Taking him was always a struggle, no matter how soaked you were.

Left your cunt throbbing and your clit aching, raw and tender as his fat cockhead bullied your cervix until he'd cum so deep inside you'd feel him for days. Then the cramps would settle between your hips, your steps gingerly measured.

All the while he would watch, smug and hungry, circling like a vulture until he could swoop in, and do it again. A habit borne from curiosity and tainted by bible black delight; he summoned you every few days like clockwork.

And every few days, your body felt like a weeping wound.

-- Only this time he deviated from the game.

After he pulled out of you with a sticky, wet gush, he reached in his bedside drawer and procured a dildo. It was his favorite, and one he had used on you many times before. Vicious bumps and ridges pockmarked the shaft, the size more than large enough to ache.

He'd been unmoved by the tears clinging to your lashes (in fact, he caught one with his thumb, and while staring into your blurry gaze, brought his finger to his mouth and licked it clean), your voice slurred when you asked him what he was doing.

He worked the sex toy through the sloppy mess of your cunt, fought to shove the head past your abused walls amid your panting keens and trembling limbs until the muscles relented under the pressure.

It finally slid to the base, guided by a mixture of his cum and your slick. Nestled deep behind your pubic bone and ground against your g-spot with every twitch of your hips.

"Pretty," he husked, his palm cradling the soft distention of your belly. His fingers tightened, digging into the plush fat. "Good girl."

You groaned weakly, bloated and swollen. Baby hairs stood on end, awareness prickling down your spine and across your oversensitive skin.

Time moved in fractures. Tiny cavities dotted your vision.

Then came the blindfold, the lift from the bed before being slung over his shoulder. The creak of the door a gunshot in the silence as the far off murmur of voices made your heart drop. The sway of his steps, and the harsh swat on your bare ass as Titus grunts, "You better stay quiet."

The presence of others faded and with it, any hopes you might make it back to your own room tonight. Titus walked, and walked, and walked. Carried you in tow like it was nothing until a chill invaded the air. The sound of feet scraping over stone, and the heavy thud of doors made you swallow.

Everyone who worked for the Danforth's inner sanctum knew of the crypt beneath the resort. Above all else, it was your greatest fear to wind up there for it could only mean one thing.

Any begging you might have done was trained out of you long ago. Words hooked around the bend of your throat, stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy.

All you managed was a weak, "Titus..."

He fed on your distress, his hand massaging the globe of your ass as he descended the stairs into the atrium. While you couldn't see, you could hear the smirk coiled through his words.

"So dramatic," he said. "You have nothing to worry about as long as you behave."

It was far from comforting. In fact, it left you more adrift and unmoored than ever before. Handling Titus was simple. Easy. He only ever required a few set things from you. There was a schedule to follow. A routine.

This... This deviated wildly from whatever you came to expect from him.

Regardless, when he placed you down, the cold of the stone leeching the warmth from your body, and left with another reminder to stay put and behave or else, you listened. Remind yourself he was nothing but an overgrown, brutish boy with a magnifying glass and a ray of sunlight.

It's unfortunate you're the ant hill this time.

Hours crawled by suspended in silence. In limbo - Schrodinger's Cat. Alive, dead or was it dead, alive? Over and over on repeat until you felt like your body was too large for your skin.

And as time stretches its fingers, your nerves buzz.

The all consuming terror at odds with the pool of arousal kindling to life low in your belly. Hooked tight and hot behind your navel as your cunt, stretched to its limit around the dildo, throbs and your clit aches. Titus made sure to place the toy in just a way that it massaged all the right places, but never provided enough friction to cum.

Your thighs quiver from holding up your prone form, and a drip of slick and jizz oozes past the silicone plugging you up to puddle beneath you in a growing mess. If you had half a mind to spare, you'd be mortified at the mess you're leaving behind (one you'll likely have to clean).

Shifting, you curve your hip to the side only for your knee to slip. Caught off-guard, you scramble to righten yourself and jolt the toy against your cervix in the process. Hard.

Burning pain flutters deep inside your body, blooming out to spread through your limbs. The barest of noises - low and wounded animal - escapes your dry lips.

Shit, fuck, goddamn it.

"Please," you mouth, face turned skyward. Tears leak past the corners of your eyes to soak into the black velvet of your blindfold. "Please."

If Titus taught you anything, it's that Heaven is empty and all the devils are here but praying to the sky for deliverance is a hard habit to break. As to what you're begging for, you can't be sure.

(Atonement? Forgiveness? Mercy?)

All you know is the heavy, heady anticipation invades the space around you. There's a predator lurking in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Playing with his food. And that knowledge crackles along your nerves like liquid fire. Desperation gnaws at your edges, settles between your thighs until you tremble.

Soon.

He has to come back soon.

Titus likes to play.

And while he can bide his time during a hunt, there's only so long he would deny himself personal pleasure.

Right?

Surely, he wouldn't bring you down here to kill you. No, that would be too easy. Not nearly intimate enough. He'd want to see the light leave your eyes as you gasped for breath. He'd do it with his hands.

Then the air shifts imperceptibly to the left.

A line of heat settles behind you. Your heart jumps, and your stomach plummets. Breath rushes from you in a ragged exhale, the tang of expensive cologne - rich, musky like mulled wine and black coffee - dragging into your lungs on the inhale.

Titus. He's here. Has been. For how long?

When fingertips, delicate as butterfly wings, trail along the line of your shoulder, you jolt. Blunt nails dig in, drag up the skin of your throat to sink into your fluttering pulse point. Swallowing is difficult, your muscles clicking together sandpaper rough as a whimper slips free.

His touch feels like a live-wire; like he's torn his way through your chest and snuck his way beneath your ribs to play with the raw, exposed nerves.

"Always so sensitive for me," he says, voice rumbling in the sacrosanct silence like thunder. "Now where were we?"

more coming soon

Abbot scratched his jaw. "That said, I'm not gonna let you fuck her but…" He trailed off with a shrug.

"But?" Robby parroted, mouth dry and tacky as he struggled to swallow. His heart thundered in his ears, his hands shaking where they clasped the aluminum can like a lifeline. "What're you saying, Jack?"

"My mother taught me how to share — within reason." His eyes glinted beneath the jaundiced glow of the lamppost. A flash of his teeth like the grinning maw of a wolf before it gobbled you up. "Whaddya say? I think it could be fun."

Robby opened his mouth to respond, words molasses thick.

Time contracted, constricted.

Robby stumbled to Abbot's house in a haze.

Jittery with anticipation — with dread — a great, awful churning in his stomach. He worried he might puke as his heart threatened to burst out from beneath the cage of his ribs and tumble to the ground with a sickening wet splat.

Was Abbot really okay with this — was Robby?

After months of fantasizing — of stripping his cock raw to the thought of how soft and wet your pussy was — of blowing his load as he imagined the exact pitch of your moans and the taste of your cum — could he go back to business as usual once it was over?

But then he was being ushered inside and there was no more time to overthink. The lock sliding into place rang through the entrance, a noose around the neck. Final. No going back.

This was a mistake. Maybe if he was quick enough...

Robby swallowed, hands flexing by his sides.

Before he could bolt, you sashayed into the room graceful and collected. Greeted them both with a coy smile and playful waggle of fingers. His thoughts dissolved like incense smoke, curling through the air in wispy tendrils as his awareness narrowed in on you.

"Hi boys," you said, then nodded towards Robby, "I'm glad you decided to join us."

How could I say no?

Only your attention — blinding as the sun — didn't last because once you got close enough, Abbot pounced.

He reached for you, his strong arms pulling you into his chest as you wasted no time in winding a hand over the nape of his neck, fingers delving into disheveled curls.

Robby's stomach swooped at the wet smack of your mouths meeting in a filthy kiss, your softness yielding to the greedy pulls of Abbot's lips as he tangled your tongues together. Then your eyes fluttered open and he found himself staring into your soul, enraptured and unable to look away as you licked your way into another man's mouth.

So pretty with your mouth slack and eyes half-lidded — blissed out and needy. If this was how sensitive you were from a kiss, how would you be with a dick shoved deep inside your tight little cunt?

... Is this what you looked like when you came, cum-drunk and half-conscious?

Hapless, he watched as the tip of your tongue — wet and glittering beneath the light — traced the seam of Abbot's lips. His blood thrummed hot and heavy in his veins; a pounding pulse. Envy hooked behind his navel, sharp and unwelcome, as he choked on his breath.

Fuck.

His cock jolted against his thigh, and he couldn't help but think about forcing you to your knees so he could stuff your mouth full, that slick muscle lapping kitten soft along his shaft and bathing his balls until they dripped with spit.

Wished, not for the first time, it was him you clung to so desperately — the one you dug your nails into as you gasped.

Distraction!

He needed a distraction.

— There.

Across the room a strange piece of art hung slightly askew. All bold, impressionistic brush strokes and muddled blobs of color; it no doubt cost Abbot a criminal amount of money to obtain. Though from a certain angle the painting looked like something done by an angry toddler. Fit for the fridge, but not the wall.

If he had to guess, he'd say it was your doing.

Goddamnit.

There he went thinking about you again; a never-ending cycle. One that plagued him since he met you all those months ago, running through his mind like a broken record player: you, you, you.

Before he spiralled further into hysteria — the wet smacking of your mouths and heavy exhales dripping down his spine like candle wax — a hand settled over his forearm. The soft touch tugged him from the depths of his thoughts.

"Come on," you said, leading him (weak-kneed and jelly limbed) into the bedroom, "let's get comfortable, Baby."

Under the guidance of your gentle palms and peppered kisses, he stipped naked and settled flat on his back. His fingers fisted in clean sheets as the sea-salt bite of Abbot's cologne and something distinctly warm and musky — feminine — clogged his nose. Made his cock chub up until it throbbed, pre-cum oozing down the shaft in thick, sticky strings that pooled in the soft divot of his belly.

"Just relax, man," Abbot said. He disrobed, prosthetic leaned against the side table, and slotted himself into place in front of the headboard. Plush pillows cushioned his back as his thighs stretched out across the mattress, the toes of his left foot flexing. "She doesn't bite unless you ask nice."

Then you were slinging your leg over his body, knees anchored around his shoulders with your pussy hovering over his face; pretty folds spread wide and slick with arousal. He almost went cross-eyed, hissed out a low curse between clenched teeth. Struggled to keep his hands to himself (you didn't say he could touch, not yet) when your clit throbbed.

But fuck, he wanted to feel you pulse and quiver on his tongue. Smother him as you soaked him in your cum until he went light-headed and dizzy. "Please," he murmured. "Want to taste you."

Your hand reached between your thighs to pet at his face, lowered your hips until you sat flush against his mouth. Soft, warm, salty, sticky; smearing across his skin.

You sigh, "Robby."

He moaned, his mouth dropping open to pant against your pussy as the vibrations of his noise riccochetted up your spine. Then your back bowed and your legs clamped down on the sides of his head, crushing his ears. Pressure built in his temples — the soft spots aching.

He didn't even care, so far gone the only thing he could focus on was the silken clutch of your body. His tongue snaked out, the tip drawling languid circles around the swollen bud of your clit.

With every high pitched whine and low, wounded whimper, he cared less and less about how he got here and more about when he'd feel you drench his beard in squirt (he knows you can — Abbot bragged the first time it happened and Robby'll be damned if he stops before you're absolutely dumb and dripping).

"Oh, f-fuck!" you said. "That feels —"

Lips whispered over the length of you, your folds surrounded by the wet heat of his mouth as he traced your drooling entrance, the slick muscle of his tongue thrusting shallowly — taunting, teasing — as it chased after the taste of your pussy. Fingers tightened around your squirming hips, shackles that refused to let you pull away.

"He feel good, baby," Abbot asked, "like his mouth on your pretty pussy?"

Your shoulders curled in as your hands shot out to find some stability on Abbot's thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle. "Mhm! Ah, s'good. Robby — don't stop. F-Faster."

What was that saying — can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Well, fuck that.

Robby might be old(er) but he'll prove to you how fast of a learner he was. Every press of his lips was an offering as his tempo increased, his tongue twisting and lapping over every inch of your slit faster and faster. Your body jolted with every talented flick and your clit pulsed between his lips when he sucked the hard bud into his mouth.

"Ohmygod, right there — yeah, yeah. Suck on my clit, please—please—please. You're making my pussy feel s'good, Robby, I can't— hng!"

Slick gushed across his lips and into his mouth as your hips rocked down onto his face. Fuck. He was lightheaded. Your scent — your heat — your everything surrounded him. Consumed him until his thoughts were weighted down. Sluggish to come and even slower to go.

Tiny little snapshots of what's happened and what more he wanted to do before the night was out; brain getting ahead of his body as more pre-cum spurted out across his pelvis, his hips rocking up futilely for the wet friction of your body.

Calm down.

Abbot chuckled, raspy and burning with arousal. "Yeaaah, you're feelin' it. You already look cum drunk and he hasn't even really started yet."

You whimpered, head dropping to hang between your shoulders. A flush of heat oozed down your spine, thready and thick like warmed honey. Spread between your hips and pooled behind your navel. Every nerve ending sparked to life. You shuddered as the friction of Robby's coarse beard rubbed you raw.

"Shit, you look so fuckin' good like this." Abbot pumped his cock in a loose fist, thumb teasing the swollen crown. His eyes laser focused on the pretty picture you made sitting on his best friend's face. He never thought he was one for sharing but… "Could watch him eat that pretty pussy for hours. Fuck," Abbot squeezed the base of his shaft, a pearl of pre-cum oozing out of the slit, "I just might have to get my own taste of you, huh."

You clenched, head spinning as your stomach swooped. Electricity crackled down your spine. The thought of that talented tongue in your pussy alongside Robby's eager lips kissing and sucking your clit, their tongues tangled together and playing in your slick as they made you cum over and over again until the sheets were drenched and you shook with pleasure almost ended you then and there.

"Please, want it - want it so, so much. Please."

Robby groaned, working his jaw side to side as he sucked and slurped and swallowed. He released your folds with a soft, sticky pop. Then pressed a tender, open-mouthed kiss to your pulsing clit to hear you whine. "Sh, it's okay," he said, moist breath ghosting over your slit. "I got you — m'not going anywhere. Gonna be so good to you, baby."

You hiccupped, a tear squeezing past your clenched eyes. "Please." You weren't sure what you were begging for but you needed something — anything to happen. You felt like you were about to burst out of your skin, bones rattling and nerves buzzing with barely leashed energy. "I can't."

Robby replied, "You can."

"See, Sunshine?" A hand cupped your jaw and tilted your face up. Your blurry gaze snagged on Abbot's. He devoured your expression, brushed a thumb over the slack give of your mouth. Tugged until your teeth showed. "You got us right where you want us."

Robby murmured in agreement, petting his hand over the outside of your hip as he nuzzled his nose into the crease of your thigh. Teeth nibbled their way down your inseam before retracing a path back up towards your center, little kisses of pain. Your hips wiggled and Robby buried his face as far as he could between your legs. The bridge of his nose ground into the top of your slit.

"O-Oh, fuck, Robby!"

You tried so, so hard to stay still — Abbot trained you well — but it was nigh impossible. Every messy flick of Robby's tongue felt like a live-wire. And once you started grinding down on his face, peeking between your thighs to see the flushed tops of his cheeks and fever-bright eyes, you couldn't stop.

"Hey now," Abbot interjected, "I'm starting to feel a little left out so why don't you put that pretty mouth to work and make me feel good too?"

part 02 dropping soon | feedback is always apprecaited

The firefighter came in bloody, pissed off, and trying very hard to pretend he was not in pain. It was just after two in the morning, which meant the emergency department had settled into that strange night-shift rhythm where everything felt too bright and too quiet until it suddenly wasn’t.

Crus was at the nurses’ station attempting to fix a jammed printer. Shen was half a hallway down, talking to a drunk college student about the emotional consequences of a fractured wrist. Ellis was already pulling gloves on when the ambulance bay doors opened. And Jack was beside you at the foot of trauma two, expression calm in the way that meant he had already started building a plan before the stretcher crossed the threshold.

“Thirty-four-year-old male, firefighter, injured on scene,” the paramedic said as the stretcher rolled in. “Partial ceiling collapse during overhaul. Took debris to the shoulder and left flank. No loss of consciousness. Vitals stable en route.”

The firefighter on the stretcher opened one eye. “You make it sound dramatic.”

“You got hit by part of a ceiling,” another firefighter said, walking in beside the stretcher with the run sheet in one hand. “It was dramatic.”

The patient frowned. “I walked out.”

His teammate looked down at him. “You were carried out.”

“I assisted,” the patient said.

“You complained,” the other firefighter corrected.

You bit back a smile as you stepped toward the bed. “Sounds like he’s alert.”

The teammate’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately.”

Jack’s mouth did not move, but you felt the almost-smile in him anyway. Jack braced one hand on the rail. “On three. One, two, three.”

The team transferred the firefighter to the trauma bed. He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening hard as you helped guide his injured side down.

“I’m fine,” the firefighter said.

Jack looked at him over the end of the bed. “That usually means you’re not.”

You almost smiled again.

The firefighter’s teammate noticed. His attention shifted to you, quick and interested, and his mouth curved like he had decided the night had improved.

You held out your hand for the run sheet. “And you are?”

“Mason Brooks,” he said, passing it over. “Station Four.”

You glanced down at the paperwork. “Patient’s name?”

“Ryan Hale,” Mason said. “Lieutenant. Stubborn. Hero complex. Bad at following directions unless there’s active fire involved.”

Hale turned his head on the pillow. “I can still hear you.”

“Good,” Mason said. “Maybe this time it’ll sink in.”

You scanned the sheet. “Any meds? Allergies?”

Mason shifted closer to the end of the bed. “No known allergies. No daily meds. Unless coffee counts.”

“At this hour, it does,” you said.

Mason’s grin widened. “See, I knew I liked you.”

Jack’s hand paused for half a second on the bed rail. Half a second. Nothing more.

You kept your attention on the patient. “Lieutenant Hale,” you said, leaning into his line of sight. “I’m going to cut through your shirt so we can look at your shoulder and ribs, okay?”

Hale grimaced. “Whatever you need.”

Mason leaned a little closer, eyes still on you. “That offer extend to the rest of us, or just him?”

Crus, who had just stepped into the room, looked up immediately. Shen appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time, chart in hand. Ellis stopped opening a pack of gauze. You did not look at any of them. You also did not look at Jack. You could feel him perfectly well without that.

“Patient first,” you said, sliding the trauma shears through the fabric of Hale’s shirt. “Flirting never.”

Mason laughed, low and pleased, like you had given him exactly the answer he wanted. His eyebrows lifted. “Never?”

Jack reached over and adjusted the monitor lead near Hale’s shoulder. He did not need to. You knew that because you had already placed it. Still, his forearm came briefly into your space, a clean line of muscle and restraint under fluorescent light.

“Brooks,” Jack said.

The room went still in the way a room could only go still while everyone inside it kept working. Mason glanced at him.

Jack did not look away from the patient. “She needs room.”

Mason lifted both hands, grin still there. “I’m out of the way.”

Jack finally looked at him. “More.”

Crus looked down at the supply cart with sudden, religious interest. Shen pressed his lips together. Ellis coughed once into her shoulder. Mason took one step back. But he did not stop smiling. That was probably what did it. Because he was not being creepy. He was not interfering. He was not saying anything you could not handle. He was just obvious. Obvious enough that everyone in the room knew exactly what he was doing. Obvious enough that Jack had to stand beside you and pretend he did not care.

You palpated carefully along Hale’s shoulder. “Left shoulder tenderness. Possible clavicle involvement.”

Jack moved with you. Again. He stepped in at Hale’s other side, close enough that the two of you fell into the old rhythm before you could think about it. You checked the shoulder. Jack checked the ribs. You reached for gauze, and he passed it to you before you asked. Your fingers brushed. Barely. It was nothing. It was everything. 

Jack kept his eyes on Hale. “Any trouble breathing?”

Hale shook his head. “No.”

Jack’s hand stilled near the bruising along Hale’s side. “Pain when you take a deep breath?”

“Some,” Hale said.

Jack nodded once. “Chest X-ray. Shoulder films. CBC, CMP. Pain control.”

You reached for the tablet beside the bed. “Already paging X-ray.”

Jack’s gaze cut to you. For one second, there he was. Your Jack. Not Dr. Abbot. Not the attending pretending he had not kissed you against your apartment door less than eight hours ago. Your Jack. The one who knew how you took your coffee on the night shift. The one who texted you to make sure you got inside when you drove home after dark. 

Then he blinked, and the wall came back up. “Good,” Jack said.

Not thank you. Good. Professional enough to pass. Intimate enough to make your stomach turn over.

Mason glanced between you again, and even though he could not possibly know, you hated that he sensed something. 

“So,” Mason said, looking at you while Jack checked the bruising along Hale’s flank, “you always make trauma look this easy?”

You reached for tape. Jack got it first. Again. He handed it to you without looking away from Hale. You stared at the roll in his hand for half a second before taking it.

“Only when men in uniform behave,” you said.

Crus made a strangled noise. Shen turned halfway toward the door like he needed a moment.

Ellis muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under her breath.

Despite yourself, your mouth curved. It was small. Barely there. The kind of smile you would have swallowed immediately if you had realized anyone was watching.

Mason saw it anyway. His own smile turned delighted.

“There it is,” Mason said.

You looked at him. “There what?”

Mason leaned lightly against the wall, still at the distance Jack had ordered him to keep. “That smile. I was starting to think you were going to make me work for it all night.”

Jack set the chart down. Quietly. Too quietly. Crus froze. Shen looked at Ellis. Ellis looked at you.

You kept your voice light, but final. “Mason.”

Mason held your gaze for one second, then nodded like he knew he had found the line.

“Too much?” he asked.

You gave him a pointed look. “Yes.”

Mason lifted one hand in surrender. “Got it.”

And he did. He stepped back, posture still easy, but his mouth finally closed, which you appreciated more than you wanted to admit. Jack moved to Hale’s other side, all precise hands and unreadable expression.

Jack glanced at Mason. “Anything else clinically relevant from the scene?”

Mason looked at him. This time, he did not smile. “No, sir,” Mason said.

Jack nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll take it from here.”

Mason looked toward Hale. “I’ll check back when they decide you’re not dying.”

Hale closed his eyes. “Bring coffee.”

Mason huffed. “You don’t deserve coffee.”

You smiled despite yourself. Mason saw it. Jack saw Mason see it. You knew because Jack stepped closer to the bed, blocking Mason’s line of sight like it was an accident. It was not an accident. Your breath caught. Mason’s gaze flicked to Jack’s back. Then to you. Then he nodded once, like something had finally clicked enough to make him curious.

“Nice to meet you,” Mason said.

You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”

Jack did not move until Mason left the room. Then the trauma bay exhaled. Crus was the first one brave enough to breathe like a person.

He looked at the supply cart. “I’m going to take these somewhere else.”

Jack did not look at him. “Good.”

Crus picked up a pack of gauze. “Great.”

Shen backed toward the doorway with the chart still in his hand. “I have a wrist fracture.”

Ellis gave him a look. “You personally?”

Shen ignored her and left. Ellis glanced between you and Jack, then dropped the unopened gauze onto the counter. “I’ll check on X-ray,” Ellis said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on Hale. “Thank you.”

Ellis left, too. Which left you with Jack, the patient, the beeping monitor, and the awful knowledge that Jack was standing close enough to touch you and still refusing to do it. Hale opened one eye.

“I’m on pain meds,” he said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice any of that.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. 

You pressed your lips together. “Notice any of what?” you asked.

Hale looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.

“Exactly,” Hale said.

The corner of Jack’s mouth almost moved. Almost. Then the wall came back up.

“Rest,” Jack said.

Hale shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

The trauma bay emptied out in pieces after that. Hale went to imaging. Mason left with the rest of Station Four. Crus disappeared the second Jack gave him another look, though you knew he would be back the moment he thought it was safe to breathe near you again. Shen pretended to have somewhere to be. Ellis actually did. Which left you at the counter outside trauma two, finishing the chart with one hip pressed against the cabinet and the leftover adrenaline of the call still humming beneath your skin.

Jack stood a few feet away, reviewing Hale’s orders on the computer. He had not said much since Mason left. That was not unusual for Jack during a shift. It was unusual for Jack with you. You were still trying to decide whether you should say something when another night shift nurse, Drew, slid up beside you with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and a grin already working its way across his face.

“So,” Drew said.

You did not look up from the chart. “No.”

Drew laughed. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to,” you said.

Drew leaned his shoulder against the cabinet. “I was about to say Station Four was looking very heroic tonight.”

You paused. Across the counter, Jack’s typing stopped. Only for a second. Then it resumed. You felt your stomach tighten. Drew did not notice. Of course, he did not notice. He lowered his voice in the exact way people did when they thought they were being subtle and absolutely were not.

“Brooks was flirting hard,” Drew said.

You sighed. “He was doing a handoff.”

“Please.” Drew rolled his eyes. “He was doing a handoff, making prolonged eye contact, and trying to get your number through trauma paperwork.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. Tiny. Controlled. You saw it anyway.

“Drew,” you warned.

Drew smiled wider. “What? He was cute.”

“I’m not dating a firefighter,” you said.

Drew frowned. “Okay, but we love a man in uniform.”

Jack went still. Not enough for anyone else to call it that. Not enough to be obvious. But the air around him changed again. You hated that your first instinct was to look at him. You hated more that you could not. Because looking at Jack right now would say too much. Instead, you kept your eyes on the chart and forced your voice to stay light.

“We?” you asked.

Drew pointed the roll of tape at you. “As a community.”

You gave him a look.

Drew shrugged. “A broad and beautiful community of people with eyes.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Almost. Jack closed the chart on his screen. A little too carefully. You heard the click of the mouse. You felt it somewhere behind your ribs.

“I’m good,” you said.

Drew made a face. “You’re still doing that no-dating thing?”

You swallowed. The no-dating thing. Right. The harmless lie you had told people months ago when you and Jack had started becoming something neither of you had wanted to expose to hospital fluorescent lighting.

No dating. Too busy. Not worth the complication. 

A clean little excuse that had felt easy at the time.

Now, with Jack standing five feet away while another nurse encouraged you to go for a firefighter who had made him spend an entire trauma case pretending not to know you, it felt cruel.

“I’m good,” you repeated, softer this time.

Drew studied you for a second, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if Brooks comes back asking about you, I’m telling him you’re single and mysterious.”

“Drew,” you said.

He lifted both hands. “What?”

You pointed at him. “Do not do that.”

Drew grinned. “Fine. Single and terrifyingly unavailable.”

Jack looked up then. You felt it. His gaze on you. Not long. Not enough. Just a brief, controlled flick of his eyes that landed like a hand around your wrist.

Drew finally seemed to register the temperature of the room. His gaze shifted from you to Jack, then back again.

“Oh,” Drew said.

Your heart kicked once. Jack’s expression did not change.

“What?” you asked.

Drew blinked. “Nothing.”

“Drew,” you warned. 

“Nothing,” he repeated, suddenly fascinated by the roll of tape in his hand. “I’m going to restock three.”

He left too quickly. You stood there with your pen in your hand, your chart unfinished, and the awful knowledge that Jack was still looking at you. For one second, neither of you moved. Then Jack lowered his gaze back to the computer.

“Patient in four needs discharge papers,” Jack said.

Professional. Careful. A clean line drawn in the middle of the hallway.

You nodded, even though he was not looking at you anymore. “Okay.”

Jack clicked into another chart. You watched the muscle in his jaw move once. Then nothing. No comment about Drew. No sharp little confession. No hint that he cared whether Mason thought you were single, mysterious, available, unavailable, or anything else. Just Jack going quiet in the exact way that meant he was locking something down before it could get loose.

That was worse, somehow.

Because you knew him well enough to hear everything he refused to say. I know you are not going to go for it. I know you do not want him. I know this is not your fault. I still hated every second of it.

For the next twenty minutes, Jack stayed close. Not close enough for anyone to call it anything. Close enough that you noticed. He took the chart from your hand before Shen could reach for it. He stepped in beside you when Hale came back from imaging. He passed you gauze before you asked, tape before you reached, a fresh pair of gloves when yours tore at the wrist. Every touch almost happened. His knuckles almost brushed yours. His shoulder almost grazed your back. His hand almost settled at your waist when he moved behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the supply cart. Almost. Almost. Almost.

And each time, Jack pulled back before contact could become evidence. It was maddening. It was careful. It was so painfully him that you wanted to scream.

When Mason came back to check on Hale, Jack was already at your side. 

Mason stopped near the doorway, gaze flicking from Hale to you. “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll live,” you said.

Hale groaned from the bed. “Barely.”

Jack looked at the tablet in his hand. “No fracture. No pneumothorax. Observation for pain control and repeat exam.”

Mason nodded, but his eyes came back to you. “Good. I’d hate to think I left him in the wrong hands.”

You opened your mouth. Jack answered before you could. “She has it handled.”

The room went quiet. Mason’s brows lifted slightly. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Mason, calm and unreadable.

Mason’s mouth curved, slower this time. “I can see that.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. You set the tablet down before either of them could say another word.

“Lieutenant Hale needs rest,” you said, voice light but firm. “And I need both of you to stop having whatever conversation you think you’re having over his bed.”

Hale opened one eye. “Thank you.”

Mason laughed once, lifting both hands. “Fair.”

Jack finally looked at you. There was heat there. Frustration. Something too sharp to be professional and too controlled to be anything else. You held his gaze for half a second too long. Then Jack looked away first.

“Brooks,” Jack said, voice even. “You can check back in after he’s had some rest.”

Mason nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He looked at you one last time. “Good seeing you again,” Mason said.

You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”

Jack moved before Mason fully cleared the doorway. It was subtle. A step to the side. A shift of his body. Nothing anyone could call possessive. But it put him directly between you and Mason’s line of sight. Your breath caught. Mason saw it. You knew he saw it because his expression changed just enough. Curiosity. Recognition. Not understanding, exactly. But close. Then Mason left.

Hale looked between you and Jack from the bed.

“I’m still on pain meds,” Hale said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice that either.”

Jack’s eyes closed again. You pressed your lips together. From the doorway, Crus made the mistake of appearing with Hale’s updated paperwork. He looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Hale.

“I can come back,” Crus said.

Jack turned his head. “Crus.”

Crus nodded. “Coming back.”

He disappeared immediately. You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the tablet from the counter.

“I’m going to restock,” you said.

Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”

“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Now.”

You made it halfway down the hall before Jack caught up. He did not call your name. He did not say anything at all. He just reached past you, opened the supply closet door, and said, low enough that only you could hear, “In.”

Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Please.”

That was worse. That was much worse. You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut, Jack’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to turn you back toward him before you could take another breath.

“Jack—”

He kissed you. 

The word disappeared against his mouth. For one stunned second, you froze, caught between the metal shelf at your back and the heat of him in front of you. Then your body caught up faster than your brain did. Your hands found his scrub top, fingers curling into the fabric as Jack stepped closer and kissed you like he had been holding himself back all night. Because he had. You knew it in the way his mouth moved over yours.

Controlled, but only barely. Careful, but not calm.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in once before he seemed to remember where you were and stopped himself from dragging you fully against him. When he broke the kiss, his breath was uneven. You stared up at him. Jack’s eyes were dark.

Your lips parted. “Oh.”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“You’re jealous,” you said.

Jack looked toward the closed door like it had personally offended him. “I’m not doing this here.”

“You pulled me into a supply closet and kissed me,” you replied.

Jack exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

You lifted your brows. “That wasn’t talking.”

Jack’s eyes cut back to yours. There he was. Irritated. Wound tight. Too handsome for your peace of mind.

“You’ve been acting strange all night,” you said.

Jack dropped his hand from your waist, but he did not step back. “I’ve been working.”

Your eyes narrowed, “You’ve been keeping me within arm’s reach.”

Jack did not answer. That silence landed harder than a confession.

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

His gaze stayed on yours, stubborn and hot and miserable.

“Is this because of Mason?” you asked.

Jack laughed once, short and humorless. “Mason,” he repeated, like the name tasted bad.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack looked away, but this time there was something grumpy and sharp tucked into the movement.

“Drew had plenty to say about him,” Jack said.

The memory came back immediately. Station Four was looking very heroic tonight. He was cute. Okay, but we love a man in uniform.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it.

Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing,” Jack replied. 

You tilted your head. “You’re mad about what Drew said.”

Jack replied instantly. “I’m not mad about what Drew said.”

You gave him a look.

Jack’s mouth tightened. “He said you should go for it.”

You sighed softly. “He was teasing.” 

“He said everyone loves a man in uniform,” Jack replied, short, slightly clipped. 

You stepped closer, letting your hands smooth slowly up his chest.

“And you think I was looking at Mason in uniform?” you asked.

“I think,” Jack said, each word too controlled, “Brooks knew exactly what he looked like walking into that room.”

You hummed. “Did he?”

Jack's tone sharpened into a warning, “Baby.”

There it was. The first slip. The first crack in the professional distance he had forced between you all night. 

Your stomach flipped, but you did not let him off the hook. “He’s not the man I want to see in uniform.”

Jack went still. Not tense. Not cold. Still. Like the words had gone straight through him.

“No?” Jack asked.

You shook your head. “No.”

The supply closet felt smaller suddenly. Too quiet. Too warm.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Careful.”

You continued despite Jack’s warning. “You are.” 

His mouth parted slightly. You let your gaze move over him, slow enough to be cruel.

“And you know exactly what you look like in your SWAT gear.”

Jack’s hand braced on the shelf beside your head. He was not touching you. Not yet. But his body crowded yours, all heat and restraint, and your pulse jumped like it had been waiting for permission.

“I pulled you in here because I was jealous,” Jack said, voice rough. “And now you’re talking about SWAT gear.” 

“No,” you said, fingers curling in the front of his scrub top. “I’m telling you, Mason could never.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hands.

You tugged him closer by a fraction. “He could never make me feel like you do.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.

“He could never kiss me like you do,” you said.

Jack kissed you again. Harder this time. The shelf pressed into your back as his mouth found yours, and you made a soft, startled sound that disappeared into him. Jack swallowed it like it belonged to him. His hand returned to your waist, fingers tightening once, and the possessive edge of it made your knees go weak. He kissed you like a man trying to prove a point he had no business proving at work. 

Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. You should have stopped. You did not. You caught his wrist before he could move his hand away.

Jack’s eyes sharpened. “Baby.”

You held his gaze and guided his hand back to your waist. “He could never touch me like you do.”

Jack’s fingers flexed against you. You moved his hand lower, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He did not. His palm settled over your ass, firm and hot through your scrubs, and his jaw went tight enough to make your stomach flip.

Your voice dropped. “Never.”

Jack’s breath left him roughly. His hand tightened once before he forced it still.

“You need to stop,” Jack said.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his scrub pants and pulled him closer. Not much. Just enough. Jack’s hips pressed into yours, and the sound he made was low, wrecked, barely controlled.

You looked up at him. “He could never fuck me like you do.”

Jack snapped.

His mouth was on yours before you could take another breath. This kiss was not careful. Not at first. It was hot and rough and immediate, his hand tightening on your ass as he pinned you back against the shelf with the solid heat of his body. Your fingers twisted in his waistband, pulling him closer while his mouth opened over yours, swallowing the small sound that slipped out of you. For one dizzy second, there was no hospital. No night shift. No Mason. No Drew. No secret. Just Jack’s mouth, Jack’s hands, Jack’s body pressed hard against yours as if he needed you to feel exactly how much he had been holding back.

Your hand slid up his chest. Jack’s hips pushed into yours again, and your breath broke against his mouth.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He kissed you once more, deep and hungry, and then stopped like it hurt. His forehead dropped to yours. Both of you were breathing too hard. His hand stayed on you for one more second. Then his fingers loosened.

“Not here,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened slowly. “Jack.”

His voice was rough, almost unsteady. “Not because I’m jealous.”

Your fingers were still hooked in his waistband. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint pulled tight through every line of his body. He lifted his head enough to look at you.

“Not at work,” Jack said. “Not where anyone can walk in and make you pay for it.”

Your chest squeezed, even through the heat still crawling under your skin. “You think I’d regret it?” you asked.

Jack’s expression softened for half a second, but his voice stayed wrecked. “I think I care about you too much to find out in a supply closet.”

You stared at him. “That is so annoying.”

His mouth twitched, though his eyes were still dark. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” You let go of his waistband slowly, even though it cost you. “Responsible. Principled. Deeply inconvenient.”

Jack’s hand slid from your ass back to your waist. Just once. Firm. Careful. Then he let go. He leaned close again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Finish the shift,” Jack said.

Your eyes fluttered. “And then?”

Jack stepped back, putting space between you like it physically hurt. His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your mouth before coming back to your eyes. “Then you come home with me.”

Your pulse jumped. You tried to smile. “And?”

Jack reached for the supply closet door, but he looked back before opening it. “And then you can say all of that again.”

You stepped out of the supply closet first. That had been Jack’s idea. He gave you thirty seconds, like that would somehow fix your mouth, your breathing, your pulse, or the fact that your whole body still felt marked by his hands. You made it three steps before Crus appeared at the end of the hall. He looked at you. You looked at him. Crus’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he looked at the supply closet door behind you.

You lifted a finger. “Don’t.”

Crus nodded immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”

Your eyes narrowed, “You were thinking.”

“I can stop,” Crus said.

You nodded once, “Do that.” 

Crus pointed vaguely toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to go over there.”

You nodded. “Great idea.”

Crus took two steps backward before turning around completely. You waited until he disappeared, then pressed the heel of your hand beneath your collarbone like that would keep your heart where it belonged. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out. You did not turn around. You did not need to. You felt him behind you the same way you had felt him all night. Close. Controlled. Ruining your life with restraint. Jack passed you without touching you, but his voice dipped low enough that only you could hear. “Breathe.”

Your eyes closed for half a second. “Don’t start.”

Jack paused beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “I’m not starting anything.”

You looked up at him. “You absolutely started something.”

His mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the hall. “Finish the shift.”

You exhaled shakily. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

Jack’s gaze cut to yours. For one second, the supply closet was there again. His mouth on yours. His hand at your waist. His voice against your ear. Then Jack looked away first.

“I didn’t say easy,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. He walked away before you could answer. You stood there for one more second, furious with him for being principled and even more furious with yourself for finding it attractive.

 You lasted eleven minutes. That was generous, considering the state Jack had left you in. Eleven whole minutes of pretending you could chart, restock, answer Drew’s question about room six, and not think about Jack’s mouth on yours in the supply closet. Eleven minutes of watching him move through the department like he had not just pinned you to a shelf and then ruined your life by being responsible about it. He was at the nurses’ station when you looked up again, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, the other scrolling through something on his phone. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was calm. He looked controlled.

That annoyed you. It annoyed you enough that you reached into your scrub pocket for your phone. The photo was not new. You had taken it two nights ago in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of his mirror while he was in the shower. Your face was hidden behind your phone, one knee bent, your other leg folded beneath you. Lace hugged your hips, one strap sitting soft against your shoulder, the whole thing intimate and quiet and unmistakably meant for him.

It did not show everything.

It did not have to.

Jack knew what that set looked like in person. Jack knew what it looked like on his bedroom floor. You stared at the photo for half a second. Then you looked across the department. Jack lifted his coffee to his mouth. You selected the photo. Underneath it, you typed: For the record, Mason never got one of these.

You pressed send. Across the station, Jack’s phone lit up. He glanced down. His thumb moved over the screen. For one second, nothing happened. Then his coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Jack lowered the cup slowly. Very slowly. His jaw tightened.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Jack: Fuck. You’re beautiful.

Your breath caught. For half a second, all the smugness drained out of you. Then another message appeared.

Jack: And you know exactly what you’re doing.

Your mouth curved. You typed back. You: Good.

Across the station, Jack looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Dark. Focused. Not even close to calm. Your phone buzzed again. Jack: Careful.

You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up the chart in front of you. Jack kept looking at you. You did not look back. That was the point.

For the rest of the shift, you behaved. Mostly. You answered call lights. You updated Hale’s chart. You helped Drew turn over room three. You gave Ellis the lab results she had been waiting for and listened to Shen complain about discharge instructions with the appropriate amount of sympathy. And every so often, you made Jack’s life worse. Not loudly. Never obviously. You were smarter than that. You brushed past him in the narrow hallway with just enough space between you for plausible deniability and not nearly enough for mercy. Jack’s hand tightened around the chart he was holding. You did not smile until you were past him.

Five minutes later, you reached around him at the counter for a roll of tape you did not actually need. Jack went still when your chest nearly touched his arm.

You kept your voice sweet. “Excuse me.”

His eyes cut to yours. “There are three rolls on the other side.”

You looked down at the tape in your hand. “I like this one.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. Drew passed behind you with a stack of blankets, looked between you and Jack, and immediately changed direction.

“Nope,” Drew said.

You turned toward him. “What?”

Drew kept walking. “I have no questions.”

Jack leaned closer under the cover of reaching for a pen. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear. “You’re being a brat.”

Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him, all innocence. “Am I?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

The word landed low in your stomach. You swallowed. Jack noticed. For one second, the corner of his mouth almost moved. Then he straightened, professional mask sliding back into place like he had not just knocked the air out of you with one word.

“Room four needs vitals,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, doctor.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth. “Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled because you had no survival instinct left. “Trying.”

You were not trying. You both knew it.

By six, the department had thinned into the gray, half-awake quiet that came right before day shift started filling the halls with fresh voices and clean coffee. Hale had been admitted for observation. Mason had not come back. Drew had given you exactly one suspicious look and then wisely chosen to become fascinated by a supply cabinet. Shen had avoided the trauma hallway entirely. Ellis handed you a stack of discharge papers without comment, then looked at your face for half a second too long.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Ellis lifted one shoulder. “Nothing.”

You exhaled. “That sounded like something.”

“It was internal,” Ellis replied. 

You nodded. “Keep it that way.”

Ellis nodded in return. “Absolutely.”

From the attending station, Jack signed off on a chart and handed it to Crus. Crus took it carefully, like it might explode.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Crus shook his head. “Nothing.” Jack stared at him. Crus swallowed. “Lots of nothing this morning.”

You pressed your lips together and turned away before you could laugh. Jack’s gaze found you anyway. It landed on the side of your face, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. You looked down at the chart in your hand and tried to remember how to read. When your shift finally ended, you made it to the staff room before Jack did. 

A little after seven, you changed out of your scrub top with fingers that were not as steady as you wanted them to be. You shoved your things into your bag, checked your phone, then checked it again, even though nothing had changed. Jack had not texted. He did not need to. You both knew where you were going. Still, when you stepped into the hallway and found him waiting near the exit, your breath caught. He had changed into a dark jacket over his T-shirt, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his keys. He looked tired. He looked composed. He looked like the man who had stopped himself in a supply closet and expected you to survive that information.

Jack’s eyes moved over you once. “You ready?”

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Are you?”

His jaw shifted. You watched him fight a smile and lose by half an inch. “Car’s this way,” Jack said.

You followed him into the parking garage without another word. The walk to his truck felt longer than it should have. Neither of you touched. Neither of you spoke. Your hands kept brushing close enough that you could feel the almost of it, and by the time Jack unlocked the truck, you were so aware of him it felt embarrassing.

He opened the passenger door. You looked up at him. “Still being responsible?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Trying.”

You quirked a brow, “How’s that going?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Poorly,” he said.

You slid into the seat before you could do something stupid in the parking garage, too. Jack closed the door with more care than necessary. The drive to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. The kind of quiet that had weight. The kind that pressed between your ribs and reminded you of everything waiting on the other side of his front door.

Jack kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested near the gear shift. Halfway there, you reached over and touched his wrist. Jack’s fingers flexed once, but he did not look away from the road.

You traced your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You okay?”

His throat moved. “No,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened. He glanced at you then, quick and honest in the dark cab of the truck. “But I will be.”

You nodded and left your hand where it was. Jack turned his wrist beneath your touch and threaded his fingers through yours. It was the first real contact since the closet. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles. Slow. Controlled. The way he did everything when he was trying not to lose his mind. You looked down at your joined hands and felt your pulse jump. He was touching you now. He was still holding back.

Jack pulled into the small driveway behind his townhouse and cut the engine. For one second, neither of you moved. Your hand was still in his. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself you were there.

You looked over at him. “Jack.”

His eyes stayed forward. “I know.”

You waited. Jack exhaled through his nose, then turned his head enough to look at you. The porch light cut across his face, catching the tired set of his eyes, the rough edge of his restraint, the stubborn line of his mouth. He looked like he had survived the shift. Barely.

“You coming inside?” he asked.

Your heart kicked. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he opened his door. You watched him get out, watched him come around the front of the truck, watched him open your door like the silence between you was not doing half the work for him. He held out his hand. You took it. Jack helped you down, then let go immediately.

You frowned. “Really?”

He shut the passenger door. “Inside.”

The word landed low in your stomach. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and followed him toward the back door. He did not touch you while he unlocked it. He did not touch you when he stepped aside to let you in first. He did not touch you when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place. That was how you knew you were in trouble. You stepped into the familiar quiet of his townhouse, and something in your chest softened before you could stop it. His boots were lined up neatly by the door. Your shoes from two nights ago were tucked beside them. The mug you always stole was upside down in the drying rack. The blanket you liked was folded over the back of the couch, neater than you had ever left it.

The sweatshirt you kept stealing was draped over the stair railing. Evidence. Everywhere. Tiny, domestic evidence that you belonged here. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the door. You watched his hands. Slow. Controlled. Infuriating. Then he turned back to you.

“Bag down,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

His eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You stared at him for a second. Then, because apparently you had learned nothing from the supply closet, you smiled. “Is this the part where you get bossy?”

Jack stepped closer, not rushing, not touching, just taking up space until the air between you felt thinner. “This is the part where you listen.”

Your stomach flipped. “Because I sent you a picture?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Because you sent me that picture at work.”

“You liked it.”

His eyes darkened. “I loved it.”

The honesty in his voice nearly ruined your smugness. Nearly.

You tilted your chin up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft. Not yet.

“The problem,” he said, “is that you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop gently beside your feet. “There,” you said. “I listened.”

Jack glanced at the bag. Then back at you. “Good.”

The single word moved through you like a hand. You swallowed.

His expression shifted by half a degree, the corner of his mouth barely moving.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

Your pulse jumped. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. “You were very brave at work,” he said.

You held his stare. “Was I?”

His hand came to the wall beside your head, not touching you, not yet. “Sending pictures. Brushing past me. Reaching for things you didn’t need.”

Your back met the door. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You had a lot to say for someone who still had a shift to finish.”

Your breath came shallow. “You told me to finish it.”

“I did,” Jack replied.

You inhaled. “So I did.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You made it difficult.”

You smiled, slow and sweet. “Good.”

His hand finally came to your waist. Firm. Warm. Possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable. Jack leaned in, his mouth near your ear.

“That’s the last time you say that without thinking first,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered shut. For one second, the brat in you went quiet. 

Then you opened your eyes and turned your face toward his. “Or what?”

Jack went still. The room changed. His hand tightened at your waist once, not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he had heard every bit of challenge in your voice. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. Something honest. Something that made your chest ache even while your body was still humming from the way he had you against the door.

“Or,” Jack said, voice low, “you’re going to make me forget what I actually need to say to you.”

Your smile faded. “Oh.”

His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah,” he said.

You softened under his hand. “Jack.”

He looked at you for a long second. Then the confession started, quiet and rough and bigger than the jealousy. “I hated it,” he said.

Your chest went still. You searched his face. “Mason?”

Jack shook his head once. “No.”

You waited. His jaw worked like the words were fighting him on the way out. 

“I hated standing there like I didn’t know you,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. He looked away, but only for a second. When his eyes came back to yours, there was no professional distance left in them.

“I hated hearing him talk to you like you were available,” Jack said. “I hated Drew saying you should go for it and knowing I couldn’t say a damn thing.”

You lifted your hand to his chest. “Jack.”

“I know why we’re careful,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold anymore. Never cold. “I know why it matters. I know what people can be like, and I know your career matters more than me needing to prove a point in a trauma bay.”

You stepped closer. “It’s not more than you.” Jack’s expression shifted. You held his gaze. “My career matters. So do you.”

He swallowed once. “I know you didn’t want him,” Jack said.

“I didn’t,” you agreed. 

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “That was never the problem.”

You took another careful breath. “Then what was?”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said it. “Careful felt a hell of a lot like pretending tonight.”

Your breath caught. 

His eyes stayed on yours, tired and dark and finally honest. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The room went quiet. The kind that settled around the two of you and made every other sound disappear. You stared at him. Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. For the first time all night, he looked uncertain. That did something worse to you than the jealousy had. Worse than the supply closet. Worse than his hand on your waist, his mouth at your ear, his voice telling you to finish the shift.

You slid your hand up his chest. “You’re in love with me?” you asked.

His eyes searched your face. “Yes.”

The word was simple. No defense. No sarcasm. No place to hide. Your heart folded in on itself.

You touched his jaw. “Good.”

Jack’s brows drew together. “Good?”

You nodded, your thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble along his cheek. “Because I’m in love with you too.”

Jack’s breath left him slowly. Your chest ached with it. “With me?” he asked.

You gave him a look, even though your eyes were starting to sting. “Jack.”

His mouth curved faintly, but the vulnerability in his eyes stayed. “I had to ask.”

You shook your head. “You did not.”

“I did,” Jack replied. 

You shook your head again and stepped closer until your body nearly touched his. “You are a ridiculous man.”

Jack’s hand finally settled more firmly at your waist. Like he had needed to hear it first. Like he had been waiting for permission to believe you. You covered his hand with yours and pressed it harder against you. His eyes darkened.

“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “You have been a problem all night.”

Your mouth curved. “I have?” He gave you a flat look. You widened your eyes. “Was it the photo?”

Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “Among other things.”

“I took that for you,” you said. 

Jack nodded once. “I know.”

You slid your hands down his chest, watching the restraint settle back into his body for a very different reason now. “No one else gets that,” you said. 

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His thumb moved once against your waist. You let your voice soften into something sweet enough to be dangerous.

“No one else gets me in your room,” you said. “No one else gets your shirt on my floor. No one else gets those pictures.”

Jack’s breathing changed.

You lifted your chin. “And no one else gets to touch me the way you do.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. There he was. The same heat from the supply closet. The same jealousy. The same need. But now there was no hospital around it. No door someone could open. No chart waiting. No secret making him stand five feet away. Just Jack’s townhouse. Jack’s hand on your waist. Jack looking at you like he had finally stopped pretending.

“You said something like that earlier,” he said.

Your stomach dipped. “I said a lot earlier.”

His mouth curved, slow and rough at the edges. “You did.”

You held his gaze. “Which part?”

Jack’s other hand came to your hip. “The part where you said he could never.”

Your pulse jumped. You let your hands slide lower, fingers catching lightly at the waistband of his jeans this time.

“He couldn’t,” you said.

Jack stepped into you. Your back met the door again. The sound was soft. The shift in him was not. He crowded you slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, every chance to push back, every chance to choose something else. You chose him. You hooked your fingers more firmly into his waistband and pulled him closer. Jack’s breath caught.

You looked up at him. “He could never make me feel like you do.”

His hand slid from your waist to the door beside your head. 

You smiled, because apparently you had not learned a single thing. “He could never kiss me like you do.”

Jack leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. His voice was low. “You’re still being a brat.”

Your stomach flipped. You held his stare. “Maybe you’re still jealous.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “Yes, baby,” he said. “I’m jealous.”

Your breath caught. His mouth brushed yours, barely a kiss. “But I’m also in love with you,” Jack said. “So if you want to keep being a brat about it, you’d better be very sure.”

Your fingers tightened in his waistband. You smiled against his mouth. “I’m sure.”

Jack kissed you then. Not like the supply closet. Not like a man trying to steal something before the rest of the world noticed. This was slower. Deeper. Worse, somehow, because there was nowhere for either of you to go now. No alarms. No monitors. No hallway footsteps. No coworker who might round the corner and force Jack to become Dr. Abbot again. There was just his townhouse. The locked door at your back. His hand at your waist. His mouth moving over yours like he finally had permission to take his time. You made a small sound into the kiss and felt his fingers tighten.

Jack pulled back just enough to breathe. “Say it again.”

Your eyes opened. He was close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that you could see every careful piece of him coming apart.

You swallowed. “I’m sure.”

Jack’s gaze darkened. “Not that.”

Your chest went soft. Oh. You slid your hand up the side of his neck. “I’m in love with you.”

His breath left him. For one second, he did nothing but look at you. Then Jack kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other pressed at your waist and pulled you fully against him. You went willingly. Of course you did. You had been going willingly all night, even when you were being impossible about it. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled. You did it again, just to hear it.

He broke the kiss with his lips still brushing yours. “Careful.”

You smiled against his mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep not listening,” Jack replied. 

You tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you should do something about it.”

Jack went still. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to feel the air shift.

Then his hand covered yours, stilling your fingers against his chest.

“You are really committed to testing me tonight,” he said.

You opened your mouth, but Jack kissed whatever answer you had been about to give right out of you. Your back hit the door again, softer this time, his body crowding you in. He did not trap you. Not really. The space was there if you wanted it. You did not want it. You wanted him closer. You slid both hands beneath his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. Jack let you get one sleeve down before he helped, shrugging out of it and dropping it somewhere near your abandoned bag. Your fingers went right back to his shirt. Jack caught your wrists.

You huffed against his mouth. “Jack.”

His grip stayed firm. “Slow down.”

“I waited all shift,” you replied. 

Jack exhaled. “You teased me all shift.”

You lifted your chin. “You survived.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. Your pulse jumped. “That mouth,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You like my mouth.”

His gaze dropped to it. “I love your mouth.”

The words went straight through you. Before you could recover, Jack’s hand slid to the hem of your top. His eyes lifted to yours. You nodded. Only then did he pull it up. You raised your arms, and Jack drew the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without looking away from you. His gaze moved over your bare shoulders, your chest, the rise and fall of your breathing. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he was taking inventory of every inch he had been denied all night.

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

“I know,” he said.

His hand came back to your waist, his palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed the line where your bra met your ribs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. You reached for his shirt again. This time, he let you. Your fingers dragged the fabric up his stomach, over his chest, and Jack ducked his head enough for you to pull it off. You dropped it beside your scrub top and forgot about it immediately. Because Jack was there. Warm skin. Bare chest. The muscles in his stomach shifting as he breathed. The dark look in his eyes when he realized you were staring. Your mouth went dry.

Jack’s hand slid up your side. “Still thinking about Mason?”

You almost laughed. It came out breathless instead. “No.”

His brow lifted. “No?”

You set both hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I told you. He could never.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. You felt it under your fingers, that tiny fracture in his control.

“He could never what?” he asked.

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted to hear it. You also knew you had spent the entire shift making him wait. 

So you gave it to him. “He could never make me feel like this.”

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Good girl,” he said.

Your knees nearly gave out. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss turned messy for the first time. Not uncontrolled. Jack was never uncontrolled. But rougher. Hungrier. His hand slid to your back, unclipping your bra with a practiced motion that made your entire body go hot.

You broke the kiss to look at him. “That was fast.”

His mouth brushed the corner of yours. “I’m a doctor.”

You laughed once, breathless and ruined. “That is not a medical skill.”

Jack slid the strap down your shoulder. “It is today.”

Your laugh caught when the bra slipped down your arms. Jack’s gaze followed. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, theatrical way. But enough that your teasing vanished. 

His thumb brushed beneath your breast, barely touching. “Fuck.” Your breath shook. Jack looked back up at you. “Beautiful.”

Your chest tightened at the softness in his voice. You reached for him again, but Jack caught your wrist and pressed your hand back to the door beside your head.

“Not yet,” he said.

You stared at him. “Not yet?”

His mouth curved faintly. “You heard me.”

You swallowed. Jack leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, then the sensitive place beneath your ear. His hand moved slowly down your body, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, stopping at the waistband of your scrub pants.

“You were very brave at work,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered. “Was I?”

“Sending that picture,” Jack said. “Brushing past me. Reaching around me for tape you didn’t need.”

You gripped the doorframe with your free hand. “I liked that tape.”

Jack’s teeth grazed gently beneath your ear. Your breath caught. 

“You liked making me watch you pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose,” he said.

You turned your face toward his. “Maybe.”

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. Your hips shifted toward him before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s mouth curved against your jaw. “There she is.”

You hated how much you loved when he said that. You hated more that he knew.

Jack drew back enough to look at you. “Say my name.”

Your lips parted. “Jack.”

His eyes darkened. “Again.”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

He kissed you once, deep and slow, then hooked his fingers in your waistband and started to pull. You lifted your hips from the door just enough to help him. Jack lowered your pants inch by inch, taking your underwear with them, his eyes on yours until the fabric slipped down your thighs. You stepped out of them. He stayed standing. Still half dressed. Still in control. Still watching you like he had all the time in the world. You were bare in front of him, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Jack followed your gaze. His mouth twitched. 

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s cold.”

Jack’s hand slid to your bare hip. “Baby, you are shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.”

Your face warmed. “You’re very smug right now.”

“I’m very patient right now,” Jack corrected. 

You gave him a look. “Are you?”

Jack’s eyes moved over you once, slow and devastating. “No,” he said. “But I’m trying to make a point.”

Your stomach dipped. “What point?”

He stepped closer, his jeans brushing your bare thigh. “That you are going to remember exactly who you came home with.”

Your breath left you. Jack’s hand came to the back of your neck, tipping your face up.

“Who did you come home with?” he asked.

You stared at him. “You.”

His thumb brushed the side of your throat. “Say my name.”

“Jack.”

His mouth ghosted over yours. “Good girl.”

You surged up to kiss him, but Jack pulled back before you could catch his mouth. You made a frustrated sound. He smiled then. Just barely. Mean enough to make your pulse trip.

“Upstairs,” Jack said.

Your body went still. “What?”

His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, holding you there gently. “Upstairs,” he repeated.

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Like this?”

Jack’s gaze dropped over you. Then came back to your face. “Yes.”

Your breath caught. You glanced toward the stairs, then at his jeans, still very much on, still entirely unfair. “You’re dressed.”

“I am,” Jack replied.

You glared. “That seems uneven.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You had your fun at work.”

You blinked at him. “So this is revenge?”

His expression softened for half a second, just enough to remind you that underneath all of this, he loved you. Then his thumb brushed your lower lip. “No,” Jack said. “This is me taking my time.”

Your stomach flipped. You turned toward the stairs, trying very hard to pretend your legs felt steady. They did not. Jack stayed close behind you as you started up, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you.

You looked back over your shoulder halfway up. “You coming?”

His eyes dragged over you, slow enough to make you regret the question. “Keep walking,” Jack said.

You faced forward immediately. Behind you, Jack made a low sound that might have been amusement. You gripped the railing and kept going. By the time you reached his bedroom, your skin felt too tight, every nerve lit with the awareness of him behind you. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway and the weak morning light edging around the curtains. You had been in this room before. You knew the dresser. The bed. The chair in the corner where Jack folded his clothes too neatly. The mirror where you had taken the picture that had started all of this. But with Jack behind you and your clothes scattered downstairs, it felt different. It felt like a consequence. Jack stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You turned toward him. He looked at you for one long second. Then his gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit,” Jack said.

You sat. Jack did not move right away. He stood near the closed bedroom door, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting all night to get alone. Your knees pressed together on instinct.

His gaze dropped briefly, then came back to your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he said.

Your breath caught. You eased your knees apart. Not much. Enough.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Good girl,” he said.

The praise went straight through you. You gripped the edge of the mattress. “Jack.”

He stepped closer. “What?”

You looked up at him, bare and aching and already tired of him being so controlled. “Come here.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounded like an order.”

You lifted your chin. “Maybe it was.”

His eyes darkened. For a second, you thought he might make you take it back. Instead, Jack crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until he was standing between your knees. Close. Still too dressed. Still too smug. You reached for his waistband. Jack caught your wrist. Your pulse jumped.

His grip was gentle, but it stopped you completely. “No,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “No?”

Jack’s thumb moved over the inside of your wrist, the same place you had touched him in the truck. “You’ve had your hands where you wanted them all night.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You sent me a picture at work,” Jack said. “You brushed against me every chance you got. You reached around me for tape you didn’t need.”

“I liked that tape,” you murmured. 

“And now,” he said, ignoring you completely, “you think you get to decide when you touch me.”

Your mouth went dry. Jack looked down at your hand, still caught in his. Then his other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clicked open. Your fingers went still.

His gaze lifted to yours. “There she is.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

He slid the belt free slowly, leather dragging through denim, the sound quiet and devastating in the dark room. Your thighs tensed around his legs. Jack folded the belt once in his hand. Then he stopped. His expression changed, just enough that the heat in the room made space for something steadier.

“Tell me no, and it goes on the floor,” he said.

Your chest rose and fell once. Then again. You looked from the belt to his face. He was not smiling now. He was waiting. Making sure. Letting you choose.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack did not move. “Yes, what?”

Your pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. “Yes,” you said, quieter now. “Use it.”

Only then did Jack move. He brought your hand to your other one, gathering your wrists together with a care that made your throat tighten. He looped the belt around them once, then again, not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to frighten you, just enough that when he held the end in his fist, your hands belonged exactly where he put them. Jack slid one finger beneath the leather, checking the space. Your stomach fluttered.

“Too tight?” he asked.

You shook your head. His eyes held yours. “Words.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not too tight.”

“Good.” He lifted your bound wrists and kissed the inside of one. The gentleness almost ruined you. Then he guided your hands above your head and pressed them to the mattress as he leaned over you. Your back met the bed. Your breath left you. Jack hovered above you, one hand holding the end of the belt, the other planted beside your head. His body did not cover yours yet. Not fully. He was making you feel every inch of space. Every second of waiting. Every consequence of what you had done to him all night.

“You still feel brave?” he asked.

You swallowed. “A little.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “A little?”

You tugged experimentally at the belt. His hand tightened. Not rough. Certain. Your body reacted before you could pretend it hadn’t.

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said softly. “More than a little.”

Your face warmed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes,” Jack said. The honesty made your stomach drop. He leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then your throat. “I loved the photo.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“I loved knowing you took it for me,” he said against your skin. “Loved knowing no one else gets that.”

His mouth moved lower, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Your wrists shifted above your head. Jack held them there.

“But you knew exactly what it would do to me,” he said.

You arched when his mouth brushed your breast. “Jack.”

He paused. His eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again,” he said.

Your mind felt slow. “What?”

“My name.”

Your breath shook. “Jack.”

His mouth closed over you. Your back arched off the mattress. Jack’s grip on the belt held firm, keeping your hands above your head while his tongue moved over you with the same patience that had been ruining you all night. You pulled against the restraint. He did not let you move. You made a frustrated sound.

Jack lifted his head. “What do you want?”

You stared at him. “You.”

“You have me,” Jack answered. 

You exhaled, “Jack.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Use your words.”

Your thighs shifted restlessly. “Touch me.”

He kissed the center of your chest. “I am touching you.”

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to never stop hearing him sound like that. “More,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened. “There you go.”

He kissed lower. Slowly. Too slowly. Down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were trembling before he had even put his mouth where you needed it. You tried to reach for him. The belt stopped you. 

Jack looked up from between your thighs. “Hands stay there.”

Your breath caught. “You’re holding them there.”

“I know,” he answered. 

You huffed. “Then why are you telling me?”

His mouth brushed your inner thigh. “Because I like hearing you try to listen.”

Your eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”

Jack kissed higher. “You love me.”

Your chest went soft and hot at the same time. “I do,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Not completely. Just enough. Then his eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again.”

Your breath caught. His hand loosened on the belt slightly, not enough to free you, just enough for his thumb to brush over your knuckles.

You looked at him, your chest tight, your body aching. “I love you,” you said.

Jack’s expression shifted. For one second, all the teasing left him. All the controlled heat. All the jealousy. There was only Jack, looking at you like he had heard something sacred. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“I love you too,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes burned. Then his mouth found you. Your thoughts scattered. “Oh—” Your back arched. “Jack.”

He hummed low, one arm hooking beneath your thigh to hold you open, the other still keeping the belt steady. His mouth moved like he had been waiting all night for this too, like every second of restraint had sharpened into focus. You tried to close your thighs around him. He did not let you. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Please what?”

You made a sound that was almost a sob. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s better,” he said.

Then he went back to you. You lost track of the room after that. There was only Jack’s mouth, his hand, the belt around your wrists, the rough warmth of his voice when he told you to keep saying his name.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His fingers joined his mouth, careful at first, then certain when your body opened for him. Your hips moved. Jack held you down with one forearm across your lower stomach.

“Stay,” he said.

You shook your head against the mattress. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Jack replied. 

You started to say, “Jack—” 

“You wanted to make your point,” he said, voice rough. “Make it.”

You blinked down at him, dazed. “What?”

His fingers curled. Your whole body jerked. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours. “Who makes you feel like this?” he asked.

Your breath came in short, broken pulls. “You.”

He did it again. You cried out. “Say my name,” he said. 

“Jack,” you said immediately. 

His fingers curled inside you. “Again.” 

“Jack, please,” you moaned. 

His mouth returned to you, and the sound you made was not quiet. You pulled hard against the belt, your body tightening, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jack did not stop. He did not rush. He kept you there, right on the edge, until you were almost crying with it.

“Tell me,” he said.

You could barely think. “Only you.”

Jack’s fingers slowed. Not stopping. Threatening to.

Your eyes flew open. “No, no, please.”

“Only me what?” he asked. 

Your breath broke. “Only you can make me feel like this.”

His eyes flashed. “Keep going.”

You shook beneath him. “Only you can touch me like this.”

“Good girl.”

Your body tightened at the praise. Jack felt it. His mouth curved against you, and then he gave you exactly what you had been begging for. 

You came hard.

Hard enough that your vision went white at the edges. Hard enough that your voice broke around his name. Hard enough that your wrists strained against the belt and your back bowed off the mattress while Jack held you through it, mouth and fingers working you through every second until you were shaking too much to do anything but take it.

“Jack,” you gasped. “Jack, Jack—”

“That’s it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “There you go.”

You were still pulsing around his fingers when he lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He looked absolutely ruined. And somehow, somehow, he was still wearing his jeans.

You stared at him through the haze. “That is so unfair.”

Jack’s mouth curved. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and your whole body twitched. “Careful,” he said.

You laughed once, breathless and weak. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack kissed your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, moving back up your body with devastating patience. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on him and whimpered. Your wrists shifted above your head. The belt held.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes searched your face. “Tell me.”

Your chest rose and fell beneath his. “I’m okay.”

The last bit of tension in his jaw eased. His thumb brushed over the inside of your bound wrist. “Still good?” Jack asked.

Your throat went tight at the care in it. “Yes,” you said. “Still good.”

“Any pain?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “No.”

His gaze stayed on yours for one more second. Then the heat came back into his face. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. “Good,” Jack said.

You reached for him on instinct. The belt stopped you. Your breath caught. Jack looked at your wrists, then back at your face.

His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t say you were done listening.”

Your stomach flipped. “Jack.”

He stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still in his jeans, the loose end of the belt wrapped securely in his hand. You were naked beneath him. Still shaking. Still trying to catch your breath. Still so sensitive that the way he looked at you felt like another touch. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Then he said, “Watch me.”

Your mouth went dry. He kept one hand on the belt as his other moved to his jeans. The button was already open. The zipper followed. The sound moved through the room like a warning. Your wrists shifted again.

Jack’s eyes flicked to them. “Hands stay there.”

You exhaled, “They are there.”

His mouth curved. “Good girl.”

Your breath caught. Jack pushed his jeans lower on his hips, just enough, and your whole body went hot. He was hard. Thick. Flushed. Affected. For all his control, for all his patience, for all the ways he had made you fall apart first, there was no hiding what you had done to him.

Your voice came out thin. “Jack.”

His hand wrapped around himself. You pulled against the belt before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s gaze snapped to yours. “No,” he said softly.

You swallowed. “I want to touch you.”

“I know,” he replied. 

“Please,” you said, barely a whisper. 

His hand moved once, slow and firm. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Jack watched your face as he touched himself, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, the muscles in his stomach shifting with the effort of his restraint.

“This is what that picture did,” he said. Your body clenched around nothing. His mouth parted slightly as his hand moved again. “This is what you did every time you brushed past me,” Jack said. “Every time you looked at me like no one else in that hospital knew what you were thinking.”

“Jack,” you whispered.

His grip tightened around the belt. “Say my name again.”

You obeyed. “Jack.”

His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened, and the look on his face nearly ruined you all over again.

“Only me?” he asked.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Only you.”

His hand moved over himself again. You whimpered. Jack’s gaze dragged down your body, then back to your face. “Only I get you like this?”

You nodded quickly.

His eyes narrowed. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Only you get me like this.”

Jack’s breathing changed. You could see it now. The crack in him. The place where his control had thinned to almost nothing. He touched himself once more, slower this time, deliberately enough that your thighs shifted apart without you meaning to. 

His mouth curved, rough and pleased. “Look at you.”

Your face went hot. “Jack.”

“You came two minutes ago,” he said, his hand moving over himself again. “And you’re still looking at me like that.”

Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.

Your breath shook.

His mouth curved. “Tell me.” Jack’s thumb moved over the head of himself, and your wrists strained against the belt. You glared at him weakly. His hand slowed. You made a small, desperate sound. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me what you want,” he said.

You answered immediately. “You.” 

Jack grinned. “You have me.”

Your breath shook. “I want you inside me.”

Jack went still. There it was. The shift. The end of patience. He let out a rough breath, then leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding the belt.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Say it again,” he said.

You lifted your hips toward him. “I want you inside me.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Good girl,” Jack said.

Then he kissed you. It was not gentle. It was not patient. Not anymore. Jack kissed you like the last piece of his restraint had finally snapped, one hand still gripping the belt above your head while the other braced beside your shoulder. His body came down over yours, hot and solid and finally close enough that you could feel how much he wanted you. You arched into him. Jack groaned into your mouth. The sound went straight through you.

Your wrists pulled against the belt on instinct. “Jack.”

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “I know.”

You gasped. “You don’t.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t I?”

You shook your head, already gone enough to be honest. “I need you.”

Jack’s expression shifted. Something hot. Something pleased. Something almost undone. His hand tightened around the belt. “Say my name.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”

You whimpered, hips lifting toward him. Jack’s gaze dropped between your bodies. Then he cursed softly under his breath.

“Turn over,” he said.

Your pulse jumped. You stared at him. “What?”

His eyes came back to yours, dark and focused. “Hands stay where they are. Turn over.”

Your stomach flipped hard. “Jack—”

He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “You said he could never.”

Your breath caught.

His lips brushed the side of your jaw. “You were right.”

You swallowed. Then you nodded. Jack loosened his hold on the belt enough to guide you carefully, never letting the restraint pull too hard, never letting your wrists twist uncomfortably. Even now, with his control hanging by a thread, he moved you like you were something precious. Something his. You rolled onto your stomach, then shifted onto your knees when his hand settled at your hip. The belt stayed around your wrists. Your hands pressed into the mattress above your head, and Jack gathered the loose end in his fist again, holding it with just enough tension to remind you that he could move you exactly where he wanted you. Your cheek brushed the sheets. Your whole body trembled. Behind you, Jack went quiet. Too quiet. You turned your face enough to look back over your shoulder.

He was staring at you. His jeans were pushed low, his hand wrapped around himself, his chest rising and falling like the sight of you had cost him something.

Your voice came out soft. “Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he said.

Your thighs pressed together. Jack’s hand came to your ass, broad and warm, smoothing over the curve of you once before gripping. Your breath caught. “Open,” he said.

You shifted your knees apart. His hand tightened. “More.”

Your face went hot, but you listened. Jack exhaled roughly. “That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”

The praise made you clench around nothing.

Jack’s thumb dragged along your hip. “Look at you.”

You swallowed. “What?”

His hand tightened, just enough to make your body answer before your mouth could. “So good when you want something.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Jack.”

He bent over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth found your shoulder. “You were very mouthy downstairs,” he said.

You shivered. “You liked it.”

His teeth grazed your skin. “I did.”

His hand slid along your side, then down between your legs from behind. You jerked when his fingers found you. Jack made a low sound against your shoulder. Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.

Your breath shook. His mouth curved against your shoulder. “Tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I want more.”

“More what?” Jack asked. 

You made a frustrated sound. “Jack.”

His fingers slowed. You almost sobbed. “More what?” he repeated.

You turned your face into the sheets. “More of you.”

His breathing changed behind you. “There you go,” Jack said.

He withdrew his hand, and you heard him shift behind you. Your body went tight with anticipation. Then Jack paused. One hand slid up your spine, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said.

You turned your face enough to see him. “What?”

His eyes searched yours. “Still good?”

Your chest softened. “Yes,” you said.

Jack’s thumb brushed along your back. “No pain?”

You replied instantly. “No.”

“You need me to stop, you tell me,” Jack said. 

“I know,” you whispered. 

His gaze held yours.

You swallowed. “I promise.”

The last bit of tension in his face eased. Then the heat returned. Slow. Dark. Certain. Jack reached toward the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. You heard the quiet tear of foil, the rustle of movement, the sound of his breath catching once as he rolled the condom on. The waiting nearly killed you. You shifted back toward him. Jack’s hand landed on your hip.

“Still,” he said.

You bit your lip. He noticed. His thumb pressed into your skin. “Don’t.”

You released your lip slowly. Jack’s hand moved from your hip to your jaw, turning your face just enough for him to see you.

“That’s mine too,” he said.

Your breath left you.

He leaned over you, mouth brushing yours from the awkward angle. “Say it.”

Your eyes stung with how badly you wanted him. “Only you.”

His eyes darkened. “Only me what?”

“Only you get me like this,” you answered. 

Jack kissed you hard. Then he pulled back and lined himself up behind you. The first press of him made you gasp. Jack froze. One hand stayed on your hip. The other still held the belt.

His voice was rough. “Talk to me.”

You shook beneath him. “Don’t stop.”

His jaw tightened. “Baby.”

“Please,” you said. “Please, Jack.”

He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Careful enough to make you ache. Deep enough to make your hands curl uselessly against the mattress. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack stopped when he was only halfway inside you, his fingers digging into your hip like he was fighting himself.

“Breathe,” he said. You tried. It came out broken. He bent over you, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “That’s it,” Jack said. “Take your time.”

You turned your face toward him. “I don’t want to take my time.”

A rough laugh left him. It barely sounded like a laugh at all. “You never do when you’re being a brat.”

You pushed back against him. Only a little. Enough.

Jack’s hand tightened on the belt. “Careful.”

Your breath hitched. “Make me.”

Jack went completely still. For one second, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. Then his hand slid from your hip to the back of your neck, not pressing, just holding you there. His mouth brushed your ear. “There she is,” he said.

Your whole body went hot. Then Jack pushed the rest of the way inside you. You cried out. He groaned at the same time, low and broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body finally met yours completely. For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him behind you. The belt at your wrists. His breath against your skin. The stretch. The fullness. The way your body had no idea what to do with finally having him after waiting all shift.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His hand tightened at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Jack.”

He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Your eyes rolled shut.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my girl.”

The words broke something open in you. You clenched around him, and Jack’s rhythm faltered. His curse was rough against your shoulder. “Do that again,” he said.

You barely managed a breath. “What?”

His hips rolled into yours, deeper this time, and your voice broke. “That,” Jack said. “When I call you mine.”

Your wrists pulled against the belt. “I am yours,” you gasped.

His pace changed. Not fast yet. Not careless. Just harder. More certain. Each thrust pushed you higher on the bed, and Jack held you where he wanted you, one hand gripping the belt, the other locked at your hip.

“You spent all night trying to make me jealous,” he said.

You shook your head against the sheets. “No.”

Jack thrust into you again. Your answer turned into a moan. “No?” he asked.

“I was trying to remind you,” you breathed. 

His hand stilled on your hip for half a second. Then his body covered yours again, chest against your back, mouth near your ear. “Remind me of what?”

You turned your face enough to find his eyes. “That I’m yours.”

Jack’s expression broke. Just for a moment. Then his mouth found yours, messy and desperate from the angle, and he kissed you while he started moving again. This time, he did not hold back as much. The bed shifted beneath you. Your breath came in short, helpless sounds. Jack kept his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and low and entirely yours. “Who makes you feel like this?”

“You,” you gasped.

His hips drove into yours again. “Say my name.”

You gasped. “Jack.”

“Again,” he said.

“Jack, please,” you cried out. 

His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back into him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please what?”

You were shaking now. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack exhaled. “I’m not stopping.”

You began, “Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he replied. 

Your eyes burned. He did. He had you. Every part of you. The secret part. The soft part. The bratty, aching, desperate part that had sent him that photo and brushed past him all shift because you wanted him to know no one else even came close.

“Only you,” you said, voice breaking.

Jack’s rhythm faltered. “What?”

You swallowed a moan. “Only you can make me feel like this.”

His grip tightened. “Keep going.”

Your body tightened around him. “Only you can touch me like this.”

Jack made a rough sound behind you. “Good girl.”

You were close again. Too close. Already. It rolled through you fast, heat building low in your spine, your thighs starting to shake. Jack felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you exactly where you needed him. You sobbed his name.

“There,” he said. “That’s it.”

“Jack, please,” you begged. 

“You going to come for me again?” Jack asked. 

You nodded desperately. His fingers slowed. Your eyes flew open.

“Words,” he said.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”

“Only me?” he asked. 

Your breath broke. “Only you,” you said. “Only you can make me come like this.”

Jack’s control snapped. He drove into you hard enough to make you cry out, his fingers working you in tight, perfect circles, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice wrecked in your ear.

“Come for me,” he said. “Say my name and come for me.”

You did.

You came with his name in your mouth, your whole body locking down around him as the pleasure ripped through you. It was harder than the first one, deeper, dragging every sound out of you until you were shaking beneath him, helpless against the belt and his hands and the way he kept talking you through it.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good girl. I’ve got you.”

You barely heard him over the rush of your own pulse. But you felt him. The way he held you. The way his rhythm turned uneven. The way his breath broke when your body kept tightening around him. He lasted three more thrusts before his control finally broke. You felt it happen. In the sudden uneven snap of his hips. In the way his hand tightened around the belt. In the rough sound that tore out of him when your body kept clenching around him.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his whole body go tense behind you, every muscle locking as he drove in deep and stayed there. Your name left his mouth. Low. Broken. Almost helpless. Then he came hard, hips jerking once, twice, his breath hot against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could get and held you there through it.

For a few seconds, Jack did not move. He just breathed against you, heavy and uneven, his chest pressed to your back, his hand still wrapped around the belt like letting go too soon might undo him completely. For a moment, everything went still. Jack’s body was heavy over yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His hand loosened on the belt, but he did not let go completely. Not yet. You both stayed there, tangled and shaking, while the morning light edged slowly around the curtains. Then Jack kissed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Softer each time.

“You with me?” he asked.

Your throat felt raw. You nodded. 

His mouth brushed your skin. “Tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m with you.”

Jack exhaled against you. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight and eased out of you. Your body twitched at the loss. Jack noticed. 

He kissed the back of your neck. “I know.”

You laughed weakly into the sheets. “You do not get to be smug right now.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you replied. 

“A little,” Jack admitted. You huffed, but it came out soft. His hand moved to your wrists. The belt loosened immediately. Jack unwound it with careful fingers, taking his time now for a different reason. When your hands were free, he caught both wrists and brought them down slowly, rubbing warmth back into your skin with his thumbs. You rolled carefully onto your back. Jack sat beside you, still breathing hard, still bare, still looking at you like he was trying to memorize whether he had hurt you anywhere. He checked one wrist, then the other. His thumb brushed over the place the leather had been.

“Okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Okay.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Really?”

Your chest went soft. You reached for his face. “Really.”

Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. The room went quiet again. Not charged this time. Warm. Full. He leaned down and kissed your wrist. Then the other. You watched him, throat tight.

“You know,” you said softly, “Mason really could never.”

Jack froze for half a second. Then his shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. He looked up at you, exhausted and amused and so painfully yours that your chest ached.

“Baby,” Jack said. “I’m begging you.”

You smiled. His mouth curved. Then he climbed back onto the bed and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other hand still holding yours like he was not quite ready to stop touching you. You tucked your face against his neck. Jack kissed your hair. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you felt his thumb move over your knuckles. Slow. Absent. Tender.

“Still jealous?” you asked.

Jack sighed against your hair. You felt his mouth curve. “A little.”

You pinched his side weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your fingers. “Completely in love with you,” he said. “The jealous part is secondary.”

Your heart folded. You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Secondary?”

Jack’s eyes softened. “Very secondary.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and sweet and nothing like the door. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “No more pretending,” he said.

Your chest tightened. You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “No more pretending.”

Jack kissed you again. And this time, there was nothing careful about the way he held you.

Only sure.

Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brother’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting worse. “You’re so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.”

Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. “How dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this family’s life, too. I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible.”

Ursula sneers, “I believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because ‘it just doesn’t feel as good, sweetheart.’”

“Don’t be so crass, Ursula,” Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. “I assume you’ve communicated that abortion isn’t an option.”

“Of course,” Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.

The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him you’d be keeping it before he could even get to the ‘my family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforth’ thing. He’d given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasn’t his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.

But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels an…affection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. He’d been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, “This may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.”

“Not under circumstances like this,” Ursula scoffs. “You should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-”

Father raises his right hand.

Silence falls.

“You may be right, Titus. We’re long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.” Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window he’s spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, “This…girl of yours: Is she good stock?”

Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where he’s taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesn’t necessarily match your occupation of choice. “I’d say so. She’s young. Pretty.”

Ursula rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Father gives her a lethal gaze. “Don’t interrupt. This is important.” His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, “Her personality?”

“Sweet,” he answers right away. That’s the first word that comes to his mind. It’s the thing he likes most about you; you’re so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, “A bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. I’ve never seen her disagree with someone.”

That seems to please Father. He doesn’t like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, “Does she have any family?”

“She’s estranged from her parents. No siblings.”

“Good. How about education?”

“She’s getting a master’s degree.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know,” he replies with a chuckle. “Something with books, maybe. I’m not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.”

“Don’t be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?”

“No. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as a…companion.”

“Boring. But that could be useful in its own way.” Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and they’re preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: “Could she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?”

Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. It’ll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but he’s intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: “I’d like to keep her.”

The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if there’s one thing the Danforth family does well it’s keeping up appearances.

With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, “We can make this work, son. We will.”

Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that he’s pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He would’ve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but it’ll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. “Thank you, Father.”

“She’s going to have to move in,” Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. “We can’t take risks with the baby.”

Father adds, “And there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.”

“A wedding?” Titus gripes, “Isn’t it enough to just-”

“No,” Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. “Just because you started this improperly doesn’t mean you’ll continue it that way. In two months’ time, before she starts showing, we’ll have a wedding.”

“Everyone will know it’s a shotgun wedding,” Ursula points out. “Even the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Father insists. “It’s the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.” He levels his gaze at Titus. “Go and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekend’s up.”

“Yes, Father,” Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyone’s spirits. It’ll be a good change. “Careful, or you’ll make us think you like the girl.”

He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you don’t actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, don’t they? It’s part of why he’s always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, he’s strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He wants…a pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.

So he’s pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.

You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one,” he lies. Smooth as butter. “I want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.”

“You’d already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,” you point out. “But you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.” You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea he’d ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. “Look, you’re obviously very wealthy. And I know you’re not rich because of something…normal, if you don’t mind the word.”

Titus snickers, “Not at all. Go on.”

“Before you made us exclusive, I’d been with a lot of secretive, rich men,” you explain slowly, “but you don’t seem like most of them.”

The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, “We’ll both do the three-course menu. I’ll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as you’ll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.”

The order doesn’t surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.

The waitress gives you a warm smile. “And for you, darling?”

“Don’t call her that,” Titus says, curt and emotionless. “She’ll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.” Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. “And I’m guessing she’d also like the gelato flight after.”

“You spoil me,” you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, “And a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”

As she disappears, Titus’ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you haven’t seen on him often. He observes, “Ginger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?”

You sigh and confirm, “That’s been the theme of week seven.”

“Seven weeks,” he muses, sounding almost wistful. “Does that mean you’ll have your first ultrasound soon?”

“Monday morning,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “You can come, if you want.”

“I will. Definitely.” Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. “You were asking about rules. Saying I don’t seem like most men.”

“Right, yes.” You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, “You don’t brag about your money, which means you’ve always had it. It’s just a part of you; you’ve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you don’t dress like a lawyer, you’re too private to be a CEO or anything you’d want to peacock about, and you’re not annoying.”

He smirks at your analysis. “What does that rule out?”

“Tech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.”

“Smart girl,” he praises with a short chuckle. “What’s your theory, then?”

“Something dark and secretive,” you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesn’t react like it’s a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, “Maybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but I’ve always seen your carrying a gun.” That pleases him; you’ve already noticed his danger and didn’t flinch away. “I doubt it’s really illegal, like drugs, because you’re so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,” you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, “Regardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where you’re not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.”

Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, “I can’t just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?”

“You can, sure. But that’s not you.”

“You’re right about that,” he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, “I wouldn’t call them ‘rules’ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I won’t force anything on you. And I won’t abandon you if you go against them.”

That’s a patent lie, but he doesn’t think you’ll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Let’s get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what I’m getting into.”

“Very sensible. I can appreciate that.” The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, “Your first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctor’s appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. You’d quit your job. Continue your classes if you’d like, but you’ll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. You’d move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however you’d like as the lady of the house. I don’t care about things like that.”

“What do you mean by ‘the family estate’?” You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; you’re the only person he allows to look at him like that. “You live with mommy and daddy?”

“My father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I don’t even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. We’d be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.”

“Like a guest house?”

“An eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.” Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, “You’d have some social responsibilities as my wife. My mother’s passed now, so you’d be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. You’d just have to look pretty, though, which you’re phenomenal at already.” As your cheeks warm, he assures you, “We have a whole team to handle the planning side if you aren’t interested in those sorts of things.”

You give a timid smile. “I like planning and hosting parties. It’d be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses you’ve bought me.”

That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. “Good. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as you’d like as long as you’re willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.”

“So far, that fits my resume to a tee.”

“And, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, let’s say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. Ursula.” He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. “I suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.”

“I’m an open book,” you retort with a cheeky smile. “You’re the one with the secrets. I don’t even know your last name.”

“Danforth,” he says quietly. Like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Titus Victor Danforth.”

“Very stately name.” You wrinkle your nose a bit. “Does our baby have to have a name like that? It’s hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.”

“We’ll agree on a name like any other couple,” he chuckles. “But, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.”

“Like Ursula,” you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. “So I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?”

His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. “The most important thing is that you’ll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.”

Your own voice drops to a whisper. “You say that like I’ll be in danger.”

“Sometimes you will be.”

Not taking it all too seriously, you check. “But you’ll always protect me? And our baby?”

He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, “With my life.”

No matter who or what tries to get in my way.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And you’ll take care of everything financially?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation. “Always.”

You don’t doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; you’re sure there’s incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes you’ve already seen. He’s always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether they’ll clear.

With a tiny smile, you press, “And you’ll marry me?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Can I have a real wedding?”

“Here I was thinking I’d have to convince you of that,” he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. “Our wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. You’ll be impressed by the guest list, I’m sure.”

“Give me a teaser.”

“Let’s just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the world’s economy would collapse.”

“Yeah, alright,” you giggle. He’s looking forward to the day you realize he’s telling the truth on that matter. “So I’d be a wife. Hm, okay.” You jokingly tap your chin and squint like you’re really thinking hard about it. “Does that mean I’ll have to cook for you?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“How about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.”

“That’ll all be handled.”

“So we’ll have…servants?”

Titus can’t help but notice the way you’re already saying ‘we.’ He doesn’t mind the sound of it; you’re right where he wants you. Needs you. “We prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.”

Curiosity piqued, you press, “How many?”

He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estate’s goings-ons don’t interest him much, so they’re at the periphery of his mind. “Full-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs – one in each house’s kitchen, of course – and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. There’s an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything you’d want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. I’ve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but you’d probably share mine a while. That’s a high-trust position; I’d want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. You’d also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And you’ll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.”

“Wow.” Your fork is stuck mid-air. “So you and your family are…rich rich.”

His lips curl up slightly. It’s nice to be around someone who isn’t used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. “That would be a fair assessment, yes.”

Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, “So I can have whatever I want?”

He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didn’t grow up in the world he did. “Within reason.”

Your eyes narrow. “How about a car? Like a really ridiculous one – a neon yellow Lamborghini?”

Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, “A car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.”

You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. “So you’re saying I couldn’t have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?”

Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, “I suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.”

“The stables?”

“My mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-” let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows “-decided not to keep up the responsibility.”

“Could I have a horse?”

He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because it’s important, he relents, “If you want, sure. I don’t see the appeal, but you’ll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.” 

“Don’t worry; I hate horses. Just curious.” You can tell he’s amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, “Will you still take me on dates?”

That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? He’s always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesn’t mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, “If you’d like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.”

“And sex whenever I want?”

A laugh punches out of him. They’re rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. “Of course; that’s one of my favorite parts of your company.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.”

Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where it’s not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, “What else do you want to know to decide?”

“To recap, I’ll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?”

He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”

You bite your lower lip and ask, “But what if something happens to you? I’d be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I don’t want the baby’s security depending on whether or not you’re around for us.”

He doesn’t assure you that nothing will happen to him the way you’d anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you aren’t flinching. “You’ll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since you’ll be the mother of an heir. That’s permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.”

“An heir?” You almost choke on your food. “You’re not royalty, are you?”

He laughs, “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, certainly.”

Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, “Will our baby be safe?”

“Safer than you’ve ever been in your life here in the ‘real world,’” he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, “I swear that nothing will ever harm our children.”

You smirk and tease, “Didn’t realize we had more than one on the way.”

He shrugs modestly. “I always liked having a sister.”

“And I always wished I had siblings.”

“Sounds like you agree.”

You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when you’re ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, “I just have one more question.”

“Anything.”

“Will you love me, Titus?”

He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isn’t just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.

You’ve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. You’d never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.

You’ve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you can’t stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, “You may have to teach me how, bunny.” Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, “If it matters, in the time we’ve known each other, I’ve already grown quite-” he struggles to find the word; you wonder if he’s ever been given ones for this variety of feelings “-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.”

A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and he’s not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. “Fondness will do.”

“Are you sure about this?” Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. “It just seems a little fast to me.”

You shrug and try to brush it off, “I’ve known him for six months already.”

She balks, “As a client.”

“Well, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,” you cut back. “It’s not like he’s a murderer or something; he’s just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.”

You unlock your phone and toss it to her where she’s rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since you’re going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. He’d only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.

Natalie scoffs, “Are you serious? I didn’t even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isn’t all, like, a catfishing scheme and he’s just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?”

You roll your eyes and tell her, “After he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers that’s just accruing more and more money by being in banks.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “So he doesn’t have to work?” 

“Sort of.” You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, “Since his dad retired, he’s got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.”

Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. “Does that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?”

“Or boring businesswoman,” you laugh. “This one’ll be the oldest, so they’ll have responsibilities, yeah.”

“The oldest?” Her eyebrows go up again. “You and gramps are having more than one?”

“He’s not that old,” you start, a bit more exasperated now, “and he’s going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?”

“Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“You’re here pilfering my closet, aren’t you?” The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, “Finish up; that’s my ride.”

“Is that him? Mr. Moneybags?”

You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur who’s driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, “No, it’s his driver.”

“His driver? Damn.” Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. “When do I get to meet this guy, anyway?”

The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, “At the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.”

Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. “Two months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.” She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. “It’s a challenge, but I’m up to it.”

“I know you are,” you giggle. “I can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. I’m sure Titus wouldn’t mind.”

“No, thanks; I’ve got a job interview right up the street.”

Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to ‘pretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.’ As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. “Hi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.”

“Good morning,” he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.” At your curious look, he explains before you can question, “Master Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Master Danforth?”

Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. “The usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but I’m sure you’ll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.” He opens up the back door for you and assures, “It’s a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.”

You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, “I’ve wanted to ask before, but now that I’m gonna be family I think I’m allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?”

Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, “More than enough.”

“C’mon, you can tell me,” you lilt like you’re doing a heist together. “I can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.”

“Really?” Chip  chuckles under his breath. “You must be awfully special to him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Not even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,” he explains, “so Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.”

You joke, “Or he’s lying to make me feel safe and thinks I won’t meddle.”

Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. “That’s also a possibility.”

You chew on that for a second and then press, “That doesn’t mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If I’m marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-”

Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you think that about your future husband.” He takes a long breath and explains, “Discretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. I’ve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. I’m sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous – background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. I’ve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the family’s management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits – he pays for my daughter’s private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back – and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.”

You let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“Security all makes twice that,” he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. “Trust me: You’re surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.”

You huff out half a laugh. “Should that make me less nervous?”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies lightly.

As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldier’s stance. He’s waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; you’ve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.

You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.

Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. “Welcome home, Mrs. Danforth.”

The moment you’re out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.

“Hello, darling.” Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Nervous,” you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, “Nausea hasn’t been too bad today.”

He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. “I’m glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that you’re here.”

“I’m still waiting on my elephant,” you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.

He hadn’t been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but he’s pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, “All in due time, princess.”

Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. There’s also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you can’t help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, “Smith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.”

You cut him a sideways look. “You don’t need your own security detail in the meantime?”

He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s like that. The ruler of his domain. “I can handle myself, bunny.”

You needle, “Then why have one in the first place?”

“I like to be underestimated,” he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, “Smith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. He’ll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure you’re prepared.”

You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. “Good to meet you.”

Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand – once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”

You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. “What was that?”

A smirk flickers on Titus’ mouth. You’re too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, “Nobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if I give them my own permission?”

You can’t.

My word is law.

A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but there’s a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titus’ unyielding power.

Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, “Male staff are not allowed to touch you unless it’s an emergency.”

You tsk and tease, “Jealous, jealous.”

“You really shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he admonishes, but you know it’s more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He can’t tolerate it in business or from family in case it’s perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, “I’ll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.”

You laugh, “Play?”

“Whatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,” he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. “Explore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldn’t.”

You offer a small conspiratorial smile. “Sounds good to me.”

Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that he’s practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girl’s hand for the first time. Cute.

For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. There’s a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (“you can page our trainer from the gate”) and a pool that’s half inside and half outside (“heated, of course, with a hot tub attached”). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance you’d believe they come alive at night.

“The tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,” Titus explains as he points out the features – a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. “Actaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didn’t want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.”

You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, “And your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?”

Titus chuckles and explains, “Artemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.” His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. “Goddess of the hunt. She’s a good omen for the family.”

“Goddess of the hunt,” you repeat curiously. “Interesting.”

He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. “Is it?”

You snicker and match step with him. “Most families go for, y’know, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.”

“She’s also the patron and protector of women and children,” Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. “And she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. She’s a good woman to have in your corner.”

You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, “I’ll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone who’s going to protect me and TJ.”

“TJ?”

“Oh, yeah, the baby,” you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. “I’ve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.”

Something you haven’t seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. “You think it’ll be a boy?”

“It’s too early for me to even think it’s real,” you reply with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we’re going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.”

“I can’t wait.” He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. “Welcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.”

“It’s, um, lovely,” you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. “I’ve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.”

“It’s going to be a space for the children,” he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like he’s scared you’ll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. “I thought…Well, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isn’t very child-friendly; there hasn’t been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.”

Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isn’t just inviting you into his life; he’s carving out space for your shared future. “If you didn’t have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?”

“We didn’t have fun,” he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. “My parents were-” Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one that’s close enough“-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.”

You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. “I guess they got what they wanted; you’re successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.”

“But not fulfilled,” he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldn’t want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, “I think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than they’ll ever need?”

“A space to play,” you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”

He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like they’re in the wrong order, but it’s not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. “You really think so?”

“Wouldn’t have agreed to all of this-” you gesture to the ridiculous property all around “-if I didn’t. I’d kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but I’m happy to share the load.”

Titus downright pouts. “I am not a softie.”

You nod toward the grass and lilt, “The evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.”

“That’s too far,” he sighs, suppressing a laugh, “even for you, my little terror.”

As you approach Titus’ house – your house – Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. There’s a golden, roaring lion’s head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.

The only thing you don’t love is, well, Titus’s taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. “You really like black and gray, don’t you?”

He watches you inspect his living space. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s had a woman here. At home. “They match everything. It’s easy.”

“I guess,” you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch that’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, “It’s a little cold for a family. I can’t really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?”

“No,” he replies honestly, “but that’s why I have you. I’d like you to change it all so it’s…warmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.”

As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, “And how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?”

Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. “A check would imply a budget and supervision; I don’t want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.”

“That’s hot,” you laugh. “More men should act like that.”

He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. “That card is yours for whatever you like. You’re already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I won’t even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.”

“Ooh la la,” you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. You’re more than familiar with money, even his money, but it’s never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, “What’s the limit?”

Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isn’t even interesting, “It’s NPSL.” You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. “In fact, there’s a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, you’ll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.” He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. “Can you do that for me, princess?”

“Are you joking?”

“I don’t joke often.”

You balk, “What would I even spend that kind of money on?”

He laughs out loud. “Ursula could spend that much in an hour; I’m sure you’ll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?”

You bite your lower lip and reply, “Tiffany.”

“Right, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,” he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm you’d ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. “Any time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,” he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, “I’ll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.” Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, “You’re filthy rotten rich now, kitten, you’ll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?”

You give him a giggly mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, “Until we’re married, you’ll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.”

You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. “Inappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex we’ve already had?”

In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. There’s a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. He’s certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.

And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, “You’re going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. It’s bad form.”

“No sex jokes in front of the posh folk,” you tease with a serious nod. “Got it.”

“Good girl.”

“You shouldn’t call me that if you want me to behave.” With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “I really have to sleep alone?” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. “In an unfamiliar place?” You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. “With my big strong fiancé all the way across the house?”

Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. “Would you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?”

You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, “I get cold at night.”

Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, “Mmm. You’re too powerful for your own good.”

“Just powerful enough.” Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, “And I might need you.”

His brows furrow in genuine confusion. “Need me? For what?”

You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. “I mean, I’m pregnant. What if I wake up and something’s wrong?”

Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesn’t have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.”

With a sad little smile, you reply, “Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I don’t want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.”

At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. “Come on, then; I’ll show you our bedroom. Don’t tell Father; he wouldn’t understand.”

Your eyes narrow. “Will you get in trouble if he finds out?”

“Yes,” he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. “He’d put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.” He’d have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. “Don’t worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what I’m worried about.”

As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, “I’m a perfect angel.”

“Precisely my concern.” As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where you’re admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. “I know it’s plain right now; I don’t have much of an eye for taste – except in women, of course.”

You smack him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer.”

His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and it’s so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. “Only for you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, “I get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.”

“They have to flatter me,” he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. “And soon they’ll have to flatter you, too.”

“If they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,” you muse, turning around into his arms, “does that make me the boss of the whole world?”

Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, “I spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-” he punctuates it with a click of his own “-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman – person – my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and very soon that will be you.”

For a second, you’re breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. “Mommy issues much?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, “Father is going to hate you.”

With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, “You say that like it might actually be a good thing.”

Titus confirms, “Being hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He can’t stand me.” Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Now, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.”

“A welcome home gift?”

“Something like that,” he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, “Now, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, I’ll do that, but for-”

“Titus, shut up,” you whisper. “Is this…for me?”

Your eyes are glued to the ring. You’ve never seen anything like it. Clearly it’s an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black – an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles – and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. It’s not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.

Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.

“My great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed I’d ever find one. It won’t be the most expensive piece in your collection, but it’s the most precious and rare to our family name.” Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than you’ve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges.  “I never want to see you without it.”

“I should take it off to shower and sleep,” you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. “And I assume you’d still like to see me those times.”

“I’m going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while you’re still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You don’t complain; for every pair of your underwear he’s ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.

His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. It’s one he plays often and well. You’ve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.

Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.

Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and you’re moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he won’t-

He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your body’s reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, “Careful, princess, you’ll pull a muscle. Can’t have that.”

You challenge him with narrow eyes. “Then how about you pin me down and fuck me so I don’t squirm?”

“So goddamn greedy,” he huffs. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; you’ve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But he’s being gentle with you – for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, it’s with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.

Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once he’s seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, “Beg.”

And even though you’re having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, “Why should I?”

“God, you fucking brat.” He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. “If you won’t beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.”

Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. There’s a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and it’s gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.

Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.

When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, “There we go.”

And then he cums.

Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.

You grab his hand and wail, “No, no, no no no nonono! Titus!”

He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, “Didn’t I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.”

You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word you’re always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: “Please.”

Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, “How am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?” Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. “When you’ve done everything I’ve asked without complaint?” He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, “When you’re carrying my child? I couldn’t possibly deny you.”

And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, you’re mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. It’s so good it borders on painful and that’s what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because it’s just too much and only he can finally release you.

Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You can’t talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, “I knew you’d cave, you big softie.”

He kneels over you again. “I assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.”

“Mhmm. Whatever you say.”

Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, “Three hours as my live-in trophy wife and you’re already making me late.”

You nip his collarbone. “Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He holds your chin and orders gently, “Ask Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.”

At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.

You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. You’ve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; that’s a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. He’s even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.

But this?

You’ve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.

He wants to devour you.

And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.”

You give him a modest twirl and ask, “You really like it?”

 With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, “You look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.”

You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titus’ – and your, you have to keep reminding yourself – house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. It’s more like walking through a museum than a home.

When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very ‘90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.

Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but don’t move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, “Father, Ursula, I’d like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.”

Father offers you his hand first, but you’re clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.”

“That’s very sweet.” You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never would’ve mentioned you to them at all if it weren’t for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, “Mr. Danforth, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Titus’ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh – the situation is too weird for words – but you still hold back. It’s a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You haven’t exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you don’t cry or hide.

Then it’s Ursula’s turn with you. She doesn’t shake hands, doesn’t hug, doesn’t even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursula’s eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. It’s like she’s trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. You’re holding your breath until she finally says, “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.” Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, “You look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Please; Titus wouldn’t know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And I’ve tried.” Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, “Where is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?”

“Um, yes, he sent me shopping today.”

She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. “He’s always so generous with his playthings.”

Titus clears his throat. “Ursula.”

“I’m just teasing,” she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. “Really, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?”

You smooth out the fabric and tell her, “It’s, um, it’s Yves Saint Laurent.”

“Looks like something I would wear.”

You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.”

“Maybe I’ll go and pick one up in my size,” she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which you’re suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. “I’d ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.”

Titus cuts her off sharply, “That’s enough.”

She pouts at her brother. “Don’t be so sensitive, ducky; I’m sure she can-”

“No.” You’ve never heard Titus’ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, “Never speak down to her. Never.”

Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, “Fatherhood is already making you so boring. Now I’m going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.”

And dinner goes just about like that.

Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell there’s a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each other’s barbs. The way rich people talk to each other – all subtext and speed – is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; it’s like they’re speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.

By the time you’ve finished pretending to like flan because you’re terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell you’re getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, “I think we’ve kept my fiancée awake late enough, haven’t we?”

Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. “You already gave her mother’s ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.”

Father sighs, “They’re doing things a touch out of order, darling.”

“I wouldn’t want an extravagant proposal anyway,” you manage to squeak out. “A nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.”

“Ah, so she’s the one making you boring,” Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, “If you don’t like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.”

“I’m definitely looking forward to all of it,” you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, “but Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.”

Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. “What a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.”

As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, “I’m literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that I’m anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the country’s latest arts center.”

“That was for optics,” Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, “unlike my work in Geneva.”

Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and that’s when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, “I think that’s enough family time for one night.”

“I completely agree,” Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, “We’ll see you both at the Governor’s Ball on Saturday.” 

Titus shakes his father’s hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, it’s a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.

After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where you’re unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus must’ve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, “Be honest: Did I do okay?”

He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. “You did great. I’m only sorry Ursula was so very-” he struggles to find the right word “-Ursula.”

“I expected worse,” you tell him with half a smile. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.”

“Ursula is the family the universe gave me. She’s my best friend and my closest confidant – and she’s a nightmare. A hellion.” Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. “You’re the family I’m choosing. That means you come first, button. I’m not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. I’m practicing setting a good example.”

You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. “Now let’s get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. “Are those real offers or are you teasing me?”

“Real offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.” He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didn’t pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. “No funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.”

“I could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,” you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.

“Go on, then.” He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. “Finish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. I’ll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.”

“You want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?”

“I’ll grab you something from your closet,” he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still haven’t started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, “Are you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?”

You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, “A little. And not just the makeup.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, “I’ve seen you naked, kitty.”

You scoff, “Naked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.”

He offers, “I’ve also seen you in pajamas before.”

“Lingerie,” you correct. “You don’t really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?”

“A man can dream.”

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,” you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, “I usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.”

Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, “Are you worried I’ll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you aren’t a model in your sleep?”

“I don’t know!” You huff and glare at him, knowing full well you’re being hormonally dramatic now. “This is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governor’s Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancée and not just your sugar baby? It’s weird.”

Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, “It’s a lot. I know that. You don’t have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governor’s Ball.” He smiles when you crack one of your own. “If you aren’t ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.”

“I don’t want my own space,” you whisper back. “I’m just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-”

“Quiet now,” he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. “Do you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?” Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When he’s finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, “I want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.”

For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, “Thank you.”

He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. “As for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,” leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, “because you’re mine. And that’s the most perfect thing you can be.”

"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.

Your head jerks up.

Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.

You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.

"Look at me," he commands.

You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.

Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"

You nod before dropping your chin in shame.

"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.

You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.

"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."

Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.

Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."

A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.

The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."

You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.

Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.

"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.

"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"

He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."

Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."

You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"

"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."

He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.

You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.

Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.

It sends a shiver up your spine.

Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."

You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.

Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.

You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.

He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."

Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"

Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.

Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.

A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.

You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.

"Pin?" He questions while studying you.

You busy yourself with charting. "Never."

He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."

The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.

"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.

"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.

Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"

He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."

Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.

"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"

You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."

Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."

He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.

"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.

You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.

Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.

You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.

He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.

And then he begins to swipe.

"W-what're you doing?"

"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"

"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"

He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"

"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"

He rolls his eyes. "Got it."

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"

He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."

You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?

With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."

You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.

It's none of his concern, anyway.

He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."

Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."

His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."

Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.

"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."

He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.

It's like you're trying to set him off.

Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...

He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.

He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.

He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"

With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"

Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.

"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.

It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.

He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.

"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"

Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.

"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.

Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."

Your eyes flit to his.

Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"

You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.

"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."

You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."

You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."

Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."

A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.

He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"

You shake your head.

He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.

Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.

On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.

You truly have no understanding of his decision.

There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.

The list goes on.

Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?

You dislike the thought.

It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.

It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.

Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.

"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."

And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."

Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.

You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.

It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.

Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.

But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.

When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.

He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.

Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.

You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."

"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."

Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.

Meet me where I made you mine. — J

You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."

"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"

Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."

"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"

Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.

Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.

Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.

He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"

Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"

He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."

You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.

"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"

"I haven't," you blurt out.

He quiets.

"You... You never asked me."

He raises a silver brow.

"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."

He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."

Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."

He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."

You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."

He grins. "Too late."

Your eyes flit to his.

"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."

"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.

"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"

You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.

You nod. "Yes, I think so."

He chuckles. "Good."

Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."

You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.

It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.

The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.

He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.

The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.

He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.

So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.

Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.

And being the first to put hands on you...?

It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."

You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.

As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.

Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.

By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.

So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.

You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.

Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.

"ew," you laugh, your arms circling his neck. "are you gonna de-woke me?"

he snorts, shaking his head as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. "de-woke? jesus, baby, you've been reading too much twitter." his fingers trail down your spine. "i'm just saying, some things are meant to be primal. natural. like a man taking care of his woman."

"besides," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with something dark, "you don’t really want equality right now… do you? you want me to hold you down. tell you what to do."

you grin, your eyes bright as you pull back. you know he doesn't really believe what he's saying, and that makes it hotter. "natural? please. maybe back in the dark ages, when you were my age..."

he laughs softly, his body pressed tightly against you as his fingers slip lower, groping the warm skin of your thighs. "babygirl," he mutters, amusement lacing through his tone, "you know what i'd have done to you in the dark ages?"

"what?" you breathe. then his mouth is at your neck again, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses along your throat as he speaks, his voice a gravelly whisper.

"i would've taken you as my wife." another kiss, followed by a hot, possessive bite against your skin. "and i would've put a baby in you, so i could watch that stomach swell with my kid."

"oh, fuck," you moan, arching against him at the idea. he just laughs again, warm against your skin as he moves down to your collarbone.

"my little feminist, getting hot over the thought of getting knocked up. you know you'll let me, babygirl. you know you'll be a good girl and let daddy put a baby in you."

your eyes widen and your mouth gapes open just a little. he was never meant to find out. you'd saved it as that after a drunken night out with your friends: you'd been drooling over his big freckled arms and the sun-damaged skin on his neck and how he used full stops at the end of his messages. you kept it that way because you thought it was funny (and also because it was true).

jack's not really mad, in fact, he's far from it. he knows you're into the fact that he's a silver fox, and he loves it: it makes him feel good, decades younger, attractive. but he can see that you're flustered, so he plays into it.

"is that how you see me?" he asks, his sharp eyes roaming over your form as droplets of water make their way down your skin. "i'm just an old man to you? a dusty old bastard?"

you open your mouth to protest, no, it was just a joke, but he cuts you off: "drop your towel and come give your dusty old daddy a kiss."

and his voice is so firm and gravelly, how could you argue with him? you crawl into his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. he turns it hungry, of course. all that dilf talk makes him feel virile.

then he's pounding your brains out, making you confess: "say it for me, baby. say it— say you love old man cock. you love this old man cock, don't you? love my daddy parts even though they're tired? still work good enough to turn your brain off, hmm?" while your eyes roll back into your skull.

"i'm big, thick, and i can still get hard, can't i? that not good enough for you?" and yeah, he fucking can. his dick bullies into your cunt so forcefully that it would probably hurt if you weren't so ridiculously soaked with slick. "that's right, moan for me. let daddy know he's still got it. this dilf can still turn you into a fuckin' fountain, right?"

after he's tired you out, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours. "didn't mean it in a bad way," you murmur plaintively into the space between you. "i love being your controversially young girlfriend."

Sam crosses his arms and gives you a hard stare. Great, he's in A Mood. You sigh and hop off the counter.

"I took out the dry-rotted stuff your grandma had in there when we first moved in," you explain, "but never got around to replacing it. Until I found this on sale last week."

"What's the point?"

To annoy your husband, of course.

"It protects the wood, Sam."

"From what?"

Fuck's sake.

"From leaks and rust and annoying husbands who put dishes away before they're fully dry."

Sam rolls his eyes and crosses the kitchen. He picks up a glass from the table - where every dish you own is - and sticks it under the faucet. He stares you in the eye while he gulps down an entire glass of water. And then he wipes the rim on the tail of his shirt and puts it right back where he found it. He stares, waiting for you to say something.

You don't. You climb back onto the counter on your knees and stick your head back in the cabinet, straightening out the new liner before you put the dishes back in it.

When you come back out, Sam's gone.

You're stretching your legs and cutting off a new strip of liner when he returns. The dishes are back where they belong, and you've moved on the food cabinets. Every can, jar, and bottle you own is on the kitchen table. Sam zeroes in on the home-canned goods that his grandma left behind.

"Are those Grandma's?"

You nod. Sam's face softens, and he approaches slowly to inspect them. You found them in the cabinet during your bored cleaning spree while Sam slept off his hospital stay. You threw away everything else that was long past its expiration date, but you kept these because you knew Grandma Dottie had canned them herself.

"Her canned stuff was so much better than anything store-bought," he smiles, touching the recently dusted lid. It reads green beans 1991 in her neat cursive. "Still look good, too."

He's not thinking about eating these, is he?

"Yeah, they're still pretty," you agree. "It's why I kept them."

He looks at you with a furrowed brow. You see the wheels in his brain turning. Shit.

"Home-canned food is good for maybe five years," you explain. "I looked it up when I found them."

"So we can't eat these?"

You can't read his tone, and it's terrifying.

"No."

"We can't eat these?" he repeats.

"They're sixteen years old, Sam," you remind him.

He deflates just a little bit. And then, anger flashes in his eyes.

"Fuckin' throw 'em away then," he snarls.

"I kept them because they were pretty, and they were your grandma's," you tell him quietly. "They don't take up much room."

"Fuckin' stupid," he spits. "She'd think so, too. Throw 'em out, we don't have room for all this sentimental shit."

The back door slams behind him before you can respond.

You hate when he gets like this.

You don't know what's wrong. He won't tell you anything about his Other Life. So you're left to wonder if he's in pain, or if he had a bad dream, or if today is an anniversary of something awful that happened overseas that he's never going to tell you about. You wish he'd fucking talk to somebody. Anybody. You'd happily listen to anything he wanted to get off his chest, but he refuses to share that part of his life with you. Is it really protecting you if you're the one who has to deal with him when he's like this?

You put the last of Grandma Dottie's canned goods in a box, and you put it on the back porch. If they end up back in the cabinet by morning, which you suspect they will, you'll never say a word about it.

He knows that.

You finish up your shelf liner project somberly, and start working on dinner.

He's still not back by the time it's done cooking.

You go out on the back porch and listen. No crunching brush. No chopping or hacking or even talking to Lady. The car's still here, so if he escaped, he didn't go far.

It'll be dark soon.

You turn the porch light on and go back inside.

The clock ticks at half-speed while you wait.

Still no Sam.

The house is eerily silent without him.

You sit at the kitchen table, alone, and wonder where he went. What he's doing. If he's alright. At what point do you call his friend Dwayne and ask him to help you go search the woods?

Lady barks from somewhere in the distance, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

A few seconds later, you hear Sam coming up the back steps. He shuffles on the porch, like he's overexerted himself and is moving a little slower because of the pain in his leg. Should you go get the good pain pills now, or will noticing his pain make him even madder?

He doesn't open the door right away. He's probably spotted the jars he ordered you to throw out. Will he wait until you go to bed to bring them back in? Will he actually throw them out? Will he take them out back and bury them somewhere? You've been married to this asshole your entire life, shouldn't he be a little more predictable by now?

The door creaks open, and he steps inside and keeps his back to you while he closes the door. When he turns, he looks up at you guiltily.

And then he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you fucking--

"Don't cry," Sam begs, coming to you and dropping the flowers on the table. Your body rises to meet his, and you bury your leaking face in the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"I know," you sniffle.

He holds you tight until his stomach growls.

You both let out a quiet laugh and pull yourselves apart. You turn away and dry your eyes, grabbing two plates from the freshly lined cabinet to reheat your dinner on.

It was a quiet night.

And a quiet morning, because when you saw those jars of Grandma Dottie's vegetables back in the cabinet, you didn't say a word.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

“Dr. Abbot?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”

“Will it be a while before handoff?”

Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”

“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”

“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”

Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”

Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.

“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”

“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”

Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.

“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”

Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”

You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.

He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.

“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”

Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.

Then he scoffs.

“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.

“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”

“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.

“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”

Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”

“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”

“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”

Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”

“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”

Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”

—

A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.

You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.

The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.

“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.

“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.

“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.

“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.

“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”

“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.

“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.

He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.

“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”

Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”

Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.

You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.

“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.

“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.

“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”

Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.

“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”

“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”

“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.

You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.

“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.

“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.

“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”

You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”

“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.

But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.

“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.

“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.

A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.

Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.

Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.

“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”

“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”

A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.

“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”

“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.

“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.

“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”

“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”

The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.

“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”

“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”

June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”

“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”

Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.

“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.

“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”

But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.

Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.

“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”

“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”

“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”

“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.

“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.

“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”

“S’there a problem here?”

Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.

Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”

Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”

“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”

That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.

“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.

“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”

But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”

“I didn’t consent to that.”

“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”

Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.

Jack nods at you.

“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”

“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”

You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”

—

After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.

Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.

Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.

Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.

“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”

When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.

“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”

“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”

He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”

“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”

But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”

You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.

You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.

Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.

Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.

That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.

That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.

That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.

That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.

And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.

And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.

“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”

“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”

—

Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.

“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.

He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”

“Penny?”

“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”

“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”

Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”

You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.

“You handled that really well earlier.”

Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.

“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”

“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”

Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.

It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.

“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”

“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”

“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”

You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.

But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”

“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”

He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.

But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”

“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.

“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”

“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.

You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.

“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.

But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.

“Oh, that was painful to watch.”

Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.

Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.

“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”

—

The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.

“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”

“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.

Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”

Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.

“Jack,” Robby says.

“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?

“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.

Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.

Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.

Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”

Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.

“We don’t have any of those here.”

“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”

Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?

Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”

Robby shakes his head.

“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.

Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.

Not Pittsburgh at all.

“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.

“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”

Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”

As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.

But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.

His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.

Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”

“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.

The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.

“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”

Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.

“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”

Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.

“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”

“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”

Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.

Jack breathes.

“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”

Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.

He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.

“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.

“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.

When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.

He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.

“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”

—

“You’ll definitely get in.”

“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.

You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.

“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”

You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”

“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.

“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”

“So not peds, then?” he presses.

“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”

“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.

“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”

“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.

“I learned that from you.”

“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.

You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.

“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”

You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”

“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.

There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.

You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.

“I would miss this place, too,” you say.

“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.

You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.

“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”

He winks.

“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”

You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”

Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.

“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”

You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.

You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.

“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”

The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.

His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.

“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”

Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.

“What’d he say?” he asks.

“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”

“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”

“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.

“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.

Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”

“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”

You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.

It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.

“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”

If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”

Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.

—

Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.

He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.

“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.

Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”

“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.

“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”

Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”

Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.

“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”

“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”

“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”

Jack’s stomach sinks.

You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”

Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”

“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.

“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.

“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”

Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.

He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.

Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.

Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.

But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.

So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.

Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.

—

Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.

“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.

“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”

“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.

“Mhm.”

“Did it help?” you ask.

He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”

“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”

Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.

“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.

The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.

“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.

“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.

“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.

But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have eyes.”

His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”

You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”

“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.

“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”

He nods seriously. “Got it.”

“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.

“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”

You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”

Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.

“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.

You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.

“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”

“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”

“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”

Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”

“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”

But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.

“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”

“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”

“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”

“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.

—

You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.

It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.

When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”

You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”

“Dr. Abbot—”

“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”

You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”

“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”

“But I—”

“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”

It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.

“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”

He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.

“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”

He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”

“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.

“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”

“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.

You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.

“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”

You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.

“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”

Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.

But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.

“Y/n,” he says slowly.

“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”

“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”

“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”

“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”

“What?”

“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”

“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”

He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.

“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”

His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.

“Please,” you say anyway.

Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.

And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.

“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”

“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”

—

“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”

Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.

“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.

He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”

“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.

“Talk me through it,” he says.

You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.

“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.

“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.

He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.

“What is that?”

“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“What? You said—”

“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”

He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”

“Go.”

You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”

“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”

“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”

“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.

“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”

“What’d he say?”

“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.

Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”

You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”

A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.

“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”

“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”

Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”

He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”

“You mean me?”

You nod.

“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”

“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.

“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.

“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.

He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.

“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.

“No?”

You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.

“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”

—

A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.

The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.

And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.

The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.

You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.

You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.

Both in Pittsburgh.

But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.

“Is that something I need to know about?”

Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.

Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.

“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.

He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.

He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.

You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.

Because it’s still coming home to him.

It was your own little refuge right there in Hawkins: the bell jingling as you opened the door, the boxes upon boxes of vinyl records, the music that crackled over the stereo system that let you know who was working that day. 

Today, Metallica’s new album blared throughout the store, which meant—

“Jesus, Munson; what the hell do you have in here?” Steve Harrington—former King of Hawkins High and current Rockin’ Records employee—heaved a huge box onto the countertop. 

“That’s where I keep your mom’s panties. I take a pair every time I—oh, shit.”

Eddie’s eyes widened when he realized there was a customer nearby. “Welcome to Rockin’ Records,” he mumbled, unable to meet your eyes. His cheeks flushed pink. 

You swallowed, trying not to show your own flusteredness. You’d had a crush on Eddie since high school; back then, you would watch him climb atop cafeteria tables and make grandiose speeches to whoever bothered to listen. 

Before you could manage a hello, Steve bounded over. 

“Hi there. Steve Harrington. Music connoisseur." He stuck out his hand, studying your face as though trying to place you. “Do I know you?”

“We went to high school together.” You introduced yourself; not that Steve would remember. He was always too busy gawking at Nancy Wheeler to notice anyone else. 

Steve Harrington’s romantic pursuits never mattered to you. And it especially didn’t matter now with Eddie Munson standing twenty feet away. 

“Oh. Right.” Steve pulled back his hand and raked it through his hair, composing himself. “Well, let me help you find your perfect match.”

He winked at you, rifling through the boxes of records. 

“Actually, I just need—”

“Let me guess…Madonna? No, wait; what’s the band that sings ‘can you hooooold one for one more day?’”

You tried not to wince at his pitchy falsetto. “Wilson Phillips?”

“Yeah!” Steve snapped his fingers and nodded emphatically. “Yeah, Wilson Phillips. We’ve got them right here—”

“Oh my God, this is painful,” Eddie groaned. “Harrington, you’re failing an open-book test!"