favorite dress."

You narrowed your eyes, but then shook your head, "Just dinner would be more than enough."

He nodded, "I can do that. Would you allow me to cook for you?"

You smirked and ran your hands up his forearms, "Sure, but it has to be at my place."

He grinned, ran his thumb back and forth across the skin just below your ear, "Friday night?"

You tilted your head a bit, "You're serious about this?"

"Yeah," He said softly, eyes heavy lidded from both alcohol and desire as he looked into your face, "Are you?"

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as your eyes darted back and forth between his eyes, assessing. You still didn't quite believe him, he could tell. You had always been distrustful, convinced everyone was out to hurt you to a nearly paranoid level. The decades it seemed had done nothing to smooth that over.

But still, you nodded and leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek, "See you Friday, Michael."

He watched as you walked back inside, conscious of the heat that pulsed against the skin where your lips had been just moments before.

***

"What do you think, Brutus?" You asked, your cat sidling between your legs as you looked at yourself in your floor length mirror. You had chosen form fitting, but simple clothes. A ribbed black sweater and your favorite pair of jeans. "Do you think he'll like it?"

Brutus trilled and stood up on his hind legs, stretching his front paws against your legs, a very clear request to be picked up. You looked down at him and smirked, "You're gonna get cat hair all over my sweater."

He mewled again, claws gently pricking at your jeans before quickly receding. You sighed, already defeated. You could never say no to him. You bent to scoop him up to your chest, pressing your nose into his face as he immediately began purring, "I know you don't like guests, but you have to be on your best behavior tonight, okay? No knocking glassware over if I'm not paying attention to you," You peppered kisses all over his head, "It's not polite."

The doorbell rang and you quickly lowered Brutus back down, running your hands over your sweater in an attempt to brush off the cat hair.

Sliding across the hardwood in your socked feet, you took one deep breath before pulling your front door open.

There in your doorway stood Michael Robinavitch in a button down and jeans, one hand holding a thermal bag you assumed was full of groceries, the other a bottle of wine.

He grinned when you opened the door, his eyes trailing lazily down your body, giving you a once over before meeting your eyes again.

"Hi," You said and stepped to the side, "Come in."

You watched him take in your home as he walked in, kicking off his shoes by the door without you having to ask.

Without a partner to appease or children you'd spent a lot of time creating a calming, beautiful space just for yourself. It resulted in a lot of warm lighting and soothing colors. Lots of windows and cozy nooks. The kitchen was big and open with huge bay windows looking into your backyard behind the sink. As you padded gently behind Robby, you watched him take stock of the sun setting through those windows.

"This is gorgeous." He said, eyes on the fresh tulips that sat in a vase on the island.

"Thank you," You said, and took the wine bottle from his hand, "It's my favorite place in the whole world."

He smirked as he placed the groceries on the counter, "Now I understand why it's so hard to get you to leave."

You took wine glasses down from your cabinet and opened the wine he'd brought, pouring you each a glass and bringing his over to him as he began unpacking the groceries he'd brought.

"What're you making?"

He pulled out a loaf of Challah bread and offered you a piece as he spread everything else out in front of him, "Um, some salad, roast chicken, and potato kugel."

You hummed, "Where'd you learn that?"

He began prepping the veggies and you watched his hands. You remembered from med school you had always been enamored by watching skilled hands at work, especially in the ED. Watching him now you had that same feeling as the wine began to warm you from the inside out.

"They're my grandma's recipes. She used to make this every Friday for Shabbos dinner."

Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise and immediately, you felt touched, "That's… really lovely, Michael. I'm honored that you'd share them with me."

He looked up at you for a moment, smiling, but shrugged his shoulders, "It's the only meal I really know how to cook well because she taught me. I don't do much cooking these days."

You tried not to let his dismissiveness disappoint you, "Do you still… I mean, are you observing Shabbos this weekend?"

He shook his head, "No, no, if I was I'd already have broken the rules," He jerked his head towards the bay windows, where the sky was beginning to bruise, "No cooking after sundown. I don't really practice anymore, but I sometimes go to synagogue on High Holidays."

You let a few moments pass in silence before speaking again, "Can I help?"

He shook his head, "No, you just sit there and look pretty."

The two of you made small talk about work, discussing funny patients or over eager med students, until he put his dishes in the oven.

"Do you want to sit on the porch?" You asked as he washed his hands.

"That sounds lovely," He said, drying his hands on your dish towel before following you outside with his glass of wine.

You tucked your legs underneath yourself as you sat on the love seat, the chill of the spring night had you reaching for the throw blanket. But Robby got there first, gently draping it over your legs and then his own lap. You pretended not to be flustered when he pulled your feet into his lap, tenderly kneading his fingers into the arch of your foot as he sipped his wine.

Over the years, you'd brought men to your place many times. You'd even had the occasional relationship that grew to the point of your partner moving into your place, because it was a nonstarter for any partner to suggest you sell your house, something you were always clear about at the start of the relationship. Maybe it would be the reason you never had a lifelong partner, but you had put an enormous amount of work into this house to create a sanctuary of sorts. It was where you were happiest. You had no desire to live anywhere else. You doubted you'd ever love anyone as much as you loved this house.

But Robby being here, it felt different than it had felt with all others. It felt natural to have him here, like this, cooking dinner in your kitchen, sitting on the porch with you while you told him about the study you'd just been awarded a grant to start. After residency, you'd sworn off dating doctors all together. But there was something refreshing about discussing renal cell carcinoma with Robby and him asking follow up questions that were more complex than "what's a renal cell?"

It felt like he fit here with you, like he could slot into your life effortlessly. But you supposed that could just be the forlorn romantic in you desperate for anyone to desire you again.

"Where'd you go for your residency?" Robby asked.

"Chicago," You said, "Northwestern Memorial. What about you?"

"New Orleans. Big Charity Hospital."

You opened and closed your mouth, thinking silently for a few moments. Trying to remember what years the two of you had gone off to residency and when you would have finished. And the realization of when had your stomach slowly sinking. "Wasn't… Wasn't Katrina during residency?"

He wasn't looking at you, staring off into the darkness of the trees behind your house. His face was partially lit by the candles you'd brought outside. When he nodded, you couldn't get a good read on his expression, but it suddenly felt very cold around you. As if the ghosts had lowered around his shoulders.

"That must have sucked," You said softly, "I'm sorry."

He cleared his throat and looked down at his wine glass, "It was a long time ago."

One thing that had changed about Robby was his openness. Years ago, in med school, you only needed to get him a single beer deep before he was pouring out his most intimate thoughts. Obviously, the time you'd slept together, that had been the most he'd ever revealed to you. About his parents and grandparents. But even before that, he'd opened up to you about his insecurities as a doctor and even when he was having trouble with significant others.

Now, he seemed to be dismissive of his troubles. Never wanting the focus on him for too long. He used to be what your mother would call a peacock, charming to an almost offensive degree. He was impossible to dislike and had everyone thinking they were his best friend. That had all changed. You could feel the barrier he'd put up between you. What had happened to him between then and now to have changed him so drastically?

Likely, you supposed, it started with Katrina.

Another reason you had decided against going into emergency medicine had been that you knew you were too soft for it. Just the rotations had been so detrimental to your well being. You had thought you loved it while you were in it, but the second you were out of it, you realized you had been in survival mode the entire time. Outside of it, you cried for weeks straight, grieving every person you'd watched die and especially the ones that had died on your watch. The heaviness of that responsibility was too much. A lifetime of it would've broken you.

It would break anyone, you imagined. And as you watched Robby curiously, you realized for the first time since reuniting with him just how haunted he had become. You had thought with his easy charm and smile that he was still the same kid, but he had changed. The years had slowly eroded him, smoothed some edges and sharpened others.

A timer went off a few moments later and Robby flashed you a quick smile, carefully removing your feet from his lap, "You hungry?"

"Starved," You said, allowing him to take your hand and gently pull you to standing.

The food was delicious. You caught Robby staring at you more than once over the candles when you licked your fingers or groaned in pleasure, mischief in his eyes.

You had to fight him to let you do the dishes, insisting it was only fair since he had cooked. He protested for a bit until you sternly repeated that you'd be doing the dishes and since he was a guest here, you demanded he relax on the couch while you cleaned up. Eventually, he gave up, sighing heavily and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, "Thank you," he murmured, sounding bone tired.

When the last dish was loaded in the dish washer, the cookware washed, the counters wiped down, you found Robby nearly fast asleep, stretched out on your couch. Brutus had come out for the first time since he'd arrived and was now hesitantly sniffing at his hand which hung over the edge of the couch.

"What d'you think, Brutus?" You whispered, "Is he good enough to eat?"

A chuckle rumbled deep in Robby's chest and Brutus scampered off, sufficiently frightened by the sudden movement. Robby cracked an eye open to look up at you, reaching with both arms towards you, "C'mere before I eat you."

You hesitated for just a moment before crawling over him, sighing contentedly as his arms wrapped tightly around you, your ear pressed to his chest.

You were reminded again of that one night with him decades ago, you atop him not unlike this, trying to warm yourself with his body in the frigid apartment.

"It's strange," you said softly, "I don't really know you anymore, but I feel like I understand you more now than I did then."

He hummed, "That's funny. You're still just as much a mystery to me as you were twenty years ago."

You lifted your head from his chest so you could see his face and felt his breath fan your cheeks, "I'm an open book, you just have to ask."

"Why pathology?"

You pursed your lips, brow furrowed in thought, "I liked the simplicity of it. That there were rules and structures and always a correct answer. There's always a clear path to and from diagnosis."

He shook his head, "I know you applied to the emergency medicine residency at Big Charity. I was the second choice, they wanted you."

You felt your cheeks heat, "I—It was so long ago, it doesn't matter—"

"No, you're right, it doesn't matter anymore," He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head to your neck, "It certainly mattered to me then. I was so pissed off at you those first few weeks of intern year when I found out. I tried calling every emergency medicine department in the country I could think of to find you."

You smirked, "You looked for me?"

He nodded, "Never crossed my mind that you would've gone into a different specialty. And pathology even? I never would have guessed. You were so good in the emergency room. A natural. I bet if I threw you in my ED now you'd do just as good as most of my residents."

You gave a short laugh, "Absolutely not, I don't even remember most of my rotations. Honestly, they were so hard for me I think part of my brain blacked it out."

He narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, they're hard for everyone, it's the emergency department."

You nodded, "I know. And I didn't want the rest of my life to look like that."

"Look like what?"

You opened your mouth for a moment and then sighed, "Like I was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of constant compounding grief."

He shook his head slowly, "I remember those rotations, you helped save a lot of people."

You nodded, "At the expense of my sanity, yeah."

"You don't think it would be worth it?"

You tilted your head slightly, "To martyr myself? Do you?"

He sighed and looked away from you, "I used to think so, yeah."

Robby used to come alive in the emergency department, as you recalled it. You knew he was empathetic and had his own struggles because he'd told you on occasion and because you'd seen it. Maybe he hadn't broken down visibly as often as you, but you recalled finding him at least a couple of times out in the ambulance bay, eyes red rimmed and wet.

But you had never doubted that he would thrive in the emergency room. You had been so busy feeling like an imposter yourself and he had made everything look so easy, it had never crossed your mind that maybe he had been struggling the same as you. He just hid it better, even from himself.

"You've lost a lot," You said softly, "the last twenty years, haven't you? Not just patients."

His eyes floated slowly back to yours and it didn't matter what he said, it was sitting there in his eyes as he looked at you. All the ghosts that haunted him, clawing to get out just behind his eyes. He looked tired. He looked shattered.

After a few moments he brought a hand up to your face, brushed the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, "I don't want to talk about that tonight." When he spoke, his voice hitched just slightly, but you politely acted as if you hadn't noticed.

It was a first date, after all. He didn't need to crack open his chest for you tonight, though part of you wished he would. You had never been one for small talk and you were always all in long before anyone else was. You were used to this, being the one kept at the perimeter, debating whether to ignore the Beware of Dog sign and hop the fence.

But he looked so tired and sad. You could be patient for now. Maybe befriend the dog while you waited, tossing treats through the hole in the fence, whistling gently on the wind.

"Okay," You pushed yourself up so your face was closer to his, "We don't have to talk."

A moment passed, two. Your eyes stared longingly at his mouth until his hand slipped to the back of your neck and pulled you to him, mouths crashing together.

You sighed at the feel of his lips on yours, simultaneously soft and rough from the scratch of his beard. It chafed against your chin, but still you pushed yourself closer, the new, but still somehow familiar taste of him intoxicating.

He still kissed the same, teeth digging desperately into your lower lip, tongue stroking against yours almost sweetly. But it was more refined, somehow. Like he'd perfected the art of kissing over the decades.

You'd had many lovers over the years, but few who would make out with you like this for very long without it quickly escalating. Robby's hands, hot and needy, worked their way beneath your shirt, thumbs stroking just below your breasts. Then, one of his hands slid down until it was on your ass, squeezing and groping over your jeans. It was at this point that he whimpered into your mouth and you felt yourself clench instinctually around nothing at the sound.

It had been a long time since you'd been touched like this and longer since you had enjoyed it this much. Usually, it was other partners that acted impatient, that were already tugging at your pants when you were nowhere near warmed up yet, but now it was you who had started grinding on his thigh, searching for friction. You who was frantically pulling at the buttons on his shirt, trying to get it off. You who was now fumbling for his belt when Robby finally stopped you.

"Mmm—Hold on—Wait." Easily, he secured your wrists in his hands and pinned them to his chest which was rising and falling rapidly as you both attempted to catch your breath.

"Are you—Are you sure? I don't want you to think—I'm happy to just end the night like this. I can go home right now—"

You pressed your mouth to his again, kissing him deeply before playfully nipping at his lip, "Do I seem unsure to you?" You asked, nudging your nose against his.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "No," He said and kissed you again, fervently.

"Do I… need to beg you to fuck me?" You asked, sucking lightly on his neck as you spoke, "Because I can do that."

Robby sighed and gripped your ass tighter, "Fuck."

You dragged your center across his thigh, "Not an answer."

His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze, "You would beg for me?"

You weren't exactly thinking straight as you looked at him, wild with want. You would have done anything he asked in that moment, you were sure of it. But still, looking at him now, you were dragged back twenty years to his icy apartment. To the way he'd opened up to you and then swiftly rejected you. He denied it now, chalked it up to alcohol, but somewhere in you was still that dejected girl, begging for any scrap of affection.

It'd been a while since you felt her, small and weak, at the edges of your consciousness. She'd been shortsighted and easy, pan handling for love on the side of the road. You still loathed her, felt she was pathetic. Robby could still pull her out of you. It felt easy to slip into her and her wants. You remembered insisting to yourself after that night with him that you'd never let him that close again.

And yet you found yourself tangled in him yet again. You were different, you assured yourself, lied to yourself. In reality, he already had you wrapped around his fingers. He could break you with a single word, a change of expression.

You pushed all that out of your mind, suffocating it with your mouth on his, his all consuming taste in your mouth, "Is that what you want?"

"I want," He said, hand still firm on your neck, kissing you between his words, "Whatever you want. Just want to make you feel good."

You sighed, "Then take me to bed."

Quickly, he sat up, keeping you in his lap. He kissed up the column of your throat to your earlobe, sending chills down your spine, "Lead the way, sweetheart."

On your bed, he undressed you carefully, taking his time in a way you weren't used to. After the way you'd been talking over texts and swapping photos back and forth, you thought he'd be ravenous. And he was, you could tell from his groans and whimpers, but still, he remained steady and patient.

Once you were topless, both of you kneeling across from each other on the bed, you reached to unbuckle his pants before he could get to yours. Robby had been competitive as you remembered it, but in bed it seemed he was fine with handing over the reins. He watched you with heat in his eyes as you spat in your hand and reached down his pants to fist his cock.

As your hand stroked his shaft down to his balls, his eyes rolled back and he swore. You were on fire watching him, his desire seemingly contagious.

"Please," He whimpered after a minute of so of this, "Please, can I… Can I suck on your tits?"

Your belly somersaulted at the thought and immediately you were nodding, scooting closer to him.

As his lips puckered and pulled at your nipple, he was whining more loudly than you were with each stroke of your hand. He muttered praises and pleas into your breasts, heat bubbling up at the sound from your belly to your chest to your neck.

Looking down at his cock in your hand, you noticed the small amount of precum beginning to leak. You leaned down to lick it off, but Robby stopped you before you could.

"No—Wait. Need to take care of you. Please." He was breathless and flushed pink. Needy and desperate to please. You weren't sure that anyone had ever been this desperate to please you.

You gave him a short nod and released him. Immediately, he kissed you, the momentum pushing you flat against the mattress.

As he crawled over you, you opened your eyes to look up at him. There had been times when you were students that he had been vulnerable with you, but that had only been under the heavy influence of alcohol. Mostly, he had been very guarded. And still, earlier this evening you'd sensed the same guard up, though it had been reinforced throughout the decades.

But now he was looking at you with a gentle, almost tender look on his face. Before you could fully digest what that meant, he had leaned back down to kiss along your jaw, rough fingers gently grasping your chin to kiss down your neck.

He kissed all the way down your body, looking up at you occasionally through heavy lids whenever you made a noise he particularly liked.

Down at your waist now, he carefully unbuttoned your jeans and wriggled them down, you lifting up your hips to assist.

In just your panties now, you watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he looked at you, ran his rough hands over your soft thighs, kissing and nipping gently at your hips, "So, so pretty for me." He murmured into your skin.

The man in front of you now so at odds with the boy you had imagined was revolted by you. Now he worshiped your body with lips and tongue and teeth. He kissed you now over the fabric of your panties, slowly and methodically, until you felt the fabric begin to soak, both from his saliva and your arousal.

You whined and tried to lift your hips, but he quickly braces an arm over your thighs, "Michael, please." You whimpered.

He groaned against your cunt, sending shockwaves through your body.

"Sorry, baby," He murmured and began tugging your panties down your hips as well, "You need my mouth on you properly, is that it? Need my tongue inside you?"

You nodded, a burning in your eyes from embarrassment or pure desperation, you weren't sure.

Panties out of the way, he ran a finger down your slick folds to separate them. As he sighed, your eyes rolled back, jaw going slack.

"Gorgeous," he murmured, fingers running slowly and gently around your entrance.

It didn't feel like teasing, but admiring. Your hips jumped when he pressed a chase kiss to your puffy clit. You had barely begun to whine again when he licked, long and slow, from the bottom of your entrance up to circle your clit.

The sensation was dizzying as he continued to repeat the motion, moving faster and applying slightly more pressure each time.

"Okay, sweetheart," He said breathlessly, your juices glistening all over his beard, slowly, he slipped his middle finger inside you, stroking the spot deep inside you that had your abdomen tightening in anticipation, "Think you can finish for me?"

Unable to form coherent words, you writhed against him, whining until he relented and lowered his mouth back down to your clit.

It was over quickly after that, though his tongue kept working you until you lightly tugged at his hair, pulling him off you. He wiped his mouth on the back of his forearm and crawled back up to you, pressing kisses all over your sweaty face.

Without preamble, you reached for his cock with the intention of lining it up with your entrance, but he pulled away, "Not yet." He said mildly, propped up on one elbow as he looked at you, his free hand stroking the backs of his knuckles gently against your cheek, "I'm not done with you yet."

You were still a bit dumb from the aftershocks of your orgasm and you blinked blankly at him, "What?"

"I figure I owe you at least three orgasms before I get to cum, that should wipe the previous horrendous encounter from your memory, no?"

A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face and he traced his thumb across your lips, "It's gonna take a while for me to cum again, never mind twice more."

He nodded, "That's why I'm giving you a break, sweet girl."

Flustered, you looked away from him. Who would have thought one man had the potential to be both your best and worst sex?

***

TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO

Your eyelid was twitching as you sat at central, a phone receiver pressed to your ear as you listened to your mother drone on. As she spoke, your eyes drifted to a fresh blood stain on your white sneakers from the man who'd died maybe an hour or two ago from several gunshot wounds to the chest.

"I hear you, I just—" You tried and failed to scrub the bloodstain out with a wet wipe from behind the desk. The grueling twelve hour shift had ended something like forty five minutes ago with you crying into your hands in the ambulance bay. You were exhausted. "I just don't think now is the time for this conversation—"

"Well," Your mother huffed, "Maybe if you ever answered your phone at home we wouldn't need to have this discussion now."

You ground your teeth together, "I appreciate all the support you and dad have given me—"

"You know, I don't think you do. We clawed our way through law school with no help from our families, started our own firm, saved thousands just so you could be as educated as you wanted without having to struggle like we did—"

"—And I'm immensely grateful for that privilege—"

"Then why would you throw it back in our faces by choosing pathology, essentially a glorified lab technician—"

"That's not what it is at all—"

"You should be in neurosurgery."

You had had this argument what felt like a thousand times over the last few weeks when you had first admitted interest in applying to path residencies. Your mother's insistent argument that she knew best and neurosurgery would provide you with the best career and would utilize your strengths—an excruciating attention to detail and laser-like focus—in a way no other specialty could.

But you disagreed. And what you could never admit to your mother was that your emergency medicine rotations had proven to you that you would crumble under that sort of pressure.

"Hey, Bambi," Michael leaned over your desk, "Get off the phone and glove up, incoming MVA in two minutes."

You gave him an incredulous look, "Our shift ended almost an hour ago."

"Okay…" He said slowly, pulling on a clean pair of gloves, "So you're gonna let me just take this one myself? What if it requires intubation? You're gonna pass up that opportunity? You still haven't done one by yourself."

You were so burnt out and frustrated and once again on the verge of bursting into tears, you didn't have the energy for this, "So, what, you're keeping tabs on my procedure log now?"

He pretended to think about it, furrow between his brow, "Yeah, guess I am."

Neither of you had spoken about the night you'd slept together—if you could even call it that—and Michael had been acting like it never happened. Occasionally he'd reference the night it happened, but always before you went home with him. This was fine with you, it saved you from the embarrassment. Though, sometimes, it had you wondering if maybe you'd somehow hallucinated the entire thing.

"Who are you talking to?" Came your mom's tinny voice in your ear.

You hurriedly said that you had to go and hung up the phone, knowing it would lead to more phone calls later, but you had taken to leaving your phone off the hook when she began calling repeatedly like that. Which was often. It was the only way to ensure you got enough sleep.

Normally, you would jump at any opportunity to try to show up Michael in a trauma, but you were barely holding it together right now. The thought of watching another person die on the table today had you fighting back the instinct to dry heave.

You rested your elbows on the table in front of you and kneaded lightly at your temples, "You can have the MVA, I'm going home."

"That your mom on the phone?" Michael asked, leaning forward and apparently ignoring what you'd just said, "Is she waiting at home for you with a fresh meal and a warm bath?" He taunted, "Bambi needs to be pampered? The ER is too rough for the princess?"

Slowly, you tilted your face up to look at him, "You jealous that I still have a mother who takes care of me, Robinavitch?"

If you weren't as tired, you wouldn't have said it. As it was, your stomach churned when the smile melted off his face. Yes, he had taunted you and teased you and tortured you for most of both MS3 and 4, but you shouldn't have sank to his level. Really, you had sunk below his level, you thought. Even with how cruel he could be, he'd never mocked you when he found you crying out in the ambulance bay. On occasion he'd actually silently stood next to you or offered you a cigarette.

Your relationship was strange as he could be downright abusive in front of attendings or other colleagues, but when it was just the two of you it was like being on hallowed ground. He had only ever been nice to you when it was just the two of you with no one else around to hear. Something you struggled to reconcile. And now you had weaponized one of the only times he had opened up to you.

He shook his head, but otherwise didn't say anything, ducking away from you, "Michael—Wait—"

"It's fine, Bambi," He called over his shoulder, "Go home. As you've so astutely pointed out, not all of us have one of those."

Later, after you'd crawled into bed and couldn't sleep despite your exhaustion for the guilt that wracked you, you picked up the phone next to your bed and dialed Michael.

It rang for a while and you thought he might let it go to voicemail, but when he finally picked up his voice was rough with sleep.

"Hello?"

You hesitated, then breathed softly, "Hi."

A moment of silence passed, "Bambi?"

"Yeah."

"It's… late."

You sighed, "Yeah, um, sorry. Did I wake you?"

You heard him stifle a yawn, "You did, yeah." Silence again, but for the sound of both your breathing, "Um, did you need something?"

"I—Yeah, I, um… I couldn't sleep."

"Okay," He drew out the word, long and smooth, "Have you tried… Counting sheep?"

You huffed a laugh, "No, I—I can't sleep because I feel horrible about what I said to you earlier. About—about your mom. I'm so, so sorry, Michael. It was awful and—and it was unacceptable and unprofessional."

He was quiet for a moment, then, "It's alright, Bambi. I've said worse to you. You didn't know about—It was just a lucky shot."

Your mouth fell open slightly, confusion clouding your brain, "What?"

"You—What you said earlier hit a nerve, but you couldn't have known. I've—I've never spoken about my mother to anyone."

You stared at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment, mouth still agape. Did he not remember?

And you were nothing if not a coward, so you kept quiet. Didn't correct him. The fact was, what you said was so much worse knowing what you knew. And he didn't even know you knew.

"Right," You said, swallowing, "Well either way, it was a really shitty thing for me to say. So I'm sorry."

"I appreciate it and I'm sorry for pushing you earlier."

You exhaled slowly and closed your eyes, "Thank you."

"Think you can sleep now, princess?" Despite the nickname, his tone was playful, almost gentle in your ear. You had the insane thought that you'd like to hear him talk you to sleep.

"Yeah. Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight, Bambi."

***

Robby shot up in bed, his skin tacky with sweat and his chest heaving, lungs struggling to fill. Nightmares were common for him, but what was so disorienting this night was that at first, he wasn't sure where he was. The bed sheets were unfamiliar to him where they stuck to his skin. They felt more expensive than what he had at home, reminded him of hotel sheets. The mattress was softer as well.

And then there was the soft sigh the came from the pillow next to him. His eyes followed the noise and he saw you laying beside him, fast asleep. At the sight of you, his panic began to recede just slightly. He was in your bed. Had shared a lovely dinner with you and slept with you and spoke in hushed whispers across pillows until you'd fallen asleep.

When he had nightmares at home, he would often get out of bed, crack open a beer or smoke a cigarette, unable to properly fall back asleep. But looking down at you, he feared he'd wake you if he did that. The last however many hours he'd spent with you had been the most at peace he'd felt in recent memory. Even with the nightmare, he already felt his heart rate slowing, just watching the even rise and fall of your chest.

He sank back down into the mattress and laid his head down on the pillow, his forehead nearly touching yours.

Unable to help himself, he rested his hand against your neck and ran his thumb over your cheekbone. You mewled and then your eyes began to blink open.

"Sorry," He said immediately when your eyes opened into his, "Didn't mean to wake you."

You gave him a sleepy smile and nudged your nose against his, "S'okay… It's almost nice to wake up in the middle of the night when there's someone else here."

Lying close to you, he allowed himself to believe that he deserved love like this. That he deserved a life like this. That you could love him and stay despite the ugly parts of him he'd try like hell to keep from you.

He kissed you then, to avoid thinking about all the ways in which he was bound to disappoint you if this continued. And you kissed him back, pulled him closer, your hand at the nape of his neck and he catalogued it—the feeling of your gentle fingers stroking the back of his head.

"Mmm," You hummed and pulled away from him slightly, your brow furrowed, "Is it raining?"

Sure enough, as both of you stilled, there was the sound of rain tapping against the windows, "Sounds like it."

You grinned at him, "Would you like to drink tea and watch the rain from the porch?"

You seemed already giddy by the idea so he couldn't say no, not that he wanted to. It was so simple, really, the act of watching the rain. But you stood outside wrapped in a throw blanket, your hands warming a mug of tea, and looking out into your yard with awe as the sun started to stretch over the horizon, lighting up the storm clouds from behind.

He wanted to see the world like that. To be enamored by simple pleasures, the way you were.

"You seem so happy," He said into your ear.

You hummed, "I am."

"Is this what it's like being you? In this stunning house? Just a cup of tea while it rains can bring joy?"

You turned slightly in his arms to see his face and he recognized it when you scanned his face: You were trying to gauge if he was making fun of you. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Seemingly satisfied that he wasn't mocking you, you turned back toward the rain, "It's a lot nicer when there's someone to share it all with."

You said it casually, but he heard the note of sadness in your tone, "You've been alone for a while?" You nodded, "What about family? Your parents?"

You stiffened in his embrace and he almost regretted it. He knew what happened when you got like this, if someone moved too quickly or suddenly—you bolted.

But after a moment, you softened, "We don't really talk much anymore."

"Oh," He said softly in surprise, "Sorry, I thought—You always seemed close when we were in school."

"You mistook financial support as love. And even if it was, they promptly cut that off the second I moved to Chicago."

He frowned, "You haven't spoken since residency? Why?" In the silence that followed, he sensed your hesitancy, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I don't mind," You said softly, "I just haven't thought about it in a while. We have talked since, but sporadically. It's mostly just happy birthday texts now." You sighed heavily, "The short answer is that they wanted me to go into neurosurgery and treated me going into pathology as some personal affront to them. It felt like they only ever saw me as some sort of investment instead of their kid."

Robby had been guilty of assuming that you had it all. After thinking it over more, he'd come to the conclusion the way he treated you had had more to do with jealousy than anything else. You always seemed so put off by talking to your parents, your parents who took care of everything for you. What he would have done to have anyone like that in his corner when he was in his twenties. He felt you were ungrateful.

But now, having done a lot of growing up himself and watching residents with all sorts of parental issues come and go through his ER, he understood that just throwing money at a kid was no way to raise them.

"I'm sorry," He said again and leaned down slightly to kiss the back of your neck, "You deserved better than that."

You turned in his arms to face him, "Do you really believe that? That what I do is just as important as what you do? Or neurosurgery?"

"Yes," He said immediately, "If it was me I might be… bored out of my mind, but we need pathologists. The ED needs them, surgery needs them, oncology needs them, hematology needs them, you're absolutely vital to all of us. But that's not what I meant. I meant that you deserved better parents."

Though you had changed over the years, not so skittish and quiet, there were things about you that remained. Your anxious state, bordering on paranoia the way you worried that others would betray you. Your quiet but desperate need of approval—of love. Your empathy, the way you felt everything so deeply and openly, even when you tried to hide it.

Right now, you were scared. Of him, of his ability to hurt you. He was also scared of his ability to hurt you. Terrified, really.

But still, you swallowed and looked away from him, "Thank you," you said quietly and tugged his arms tighter around you.

Bambi—his fawn—now stable on your own two feet. It'd be you that would have to keep him steady now, keep him from running.

***

When Robby was at work now, when the shifts got bad, he excused himself for just a moment and closed his eyes. He'd conjure your home in his head, your cat Brutus, the sound of your laugh, watching rain from your covered porch while drinking coffee, waking up to the smell of your shampoo on the pillow, movie nights on your couch, long showers and your hands on his skin.

It had been weeks now since your first date and things had moved quickly. It hadn't been discussed explicitly, but Robby spent most nights at your house now. The simple domesticity of it, of having someone to come home to, had felt nearly life changing. You often asked if he wanted you to stay at his place for a change to which he always turned down.

He loved everything about your place, from the way it always smelt like something delicious, to the fact that Brutus was always there, to just how lived in it felt. Just last weekend the two of you had spent entire days digging up the garden beds so you could start planting vegetables and fruits and herbs. You talked about cucumber salads and fresh baked pies and it all felt so… domestic. Mundane. And it was the only place he felt peace.

Today's shift had been horrible. And so after calling time of death on a patient that he'd worked on for far longer than was clinically appropriate, he told Dana he'd be outside for a few minutes. In the ambulance bay, with silent tears streaming down his cheeks, he tried to slow his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

Closing his eyes, he willed the images of the woman away, of her child. Instead, he pictured you, the sleepy smile on your face when he woke up first in the morning, whispered in your ear that he was going to make pancakes. He pictured you fast asleep on your couch, a paperback abandoned in your hand and Brutus snuggled up on your chest. He pictured you spinning around your backyard in the rain, green rain boots up to your knees and your wild laughter.

As his breathing slowed, the sound of the ambulance bay doors sliding open had him turning his attention to the doors to see Abbot walking toward him.

Silently, Jack stood next to Robby and crossed his arms, "Your girlfriend's down here looking for you."

Robby sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, "She's not my girlfriend."

"Sorry, your pathologist."

Robby huffed a laugh, "I guess she is sort of my girlfriend."

"Well, you better watch out because I hear all the nurses warning her about your… 'seven week itch' I think they're calling it."

He shook his head, "She's not the type to listen to rumors."

Jack hummed, "She might start if you keep her waiting much longer."

"Alright, alright," He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, "I'll go find her."

"'Atta boy," Jack said and clapped him over the shoulder, the two of them walking back into the Pitt.

Robby's eyes found you almost immediately, talking to Dana, and you, as if sensing his gaze, looked up to meet his. There was concern all over your face and Robby didn't even have the time to properly wonder if Dana had filled you in about the terrible shift they'd had before you were marching over to him.

You were apparently so intently focused on him, you didn't notice the puddle of water on the floor and before Robby could warn you, you'd slipped.

Your feet went up over your head and your back hit the ground—hard.

Instantly, Robby was there, a hand on your shoulder to stop you as you tried to sit up— "Hey, don't move, don't move."

"Ow," you groaned and tried to push him out of your way, "I'm fine, Michael."

"Did you hit your head?" His penlight was already out, ready to assess.

You sighed, "I don't know, I don't think so."

"Dana," he called over his shoulder, "What's open?"

"Central 11."

"I just wanna go home," You said softly, "I'm fine, I swear."

But seeing you fall like that after the shift he'd had, he couldn't seem to slow the spiral he was beginning to fall down. What if you had a concussion? A brain bleed? Untreated one could lead to irreparable brain damage and the other, death.

"It'll be quick," He said, "Promise. Just… Please, it'll make me feel better."

You tilted your head slightly, doe eyes out in full force. Like you were concerned about him. But you nodded anyway, conceded to him, even when he insisted on a wheelchair to transport you.

When it was just the two of you and he had started your exam, you continued to watch him carefully.

"Did something happen today?" You asked softly, "During shift?"

He hummed in question, gently turning your head this way and that, "What d'you mean?"

"You're being… hypervigilant. I'm just wondering if something happened today to trigger that."

The two of you had discussed covid and Adamson. You had been back in Pittsburgh at that point, but at Westbridge. Robby had felt a pang of resentment at first, thinking that you likely hadn't had to be on the front lines like he had.

But then you told him about the autopsies. How there were so many bodies that you, who had built a career off studying cancers and blood, had had to assist with autopsies. You told him how you hadn't really done an autopsy since residency, but now with how many you'd had to do during the pandemic, you could do them with your eyes closed.

"It fucked with me," You'd told him, "I saw those bodies everywhere, even if I wasn't in the hospital. I could smell them no matter how many candles I lit at home. I dreamt about them for weeks after. I cried for months."

And when you'd divulged that, the flood gates had opened for him. He told you everything, from covid to PittFest. When he got choked up, he found himself instinctually reaching for your hand, needing you to anchor him. Without hesitation, you practically pulled him into your lap, cradled his head to your chest and whispered soothing words in his ear.

So then it shouldn't have surprised him that you would catch on so quickly. For being so young when you went through med school, he had assumed upon first meeting you that you'd have no idea about anything. But it had struck him immediately how emotionally intelligent you were, how you had from the very beginning been able to read even the most closed off of patients.

Still, he felt himself recoil at your assessment, "You fell," He said, "I'm just making sure you're alright."

"Well I'm also a doctor and I'm telling you, I'm fine. There's no tenderness at the back of my head, no nausea, no dizziness—"

"I'm ordering you a head CT."

Your mouth fell open, indignation in the tug of your lips. After a moment, you scoffed, "I don't want that so please get me the AMA forms to sign, if you don't mind."

He raised his eyebrows and finally met your eyes, "Really?"

"You're exposing me to unnecessary radiation when I have zero symptoms—"

"You don't remember if you hit your head—"

"Robby?" He whipped his head around to see Dana in the doorway, "The cops are here, they wanna talk to you about the boy and his mother who—"

"Yeah, okay, I'll be there in a minute."

Dana left and he hung his head, braced his hands against his legs, hoping they didn't shake, "I would really appreciate it… if you could please stay for a CT."

He felt your gaze even as he avoided it, "Why are the cops here?"

He sighed, "A kid's here with no parental guardian."

There was a pause, then, "What happened to his mother?"

"I really can't talk about this right now—"

"Then I'd like the AMA forms, please."

He made an exasperated groan and looked up at you, tried pleading with his eyes, but you stayed firm, expectant, until he sighed, "A woman was brought in today with her ten year old son who'd found her unresponsive in the bathtub when he came home from school today. She'd slashed her own wrists. We couldn't get a pulse back." He ran a hand along the back of his neck, "The kid doesn't have anyone else."

In a moment, you were on your knees in front of him, his hands clasped in yours, "You worked the resuscitation?"

He nodded, and to his surprise salty tears fell onto your clasped hands. Embarrassed, he tried for nonchalant as he spoke, "It's uh—It's been a long day, but that happened almost first thing this morning. I don't know why I can't shake it."

"Well… That's unsurprising." You said slowly, "Considering your childhood."

His entire body stiffened and he pulled away, "What'd you say?"

You opened and closed your mouth, still lowered to the ground in front of him. He watched as you seemed to calculate your misstep too late and then rush to correct, "I just, um, I remember you telling me once that… that your parents weren't really… present in your life."

Robby shook his head, "I never told you about that."

You bit your lip for a moment and then shrugged, "You told me… everything, Michael. The night we slept together in med school. You were very drunk."

He bristled and scoffed, "Right, we got drunk, I told you that my mother killed herself, and then we fucked?"

It seemed absurd. The truth that he was so ashamed of, that he'd held so close to his chest, that he hadn't allowed anyone to know, he had told you. His grandparents had been the only other people to know and when they died they took it with them. He had assumed he would do the same. But here you were, this contradiction to the one fundamental truth he'd had. That no one would ever need to know the ugly truth that the single person on this Earth who was supposed to love him unconditionally had abandoned him with such violent permanence.

You seemed a bit embarrassed at his hostility, lifting yourself back up to your feet again, "Look, you don't have to try to humiliate me just because you don't believe me. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just trying to let you know that I understand why that case was difficult for you."

"Yeah, well, it's not your fucking place."

He thought he saw you flinch, but just as quickly, you became stoic, "I think it's time for me to go and I'd prefer it if you stayed at your own place tonight."

You left without waiting for him to respond and immediately, the anger left him in a rush, replaced with shame. When he walked back towards central, you were gone, Dana looking at him now with a question in her eyes, "Your girl left in a rush, I thought you were leaving with her?"

He sighed, ran both hands over his face, "Where's the kid?"

"BH1," She said and leaned closer to him, "It's her birthday today and you let her leave here without you?"

Fuck. "It's her birthday?"

Dana nodded, "You don't know your own girl's birthday?"

"She's not—How do you know it's her birthday?"

"She told me about ten minutes ago."

Unbelievable.

"Well," He said, fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, "I don't think she'll want to spend it with me now."

Dana watched him for a moment, "Tell you what, Baran's still here, I'm sure she wouldn't mind handling the police. You should go. Get her a cake and flowers and apologize. You had a hard day, she'll understand."

You had understood, but he thought you'd likely be heaps and bounds less understanding now.

But hadn't he promised himself, when he first agreed to date you, seriously, that he'd be different this time? That he wouldn't fall back into old habits? That he wouldn't push people away when they got too close?

You already knew the worst of him, apparently. Had known it for decades it seemed and still, you wanted him. And as always, he'd hurt you anyway.

So, he was really prepared to grovel when he finally got to your place, a bouquet of tulips and white bakery box in hand. He knocked gently on the door and waited until he heard the twist of the doorknob, and then saw you. You were in sweats and a tank top and you crossed your arms over your chest when you saw him.

"Hi," he said softly.

"I thought I asked you not to come here tonight."

"I know, and I'll go, I just, Dana mentioned that it was your birthday so I got you a cake and some flowers and I just wanted to say that I'm—I'm really sorry. I just, I've never told… anyone about her, or so I thought, and it just caught me off guard. But, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way, you were only trying to help."

You stared at him for a few moments, mouth twisted to the side and bounced on the balls of your feet, "You got me a birthday cake?"

His mouth twitched into a smirk, but he fought it, "Yeah, but I didn't know what sort of cake you like so I—I got you funfetti cake. It reminded me of you."

Now it was you fighting a smirk, "Funfetti cake reminds you of me?"

He nodded, "Yeah, you're bright, colorful, pretty, happy—You're everything. Funfetti."

You uncrossed your arms and interlocked them behind your back instead, "You can come inside."

Ten minutes later, you both sat on the couch with a slice of cake, "No one's ever gotten me a birthday cake before."

Robby balked, "What?"

You shrugged, "My parents were always too busy to celebrate my birthday. I think they forgot most years. And I didn't have many friends growing up. And then when I got to be an adult I just… stopped telling people when my birthday was. To avoid being disappointed."

He felt an ache in his chest for the child he saw in his head, the kid he used to know. How lonely you must've been. "Why'd you tell Dana?"

"One of my students is a bit of a kiss ass and found out it was my birthday from the internet. Got the whole class to sign a card for me. Dana just happened to see it."

He sighed, "I'm really sorry if I contributed to your day being shitty."

You shook your head, "I really don't even think about it much anymore, truly. And anyway, it sounded like you had a much harder day than I did."

"That's not an excuse."

You put your plate on the coffee table and turned your attention fully to Robby, taking his face gently in your hands, "You came here and you apologized," You said softly, "And I've forgiven you. So enough with the self flagellation, hm?" You stroked your thumbs gently over his cheekbones, "And why don't you tell me about the mother that came in today."

Again, he felt the involuntary raise of his hackles at the suggestion that he discuss today. But there was warmth and tenderness in your eyes. Your fingers ran through his hair and scratched at his scalp gently, and his eyes fluttered closed, hackles falling.

And so the words flowed out of him. He recounted the horror and fear that reverberated through him as the woman was rolled in, her son shaking and sobbing at her side. How difficult it was for him to focus on anything other than this boy, this baby, now alone in the world. It was frightening, really, to come face to face with the boy he used to be. How young he was when his mother had passed, something he'd been unable to appreciate at the time.

He'd done a lot of work to forgive her for leaving. Had studied up on suicidality and bipolar depression. In his career he met many people who reminded him of his mother and his empathy had stretched and grown and while he'd thought he'd forgiven her, there was still just a kernel of bitterness deep in his chest.

He had never been confronted with himself, with the child he used to be, until today. How his heart bled for that child. He could recall every memory of that day, every smell, every sound, every touch. The world had fractured and reassembled for that boy today, much like it had for him so many years ago. And he'd had to listen to his colleagues all day, talk about that boy as if he was the one who had died and it pissed him off. That they could so easily written off that kid's future because of a single day, because of the choices his mother had made.

But then came the small, nagging voice at the back of his head, But wasn't it true? Aren't you broken beyond repair? Isn't that the one truth you've been running from all this time?

"You're not broken," You said softly to him when he'd finished speaking, still holding him tightly to you, now with one hand beneath his shirt and running your nails soothingly up and down his back.

You repeated it to him like a mantra until he leaned up, captured your soft, warm mouth with his. And whenever he opened his eyes to look into yours, he knew you didn't believe your own words. Walls that you had begun to deconstruct over the last few weeks were now built back up. Now, barbed wire adorned the walls like vines.

He had the distinct feeling that you'd never allow him to see over the walls again.

***

"Well I heard from Edith who heard from Sam who sometimes has lunch with Dana that Robby's been staying late and picking up more shifts again, since he bought that motorcycle… You know what that means."

"The seven week itch has struck again. That motorcycle's a breakup motorcycle if I've ever seen one."

You sighed heavily as you adjusted your microscope, "You guys are not being as quiet as you think you are."

Your students giggled at your admonishment, "Sorry, the drama is just way more fascinating in the Pitt than it is up here."

You were silent after that and their whispers died down, but never completely. You had never paid much attention to rumors around the hospital until you and Robby started seeing each other. The women in the hospital loved gossiping about him. And more and more it ate away at you.

Things hadn't been quite right between you since your birthday. You had forgiven him for how he'd acted, but still there was a cold dread in your stomach that seemed to intensify every time you saw him. You felt yourself overcompensating, looking for reassurance. You had convincingly kept up the illusion of confidence, but now it waned.

You had the feeling he had sussed it out, how desperate you were. Before, for any companionship. Now, specifically, for his. You were frightened by the way your heart squeezed when you woke up to him beside you in the morning. The way he had slipped into your routine so effortlessly. Helping you out in the garden on the weekends. Putting the kettle on at exactly 9PM for tea before bed. Trying all your desserts even after insisting he needed to watch what he ate. Recently, he'd began reading your well-worn, tattered copy of The Princess Bride aloud to you, using character voices that got more and more ridiculous until you were crying with laughter. More and more regularly, he fell asleep on the couch, glasses askew and Brutus on his chest.

It was terrifying how easily he slotted into your life. This was what you'd wanted, what you'd always wanted, had wanted so badly at times you'd forced relationships you knew would never work.

And you kept waiting, day after day, for him to leave and not come back. The day he'd been short with you in the ER, you'd been flung back to an earlier relationship. Remembered in vivid details the ugly fights you'd had.

"You're not listening to me!"

"Maybe I just don't like the sound of your voice."

It didn't matter how he apologized after, the words had burrowed deep in your head. They stuck with you from relationship to relationship and you'd heard similar disdain from Robby that day.

So with all of this, you were already struggling before the rumors and before the motorcycle. You felt him pulling away from you inch by inch and you clung to him harder, certain if you just enticed him the correct way he'd want to stay.

And for a while, you thought it was working, until dinner one day on the porch. The vibrant strawberry sky was beginning to bruise with dusk as you each sat in silent after cleaning your plates.

Then Robby cleared his throat, "You know how I've been fixing up the motorcycle with Duke?"

You nodded. You knew the fact that you were jealous of a sixty year old biker spending time with your boyfriend was not healthy. You were glad he had picked up a hobby outside of the ER, it was good for him. And still, you couldn't help the way dread curdled in your gut every time he spoke about it. What it really felt like was an escape plan. No matter how you tried to convince yourself it wasn't, you couldn't stop the constant spirals. The souring of your mood whenever he stated he was going to Duke's or he couldn't make it tonight because he stayed too late at Duke's so he'd just sleep at his own place. You knew he noticed the shift in energy whenever the motorcycle was brought up, but he never commented on it.

"It's finished," He gave you a wry smile, "It's rideable now, in really good shape."

"Oh," You said, "That's… great."

Again, he ignored the uneasiness in your tone. Or maybe he truly was oblivious. Because next he said, "I was thinking about taking some time off from work and doing a cross country ride."

"Oh," You said again, feeling dumb at your sudden lack of vocabulary, "For how long?"

"I don't know," He avoided looking at you as he said, "Three months?"

The pain in your chest was spectacular. Again and again you were reminded of how unlovable you were. You tried so hard and it was never enough, not for your parents, not for friends, not for every other partner who left quickly and quietly. Your eyes burned as you pushed back from the table and picked up your plate, "You don't have to flee across the country to get rid of me, you could just break up with me like a mature, grown man." You said bitterly and walked back inside.

Assumedly shocked at your outburst, it took him a minute before following you back inside, "This is not about us," He said quietly over your shoulder as you dropped the dirty dishes unceremoniously into your sink.

"Frankly, it doesn't matter if it isn't," You said turning to face him, "If you leave for three months our relationship is effectively dead. And you know this."

He scoffed, "Three months is not that long—"

"Three months is not that long when you've been in a relationship for a decade, it's everything when you've barely even been together that long."

He watched you and slowly shook his head, "It doesn't have to be. You could come with me."

You laughed and pushed past him, "What, and bring Brutus as well? Let my garden wither away? You don't really want me to come, you're just offering out of guilt."

"That's not true, I—I want to be here with you, being with you is the only thing that feels right in my life right now. I don't want to lose that."

"Then why are you running away?" You asked, exasperated and humiliated when tears began to blur your vision.

You were sitting on the couch now and he crouched in front of you, looked at you with his big wet, brown cow eyes. Eyes you adored, crow's feet you wished to sink into, freckles you'd counted and memorized over many nights.

"I feel like…" He said slowly, "Like… if I don't get out of that hospital, of this city soon that I'm a ticking time bomb."

You nodded and sniffed, pushed the heels of your hands into your eyes, "And I feel like if you leave I'm never gonna see you again."

He tilted his head to the side, eyebrow furrowed and watery eyes studying you. You waited and waited for him to say it wasn't true, but he obviously couldn't. Instead he cupped your cheeks in his hands and gently brushed away your tears, "C'mon sweetheart, don't cry. It's okay. I've got you."

Leaning in, he gently kissed your forehead, the tops of your cheeks, your nose, then your mouth, his beard scratching the soft skin of your face. Stifling the cries that attempted to crawl up your throat, you kissed him back fiercely, wondering if it would be the last time you got to do so. He matched your fervor, groaning into your mouth as you deepened the kiss—and then his hands were everywhere.

He hoisted you up and around his waist and walked you to the bedroom, a path he knew well at this point, could do it with his eyes closed. He placed you down and then crawled over you, arms bracketing your head as he kissed your lips swollen and raw. The smell of him, the taste of him, had become so comforting to you it was agony to imagine a time when you couldn't have them whenever you wanted. That he would be so far away from you, your house lonely and empty once again. And it was this thought that had you burst promptly into tears.

"Wh—What's wrong? Sweetheart—Do you wanna stop? We can stop—"

"No, no," You said quickly through hiccuping sobs and opened your eyes into his, "Please—Please don't stop, Michael, please—"

"Okay," He kissed all over your face again as your sobs began to quiet, "Okay, baby. I'm right here—" In response to his words, you pulled him closer until his weight was almost fully on you, "I'm right here." He repeated.

When your tears dried, he slowly undressed you, his kisses painfully tender and eyes that melted you. It took everything in you not to rush him along. The need to have him inside you, to fill you up, felt almost primal. You needed to be close to him, as close as you could be. Soon he'd be gone and all you'd have was the ghost of a feeling.

He leaned his forehead against yours as he slowly pushed inside you, both of you sighing into one another, "So perfect," He murmured and kissed you, "Feel so perfect, baby."

"Please," You kept saying over and over as he pushed himself in and out of you. You weren't quite sure what you were begging for, for him to fuck you? For him to stay? For him to love you?

Pulling out of you, he turned you onto your stomach, positioned your hips until you felt him press into you again, his belly against the small of your back and the cold chain around his neck falling against your shoulders, sending a chill down your spine.

The feel of him inside you was exquisite, like nothing else you'd experienced before. He pushed his hand beneath your belly until his fingers found your swollen clit and this coupled with the way he filled you up was too much, the sensation overwhelming. You were coming before you even had the chance to warn him, unraveling as he moaned and kissed the back of your neck when he felt your walls pulse around him.

The pleasure was so overwhelming and the feel of him so stifling, it was almost involuntary when you blurted out, "I love you, Michael, I love you."

With your face partially obscured by the mattress, you hoped he hadn't heard it. But his hips stuttered for a second and panic seized in your chest until— "Oh, God, fuck—" he came inside you.

His skin stuck to yours as he caught his breath, still inside you as he softened. You laid like that for a while in silence, spooning in your bed. The sun had still cast shadows in your room when you first came in here, but now it was nearly pitch black.

"You're still leaving?" You asked, voice steadier than you felt, unwilling to hope.

He was quiet for long enough that you wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then came the soft, "Yes," in your ear.

You said nothing else that night. Neither of you spoke about what you'd confessed during sex and when you woke in the morning, he had left. There was no trace of him left in the house. He'd taken his toothbrush, his beard trimmer, his duffel of clothes and other toiletries. All gone.

He left a single t-shirt—by accident or not, you couldn't say—draped over your hamper. When you picked it up and brought it to your face, it smelt like him.

You sank to the floor of your closet like a child and cried.

***

Robby saw you everywhere and in everything. He thought about you most mornings when he put on a pair of pants and noticed how they were a bit too snug—Having regular meals most days at your place had meant he'd put on a few pounds while dating you. He thought about you and Brutus whenever Trinity showed him pictures of her new kittens. Whenever he had a cookie or a slice of blueberry pie, he remembered the sweet buttery smell of your house whenever you were baking.

He missed you with a devotion that felt almost religious, but he never picked up the phone. After having made you cry and then hearing you admit that you were in love with him, he'd been absolutely certain he couldn't have you. He'd thought in the beginning, he'd been able to delude himself that he could have someone like you. That he deserved someone like you, so sweet and gentle and loving. But despite his precautions, you'd still crumbled to dust in his hands.

He was terrified that if he didn't leave he'd repeat his mother's mistakes and leave you even more devastated than you were now.

But when you looked at him and said you didn't think you'd ever see him again, he'd wondered if you'd understood. If you'd understood his fears and instead worried that if he did leave he'd become his mother.

He didn't want to think about that and so as he packed up his gear and clothes and whatever else he thought he might need onto his bike, he tried and failed to stop thinking about you.

As he left town, he rode by your house knowing you'd be at work. He rolled slowly, memorized every detail he could of the house, the only place he'd ever felt at home besides his grandparents' house. In a last minute decision, he pulled out his phone and took a quick photo.

This was when he saw Brutus in the window, watching him, tail swishing back and forth. He'd miss that little rascal, too, even if he had broken his favorite mug. He gave a quick salute to Brutus and then he left before he could change his mind.

For a while, being on the road felt as freeing as he hoped it would. Everyone before he left seemed so worried he was about to kill himself, but honestly, with new air in his lungs, he felt great. For around four hundred miles.

He was a few days into the trip, having only driven something like a hundred miles each day, and closing in on Chicago when the fatigue really began to set in. Every part of his body ached. He had been very careful not to let his mind wander to you since he'd left, but it wandered anyhow. Now he thought of the Epsom salt baths you insisted on whenever he had aches and pains. He wished more than anything that you'd be there in Chicago, waiting by the hot bath, pretending to resist when he coaxed you in with him. You'd sit between his legs, back to his chest as you told him about your day as he gently kneaded your shoulders with his thumbs. You'd talk about the study you were working on. Or, since it was a Saturday, maybe you'd spent time in the garden, pulling weeds as you listened to an audiobook for a new mystery novel.

Robby was so immersed in the fantasy, he didn't register the oncoming headlights until it was already too late. Still, as the car crossed the double yellow line into his lane, on instinct, he jerked the bike away from the oncoming collision.

He was able to avoid the car, but lost control of the bike, skidding off the road and into a guardrail. He felt it when the gravel tore through his pants, then his skin, the weight of his bike pinning him to the ground as he came to a complete stop.

Robby was so used to watching other people die, he thought he knew what it'd be like when his time came. Stupidly, he thought he'd made his peace with his own mortality, his inevitable demise. But in the split second it took for him to see the oncoming headlights and jerk his bike out of the way, he understood immediately and with complete clarity that he didn't want to die.

As he felt his skin being torn up and his leg being crushed, time slowed, and he saw your face. Heard your voice tell him you loved him. The sound of your laugh. The smell of your shampoo.

And just as quickly as it happened, it was over, and the pain exploded throughout his body.

Pain, glorious pain, and as he categorized it all he understood it meant he was alive and he laughed, wildly. The paramedics that showed up afterwards and told him how lucky he was likely thought him insane as he laughed and laughed.

He was alive. He was fucking alive. And the realization filled him with indescribable joy. Logically he knew most of this was due to the adrenaline rush, but he couldn't help but feel like this had to have been some divine intervention. And soon enough, as the adrenaline fled him and the pain meds kicked in, he couldn't stop crying.

The nurses and doctors looked at him with sympathy and one nurse, Angela, asked gently, "Is there anyone we can call?"

The only person he wanted to call right now was you. His bike was totaled and he found he didn't even care. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to play chess on your porch while it rained. He wanted to play hide and seek with Brutus while you giggled from the sofa, watching him. He wanted to let you pick a movie for movie night only to have you unceremoniously fall asleep in his arms less than ten minutes in. He wanted to beg your forgiveness. He wanted to tell you he loved you, was in love with you, like he should have before he left. He wanted to go home.

But he shook his head, wiped his eyes and asked if he could have his phone. He would be waiting a while for imaging on his leg. The thought for sure something was broken and based on what he felt when he went down, he concurred with that opinion. He thought it possible he might even need surgery, though they hadn't said as much yet.

Angela returned with his phone and a smile, repeated as he looked at his cracked screen that she'd be happy to call, but he thanked her and waved her off.

His phone seemed to be working fine and he immediately scrolled over to his photo album where he pulled up photos of you. Photos of the two of you together, you making a silly face at the camera and him with a toothy smile on his face as he looked down at you. Happy.

He felt suddenly very stupid for how he'd handled everything. Wished he'd listened to you when you asked him why he seemed to be sabotaging the one good thing in his life.

The answer was that he didn't think he deserved anything good, least of all, you. He was destined to a miserable life and a miserable death and he had no desire to bring you down with him.

But looking at this photo, it was becoming more and more clear to him that you had changed him. He thought he was destined for tragedy, but you'd rewritten his ending. Only he'd been much too stupid to see it.

Eventually, he worked up the courage to call you, not expecting you to answer. As the phone rang he could picture you in your pajama set, sleepytime tea on your nightstand and Brutus curled up in your lap as you stared at the caller ID with rage in your eyes.

But you surprised him. You picked up after just three rings.

"Hello?" You sounded a bit breathless and a lot confused.

"Hi."

"Michael?" He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, always so sweet from your mouth, "What's wrong? Where are you?"

"Why are you assuming something's wrong?"

"Because I haven't heard from you in weeks," You said bitterly, "And I can hear beeping monitors in the background and I know you're not at work because Abbot told me you left for your sabbatical days ago."

"So you've been asking about me?" He said, teasing lilt to his voice.

You sighed, "Michael, so help me, I will hang up this phone—"

"Alright, okay, sorry, sorry, you're right," He ran a hand over his face, "I'm sorry—I—I'm in an emergency room in Chicago and I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Why are you in an emergency room?" He could tell you were fighting to keep your voice level from how slowly you asked the question.

"I totaled the bike," He scratched at his beard, "I was driving too late and I was tired and a car drifted into my lane and I swerved and went into a guardrail."

"Oh my God—Fuck—Are you—Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I have some pretty bad road rash and think maybe my leg's broken—" He heard movement on the other end of the phone, "What're you doing?"

"Packing." You said matter of factly, "If I leave now I should get to Chicago by morning."

He felt his eyes burn immediately. That after everything you'd still go to him without hesitation. Again, he felt that pang in his chest, that overwhelming ache that said he didn't deserve you.

"You shouldn't drive this late," Was all he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"Please," You said dismissively, "Do you need anything from your house? I can stop on my way."

"Sweetheart, I'm—I'm so sorry for leaving. You were right, you're the only thing that matters and I thought I didn't deserve it—Deserve you and so I ran away. I'm a coward. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll beg for it anyway. I love you so much and I just want to be with you, if you'll still have me."

There was silence on the other line and then a soft sigh, "You're on so many drugs right now, aren't you?"

"What? No—Well, yes, but that's not why—"

"We can talk about it in a few days when you're not high out of your mind. Do you need anything from your house?" You repeated it like you were talking to a petulant toddler and he felt stupid again. He hadn't considered what this would look like to you. And yes, his accident had forced him to confront what he was actually doing and feeling, but that didn't make it less true. He'd known he loved you long before he left, long before you even said it. He thought he'd likely been a little bit in love with you since med school.

Your caution was understandable, though, so he wouldn't push.

"No," He said finally, "No, thanks. But would you mind sharing your location with me since you insist on driving through the night? Would make me feel better if I can follow along."

"Sure," you said, and he heard the way your voice softened at his concern, "Goodnight, Michael."

For a moment, time seemed to crunch like an accordian and he was back in med school, your voice in his ear in the middle of the night, asking for his forgiveness. He felt a bit fuzzy at the edges.

"Goodnight, Bambi." He murmured and his phone slipped from his hand.

***

Michael was asleep when you got to the hospital and had been admitted to Ortho upstairs for surgery.

Your emotions were all over the place, but seeing him in a hospital bed, a bit bloodied up and hooked up to monitors, you felt your defenses falling. You wanted to be angry with him, but how could you be? When you had been so close to losing him for good?

As you got closer, you noted that he'd let his beard and hair grow out a bit longer since the last you saw him. It made him appear softer. You had been pleased before he left when his cheeks began to fill out a bit having made him eat properly since you began dating. That weight was still there, if not as obvious as before.

The rush of affection that filled you upon seeing him was nearly suffocating.

As you pulled up a chair to his bedside, he began to wake and you smiled at him with watery eyes, "Hi."

He smiled back and reached a hand out for you which you immediately took and brought to your lips.

"I'm sorry," He said immediately, but you dismissed him with a shake of your head.

"What did the doctor say? Why do you need surgery?"

"It's… shattered. The bike fell on it, crushed my leg. Have to screw it all back together."

You frowned as he grimaced, "Are you in pain? Let me go get a nurse—"

You stood to go, but he wrapped a hand around your wrist, "No, no, don't. I asked them to… take me off the meds."

You stared at him, mouth agape, "Why would you do something like that?"

"So that I could tell you how in love with you I am with a clear head."

You nearly laughed, "Michael Robinavitch, have you lost your goddamn mind?"

"You said we should wait," He shook his head, "I don't want you to go another second thinking that I don't love you."

Your eyes watered, but you shook your head, "It's gonna take a lot longer than you saying it once for me to trust you again."

"I know that," He grimaced again, "I just wanted to say it now."

You brought a hand to his cheek and scratched lightly along his jaw, "Can I go grab a nurse now if you're done with the dramatics?"

He smirked and nodded and you hid a grin as you stood and walked from the room.

It was a day or two after surgery that Robby was finally cleared to go home with you. On the way home, high on pain meds, Robby read The Princess Bride to you in his silly voices to keep you entertained.

At home, you set him up in bed with strict instructions to Brutus to keep him company while you made him food.

And slowly, the two of you settled back into the usual rhthym. He told you he loved you many times a day. Even when he didn't say it, he'd run his fingers over the tattoo on your wrist, or say something just to make you laugh. He watched you with an expression on his face that you'd never seen before and when you asked if something was wrong, he shook his head, said "Everything's perfect."

As he got back on his feet, you took slow walks to and from the park, fed the birds. Robby even downloaded an app on his phone that could identify the birds by thsid song. His face would light up with joy whenever the app told him a bird he didn't recognize was around.

Life was quiet and peaceful and love found a way to fill every crack and crevice in each of your hearts.

A year later, when Robby's leg had healed entirely, when the only pain was used to predict the rain, was when he asked you.

"Sweetheart?" Your head was in his lap on the sofa, you watching TV while he did a crossword. You hummed in response so he knew you were listening, "I've been thinking and I think it's time I put my house up for sale."

You sat up slowly and looked at him. Your eyes instantly scanning for deception.

Robby was a great roommate. He was pretty handy and so could usually fix most minor wear and tear problems without having to call in an expert. He took care of Brutus and the plants. He loved gardening with you. He never let the chores go too long without being done. Always washed the toilet because he knew it was your least favorite chore.

You had no qualms about living with him. But you always assumed, even though most of you had grown to trust him again, that he'd keep his house as a backup plan. It was realistic, you told yourself. Relationships all had expiration dates.

"Really?"

He nodded, "The last year I've only ever gone home to to make sure nobody's broken in. I've moved everything I use here already. My clothes, my toiletries, my tools, my books, my records—everything's here. It's a waste, don't you think?"

You opened and closed your mouth, ran your fingers absently over the tattoo on your wrist, "What if… What if we fight and you want space?"

He shrugged, "I don't think that would happen, but I could always get a hotel for a night. I still have the cabin in the mountains."

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "If we break up you'll hate me because you sold your house."

You felt the couch shift as he sat up and took your hands, "If we broke up, I could never hate you. Besides, this is my decision. You didn't pressure me into it. I also figured this way it was only fair that I start helping out with the bills here. Now, if me permanently moving in feels like too big of a step to you—"

"No," You said quickly, "No, I want you to. I love having you here, it's been…" You shook your head, "It's been the best year of my life."

He smiled and brought your hands up to his lips, "Mine too."

And as the two of you talked over a bottle of wine about the logistics of moving the remainder of his things into your house and calling realtors and what you should do with the extra money (Should you travel? Put it into retirement?) it was like the final piece of your previously shattered heart was glued back into place.

Before Michael, you often wondered if you were too picky. If your standards were too high as your mother loved to tell you and that's why you'd end up a spinster. Alone and bitter, always denied the one thing you wanted and craved most in the world: love and companionship.

But as you and Michael talked late into the night and fell asleep in each other's arms, you knew you'd been right to wait.

A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.

"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.

A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."

The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.

You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.

"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.

You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.

"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.

The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.

"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."

"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.

James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.

"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."

You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.

His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."

You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.

"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.

James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."

The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?

"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."

"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."

James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.

"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”

His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.

His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.

"As long as I'm your pest."

All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.

You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.

The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.

"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"

James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.

Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.

Fifteen Years Earlier

The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.

You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.

Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.

"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.

Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.

"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"

The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.

"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?

"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.

"I won't forget this, James."

When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.

One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.

It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.

Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.

"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.

"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.

You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.

Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."

"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.

"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."

A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.

Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.

"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.

"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.

She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"

Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.

You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."

Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"

Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?

"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.

Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.

"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.

What the hell was that?

You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.

The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.

"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.

"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.

"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."

"I know."

You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"

He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."

You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."

He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"

"Unwillingly."

He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.

"She was just practice."

Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."

You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."

He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.

He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"

Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.

"I'm right where I want to be."

His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.

A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.

"Look at the mess you've made, doll."

Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.

His lips are so pink.

He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.

"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.

His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.

James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.

"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."

He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.

The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.

Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?

The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.

Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.

James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.

"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."

"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.

You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.

You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."

"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."

James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."

He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.

"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.

"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.

The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.

You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.

"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.

"Again, it's none of your business."

"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.

You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."

He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.

"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.

"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.

His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"

You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."

James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."

He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."

You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"

Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.

"No, he was boring."

His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.

Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.

"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.

He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.

"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.

You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.

Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.

This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.

You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.

"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."

His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.

He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.

He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.

"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.

You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.

"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.

He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."

You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.

"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.

He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.

You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."

His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"

You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.

James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.

"Keeping you safe."

A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.

He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?

"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."

A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."

He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."

You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.

"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.

You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.

"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."

His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."

You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."

You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."

"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."

You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.

The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.

Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.

"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.

You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.

"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.

"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."

You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?

He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.

"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.

You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?

He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."

You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"

He shrugged again. "'Cause."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.

You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.

"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.

You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."

"I mean it when I say it to you."

You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.

"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.

You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.

He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."

Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.

God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.

"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"

There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.

"…What?"

He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."

A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."

He took another small step forward. "I do."

You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."

You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.

He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.

"Just—listen to me."

You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"

He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.

You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.

"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.

"What?"

"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.

He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.

"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."

Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.

"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."

"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."

You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.

"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.

His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

"You've never called me that before."

Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.

His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.

He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.

"Kissin' you feels like home."

A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.

"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.

"Taste sweet, too."

Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.

"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.

He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."

He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.

You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.

James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.

"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."

You follow her gaze without thinking.

He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.

He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.

You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.

Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.

At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.

The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.

Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.

No.

No, no, no.

Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”

He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.

He’s taller up close.

Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.

“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.

You force your brain to function.

“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”

He nods once, then holds out his hand.

“Jack Abbot.”

Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.

Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.

But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.

Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.

You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”

A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.

Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring. 

A silver band on his left hand.

Your entire body goes cold.

For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.

You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.

A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.

Waiting for him.

Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.

The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.

She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“Occupational hazard.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.

Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”

You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”

Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.

Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.

You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.

You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.

You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.

So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.

A FEW MONTHS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT

By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.

You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.

Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.

You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.

“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”

Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”

The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.

A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.

Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.

But through all of it, you had stayed calm.

You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.

At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”

Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.

“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.

“On my way.”

Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.

Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”

“That’s not what I said.”

There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.

Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.

“You eat yet?” he asks.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”

“A little of both.”

You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.

The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.

Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.

And you know that.

The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.

You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.

“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”

“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.

“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.

You’re already there.

Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.

“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”

“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.

You hate how much that matters to you.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.

Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.

The entire department visibly brightens.

“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”

“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.

Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”

“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.

“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”

“I absolutely am not.”

You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.

Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.

“You must be Lifeline.”

You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.

Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”

“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”

Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.

Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”

You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”

“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”

“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.

“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.

You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.

You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.

Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.

“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”

Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”

“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.

Jack ignores her completely.

His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”

“We did now.”

Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”

“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”

Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.

You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”

“You gang up on me constantly.”

“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.

Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”

“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.

“You’re all terrible people.”

His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.

Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.

You’re becoming part of their lives.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER

The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.

“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”

“That’s healthy.”

“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”

Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”

“Rude.”

“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”

“He was wrong.” You pointed out.

“He was technically right.”

“He was spiritually wrong.”

That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”

Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”

Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”

Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.

“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”

Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”

“I’m serious.”

The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.

“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”

The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.

Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.

“Me too.”

2020, COVID PANDEMIC

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.

Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.

The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.

Through all of it, Jack keeps working.

You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.

You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.

To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.

Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.

The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.

You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does. 

Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.

“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.

“No.”

Lena moves first.

“Jack—”

“That’s my wife.”

The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.

It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.

You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”

“No, let me—”

“Jack.”

“She’s still warm—”

His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.

Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.

Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.

COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.

Only Zoom.

Fucking Zoom.

You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.

Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.

While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.

He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.

You cry with your microphone muted.

Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.

You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”

But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.

You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it. 

“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”

Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.

Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.

Not him.

Never him.

So you stay.

At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.

Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.

You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.

You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.

Life continued like his world didn’t just end.

Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.

For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”

You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.

You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.

“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”

“I’m serious.”

You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.

"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."

Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."

A faint huff of breath leaves him.

"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."

That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.

"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."

Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.

"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."

The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."

Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.

"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.

A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.

"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."

Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."

A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.

You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.

"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."

The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.

Even if he never knew.

2021

YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT

By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.

Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.

You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.

Positive.

You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”

You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.

Still—it hits you hard.

Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.

So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.

The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.

You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.

You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.

One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.

Ninety-three? Ninety-two?

You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.

By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.

You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.

Probably the wrong apartment.

Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.

“Hey.”

Your stomach drops.

No.

Absolutely not.

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.

And there he is.

Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”

“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”

“Lena told me… and Dana.”

Traitors.

You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”

“That is not comforting!”

“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”

You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.

“Jack—”

“Open the door.”

You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”

Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.

“Open the door.”

You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.

"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”

“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”

“It’s fine.”

“Temperature.”

“One-oh-one earlier.”

“And oxygen?”

You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”

“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”

His jaw tightens, “Okay.”

You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”

Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”

Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You almost passed out opening the door.”

Rude.

You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.

In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"

Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”

“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.

“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”

Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”

Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”

Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”

You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”

“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.

“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”

The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.

Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.

The thought nearly breaks your heart.

Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.

"Drink."

You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."

"Drink." He insists.

"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."

You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"

"No."

That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."

"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."

"...I was trying not to worry anyone."

"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."

You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."

"That's because it is worse."

You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.

"Why are you smiling?"

"You care."

Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."

The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"

"I have food."

"You have soy sauce and olive oil."

"That's food-adjacent."

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."

"So do you."

"I know."

"Have you seen what doctors eat?"

He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."

You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.

Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.

You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.

And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.

Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?

Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."

You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."

"I had soup."

"You had olive oil."

"That was one time."

Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.

You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.

The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.

2023

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.

Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.

It just did.

There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.

You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."

Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.

Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"

"No."

"You are literally hiding."

You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.

"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."

His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.

Another impossible night.

A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.

By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.

Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.

A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to. 

It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.

Until everyone else does.

"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."

"Parker."

"I'm serious."

You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."

You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.

2024

PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY

The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.

After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.

When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.

Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"

Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."

That explains it.

"How'd you get here?"

"Rideshare."

You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"

Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."

"What?"

"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."

You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"

"Nope."

You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.

"You serious?"

"Very."

A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."

Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."

"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."

"My reputation was already questionable."

"Fair."

You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."

You pause.

"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."

"Lifeline."

"Jack."

"You'll get soaked."

You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."

His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."

"That's not remotely reassuring."

"It shouldn't be."

Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."

Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."

"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."

That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.

The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks.  Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.

Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."

Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.

The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.

2025

NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT

The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.

So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.

Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.

Waiting for Jack to answer.

He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."

Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"

"They're gone."

"Lifeline."

"They disappeared."

"Keys don't disappear."

"They absolutely do."

The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"

You blink, "Huh?"

"Where are you?"

You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"

You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh,  "Jesus Christ."

"It’s not that bad—"

"No."

You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"

"Do not leave with anybody."

"Jack—"

"Do not get into a stranger's car."

"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.

"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."

"Jack—"

"I'm already grabbing my keys."

Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."

"So are you."

"Jack."

His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."

"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."

Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.

Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.

Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"

Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?" 

You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."

"That's not an answer."

"I lost my keys."

"You mentioned."

You immediately point at him, "I looked."

"I believe you."

"I looked everywhere."

Jack softens despite himself, "I know."

Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.

"Where are your friends?"

You blink.

"Oh."

You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus." 

You laugh, "They're having fun."

"They look like a liability."

"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.

"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."

There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?" 

You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."

The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."

You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.

You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.

You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."

"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"

You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.

"Ohhh."

You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."

"That's the doctor."

"No."

"The hot doctor."

You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."

Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."

You groan, "Stop."

"He likes you."

"He does not."

"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."

"That's called friendship."

"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."

Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"

"Apparently not."

He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"

"My friends are terrible people."

"Fair."

You point at him, "Don't encourage them."

"I'm not encouraging anybody."

"Liar."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.

"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."

"The floor did not move."

"It absolutely moved."

"Lifeline."

"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."

You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.

Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."

That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.

The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.

Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.

Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."

You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."

"What?"

His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.

Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."

"They were in my way."

A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.

Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.

The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"

"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."

"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"

"It definitely wasn't this tall before."

Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.

"Okay."

Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.

For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."

Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"

"Seatbelt."

"Oh."

Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."

Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.

JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.

Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."

"I'm not sleeping."

"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."

"I was thinking."

"You were drooling."

You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."

"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.

By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."

You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.

Jack groans, "Oh my God."

"You drove all the way there."

“Don’t.”

"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."

"Don't." 

Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place. 

By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.

"What?"

"Maybe let's not do that."

You frown at him, "Why?"

Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.

"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."

"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."

"Thank you."

"I am smart."

"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."

Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."

"Cool."

Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.

"Jesus Christ."

You blink, "What?"

Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."

"Why?"

Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.

"Bathroom," he says.

"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."

"Correct."

Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.

"Sit."

You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.

"Drink."

You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."

"What?"

"You listened."

You point at him, "You're bossy."

"Drink the water."

You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.

You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."

Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"

"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."

Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."

"It's literally why we carry purses."

"Pretty sure that's not why."

"It absolutely is."

He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"

"Your mascara's halfway down your face."

Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."

"No, I'm not."

"You really are."

Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.

"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."

The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.

"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."

A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.

"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry." 

His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"

Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.

A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.

The touch lingers slightly.

"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."

The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.

He closes his eyes for a second.

A mistake.

Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.

Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.

The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.

JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.

You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."

Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.

Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..." 

You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.

Drink water before standing up.

Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."

Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.

Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.

You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.

The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.

"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.

After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.

The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.

At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.

Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."

You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.

"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."

His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."

"Don't."

"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."

"Jack."

"You accused the floor of moving."

"Jack."

"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."

Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"Oh my fucking God."

Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."

There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.

You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."

"You sound surprised."

"You made breakfast."

"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."

You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.

Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.

The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"

You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."

You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."

"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."

The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."

Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."

"And I kind of crashed into your life last night." 

His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."

"I know."

"You called me."

"I know."

Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."

Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.

"You are not imposing."

You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."

"No." His answer comes immediately.

You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."

"But—"

"It's not a burden."

You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."

And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.

Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.

"Exactly."

You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.

"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"

You nearly choke, "What?"

"The eggs."

"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."

Jack stares at you, then laughs.

Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."

Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."

"I'm serious."

"Why?"

You stare at him, "Because it's your room."

"Correct."

"And your bed."

"Also correct."

You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."

"What?"

"I feel bad."

His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"

"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

"It happened one time."

"It happened three times."

"Allegedly."

Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."

"I know."

"You sounded doubtful."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.

For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."

Your eyes immediately dart away.

Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.

"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."

You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.

Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."

You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."

"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."

"Oh, good."

"They should fit."

"Should?"

"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."

The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."

Across his expression is as soft as his response,  "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."

You nod, "Okay."

"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."

Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."

"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."

"I know you."

"You wound me."

Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.

You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.

Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.

The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.

Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."

A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.

"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.

"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"

Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.

Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY

Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."

Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."

"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."

The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"

That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask,  "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."

Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.

THREE DAYS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."

"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"

"She switched."

"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago." 

Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"

"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.

A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.

Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.

He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."

Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."

That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.

"I gotta go."

"Lifeline—"

"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.

That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"

A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.

His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.

No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.

While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.

2025

6:00 PM

PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.

There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.

"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.

Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."

Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"

"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."

Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.

"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."

Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."

Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face. 

"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."

Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"

"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."

After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.

Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.

He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.

Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"

"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.

You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.

Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"

"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp. 

"Jack—"

"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"

You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"

Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.

"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking. 

"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."

The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."

Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."

A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.

"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."

Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."

"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.

"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."

Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.

The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"

Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"

You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.

7:00 PM

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.

The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.

You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.

So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.

"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"

"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."

"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.

The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.

"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"

Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.

Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.

One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.

The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.

You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.

He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.

"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."

Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.

You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."

Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"

"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."

"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."

Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.

"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."

Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.

"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."

Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."

Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."

Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."

The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.

"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."

Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.

Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."

His jaw tightens, "No."

"Jack."

"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.

The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.

As if love might finally be enough this time around.

PTMC, ICU — DAY

The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.

The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.

The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle. 

Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.

Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.

So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.

The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.

The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.

His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.

The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"

Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.

Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"

The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once. 

"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."

Robby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."

Jack glances up.

"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."

The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.

Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.

Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.

"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.

PTMC, ICU — DAY

The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.

A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.

Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.

Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.

Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.

"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.

"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."

You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again. 

Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding.  "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."

Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time." 

You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.

"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."

Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.

Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."

You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.

Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues,  "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."

Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."

Your stomach drops. 

Jesus.

"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."

Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.

"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."

For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.

"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."

Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.

Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."

The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.

Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.

Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."

His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.

Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”

Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."

His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.

"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."

A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens. 

"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her. 

"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away. 

"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."

Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.

"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."

"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.

"It kind of is."

You point weakly, "I got shot."

"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.

"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.

"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."

You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."

He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.

"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."

Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.

"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."

Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.