Randomness Is The New Euphoria

It’s been eleven days since you dropped Frankie off at the airport. He was supposed to be back six days ago. No phone calls, no texts, nothing. You’ve decided you won’t get truly concerned until tomorrow.

You can’t remember the number of times you went a week, sometimes two, without having contact with Frankie before he discharged from the military. This is an unsanctioned mission, but you still have an idea of what to expect from Frankie when he’s in it like this. 

You’re in bed, alone, staring up at the ceiling. Both the two-year-old and the five-month-old are (finally) fast asleep in their rooms. None of Frankie’s girls can ever seem to get good sleep when he’s gone.

It’s 11:47 PM when you finally put your phone on the charger and shut your eyes. It’s 11:49 when the distinctive ringtone you’ve been waiting to hear for the last six days finally sounds off in your quiet bedroom.

You accept the call and bring the phone to your ear.

“Frankie?” Your voice is soft and hopeful, and Frankie swears he can feel his heart twist.

“Hi, baby,” he sighs on the other end. “I’m sorry.”

You let the apology sit in the air for a moment before you ask where he is.

“Airport. Um, I’m about to call an Uber, but I wanted to let you know I’m coming,” he says softly.

You can imagine him sitting on a metal bench near baggage claim, his Standard Heating Oil hat in his hand, his phone in the other.

“I’ll come get you,” you decide, swinging your feet over the mattress.

Frankie shakes his head even though you can’t see him. 

“No, I’m sure the girls don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll call an Uber, be home within the hour, hopefully,” he says, the exhaustion in his voice evident.

“Frankie, I’m coming. I’ll see you in half an hour,” you say before hanging up the phone.

You grab the hoodie Frankie left on the chair in the corner and throw it over your tank top, the fabric so long and worn that it almost conceals your pajama shorts.

With soft footsteps, you head into the nursery first to grab the baby. You manage to pick her up from the crib without waking her, then walk to the garage and get her situated in her car seat.

Then you head to your oldest’s room, but she ends up waking up when you snake your hands beneath her body.

“Mama?” Her little voice is so tired.

“I’m here,” you murmur as you wrap your arms around your daughter and carry her to the garage, where you slip on some sneakers.

She doesn’t make another noise, having fallen right back asleep in your arms as you get her situated in the backseat with her sister.

The drive to the airport is silent. You’re bracing yourself to possibly see a battered version of your husband, definitely more withdrawn than before he left, hopefully a richer version to save you from the buckets of debt. 

The traumatic birth of your youngest, who came six weeks early, paired with her three-week-long NICU stay, not to mention the court bills that have come with Frankie getting busted for cocaine use and subsequently getting his pilot’s license suspended, have been the biggest hits.

As you pull into the arrivals line, you spot the back of him.

You text him, telling him to turn around, and he quickly finds your car. You put the vehicle in park and get out. He doesn’t need your help putting his duffel bag in the trunk, but he does need your arms around him, and you need the same from him.

He breathes in the scent of your shampoo and clutches the fabric of his hoodie on your body.

“Let me drive,” Frankie murmurs softly when you pull back.

“No, you’re tired. I got it,” you insist, gently pushing him toward the passenger side.

As you get back on the highway, Frankie lets out a deep sigh, prompting you to turn your head briefly, then do a double-take when you notice his face.

“You shaved.”

It’s thankfully the only visible change that occurred over the last week and a half. You’re sure his body aches, but he seems physically okay. 

He brings a hand up to scrub over the lower half of his face.

“Was in the jungle for God knows how long,” he says softly. “Got itchy.”

You glance one more time, then fix your eyes on the road. 

“It’ll grow back.”

“I know,” you mumble.

The rest of the drive is quiet. You know better than to ask what happened when it’s all so fresh, so you focus on driving.

Frankie keeps turning around in the passenger seat, stealing glances at the girls, like he needs reminding that they’re there, that he’s back with them. 

When you pull into the garage, Frankie opens and shuts the passenger door, immediately going for the oldest, then his duffel. He still worries about you lifting anything heavier than the baby, despite you being cleared by the doctor and being five months postpartum.

With the baby in your arms, you open the garage door and let Frankie step through, then shut it behind you.

He drops his duffel in the hallway, then heads into your oldest’s room and softly lowers her into her bed while you put the baby down in the nursery. 

Frankie stares at his beloved two-year-old for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath she takes. He missed her and her sister deeply while he was gone. Every move he made in South America was with them and their mother in mind. 

He finds you in your shared bedroom, already going through his bag and sorting things into the hamper.

“That can wait,” he says, coming up behind you and gently grabbing your wrists to stop your movement.

There is a feeling of anger at your husband for leaving you in the dark for a week and a half, but there’s also relief that he has his hands on you again. 

It’s never easy with Frankie, never black and white, not even when things are going great, but you couldn’t walk away even if you wanted to. You’ll never feel as safe anywhere in the world as you do in Frankie’s arms. 

You lean into his hold and let him wrap his arms across your front. Your eyes shut for a moment as you soak up the moment of relief with your husband home, safe and sound.

“You stink like the airport,” you murmur after a moment.

Frankie drops his arms and takes a step back before kissing your shoulder.

He steps into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door all the way. You hear the shower turn on, the shucking of his clothes, and the shower curtain closing.

You venture down the hall to check on the girls one last time, finding them sleeping peacefully in their beds before returning to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before you finish sorting the clothes in Frankie’s duffel.

After pulling Frankie’s hoodie over your head and dropping it in the hamper, too, the shower turns off. You hear him brush his teeth, and a few minutes later, he steps out, naked, skin damp, his hair dripping water down his back as he opens his side of the dresser to pull out some boxers.

He joins you in bed a minute later and pulls the covers up to your chins, then turns his body toward you and pulls you close, his front pressed against your back.

“I missed you. I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.

It’s all so overwhelming. It isn’t like when he would come back from a deployment or one of the quicker missions. This was voluntary, and it obviously went bad, and he didn’t have Uncle Sam at the ready to pull him out if things went worse than bad.

You don’t know what to do other than follow your instincts, which are telling you to grab his hand. You take his hand and move it down, down, down to in between your legs.

Frankie cups your mound and sighs into your hair. He dips his fingers underneath the elastic of your shorts and finds your bare cunt. He slides his middle finger through your slit a few times before slipping the tip of his thick finger inside of you with a small whimper escaping from the back of his throat.

All he could think about on that mountain while he, Santiago, and Will waited for Benny to come back from the boat was you. All he wanted to do was hold his wife in his arms and show you how much he loves you.

So he tightens his arm around you, his right hand gently stroking your stomach where your tank top has ridden up. The stretch marks, some old, some new, some glossy and some more wrinkled with time, are soft against his fingertips. He loves them, loves that his babies put them there. You bear these marks the same way you bear everything else: with more grace than Frankie can fathom. 

He barely lasted those eleven days in the jungle without you. He isn’t totally sure he could have also taken care of the girls the way you did without him. You’re better than him in every way, and he’ll never be worthy. He can only hope to make you feel good in return for being so perfect.

He works his finger in and out of you for a moment before you turn over, his finger slipping out of your shorts.

“I need to feel you,” you plead with a whisper.

You pull his boxers down, and while he gets them off his body, you pull your tank top over your head, then kick your shorts off.

“You sure?” he asks softly as he positions himself on top of you, his hands planted by your head, holding up his body.

“Mhm.” You nod and pull him closer, his heavy cock brushing against your sensitive entrance.

Frankie leans down and kisses you as he pushes inside of you, swallowing your moans and the soft whimper from the tight pinch.

You pant beneath him, and he peppers your face in kisses.

“I love you. I’m never leaving you again,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Fuck, you’re perfect, and I’m an asshole.”

“No.” You moan softly as he rolls his hips against yours. “Not an asshole, baby.”

Frankie whimpers softly and kisses your chin.

“You took care of our girls all on your own. They’re healthy and happy, and I could never do that without you. You’re incredible,” he babbles, his brow furrowing.

Honestly, he’s in disbelief that he’s inside of you, in bed with you, and not being yelled at and kicked out. You’ve always been too good for him, and he’s just a grumpy coke addict who got lucky.

“I’m sorry I left you,” he whimpers.

You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, his stubble scratchy against your palm. “You’re here now. I love you. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Frankie lets out a shaky sigh and buries his face in your neck as he starts thrusting into you at an even rhythm.

“I love you,” he repeats over and over in your ear.

He sinks down onto his elbows and snakes one hand between your bodies to rub your clit.

I love you. 

I love you. 

I love you. 

It’s spoken like a chant, and his voice breaks more and more with every admission of love.

You feel the tears well in your eyes just as Frankie’s own tears hit your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Fuck, I’m gonna–”

“It’s okay,” you whimper in his ear.

You wrap your arms tightly around his back and kiss his neck. The let-down has started, and it smears against Frankie’s chest with every thrust of his hips in and out of you. He moans softly when he feels the warm liquid begin to stain his chest.

Frankie rubs your clit just that much harder to make sure you come before he does, which has you whimpering into his neck and digging your nails into his skin before he’s spilling inside of you, filling your cunt with his warm cum as he groans.

As the two of you come down from your highs, you let out a sniff and reach out to wipe Frankie’s tears.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you promise.

“I’m never gonna hurt you again,” Frankie vows. “Gonna be a better husband, a better father. I promise. Fuck, I love you and our girls so much. I’ll be better.”

You nod and rub your thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

“I know,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I love you, baby.”

Frankie will tell you about Tom and the money tomorrow. For now, he’ll keep replaying you saying “I love you, baby” in his head as he drifts off to the best sleep he’s had in nearly two weeks.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

tags: @person-005 @upintheclouds95

this makes me laugh.

~Vibes~ for the next two chapters.

And of cooooourrrseeee. Joel & Jefferson by my beloved vv @valevntine.

If you want to share any of your favorite parts/chapters/things/etc. please do, whether publicly or privately.

“Robby,” you repeated for the millionth time, staring at the way his focused eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. “Robby, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Your words went in one ear and straight out the other. His attention was completely locked on the patient charts, as if the world had temporarily ceased to exist. 

You let out a quiet sigh, then reached over the nurse station counter, fished a latex glove out of the open cardboard box, and with a quick movement, snapped it right against his back.

“Ouch!” Robby exclaimed, finally jerking his gaze away from the screen. He rubbed the spot where the glove had stung him, looking equal parts surprised and betrayed. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because I’ve been trying to talk to you!” You fought to keep your voice from snapping, though the frustration was definitely leaking through. “Did you call the bouncy castle people already?”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “Yeah, already did. They’re charging me two hundred extra for switching from the unicorn castle to the capybara one with less than a week’s notice, by the way.” He tried to sound annoyed, but it didn’t quite land. Michael loved his daughter far too much for that. If he had to build a goddamn capybara bouncy castle with his own two hands so she could have whatever she wanted in the entire world, he would do it without hesitation. Instead of irritation, his expression softened into something almost endearing, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smile at her latest demand.

“And you’re paying for it without complaining because you’re a great father,” you said matter-of-factly, unable to hide the fond smile tugging at your own lips. “Remember, the party’s at three. You still good for setup?”

Robby exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "They're delivering the capybara monstrosity at one-thirty. Said they'd set it up in the backyard." He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if he was remembering what other arrangements he’d made. "Also confirmed the balloon guy with a helium tank, should be there by two."

You nodded, feeling the relief you always felt whenever Robby managed to take care of everything. Co-parenting with Robby has always been like this, efficient, practical, and competent. No missed pickups, no forgotten appointments. He'd never once let your daughter down, even when work tried to swallow him whole.

"And the cake?" you asked because you can't help it, even though you knew the answer.

He gave you a side-eye, the one that said do you even have to ask? "Chocolate with vanilla buttercream, extra sprinkles. Pickup at two-fifteen, I'll swing by after my shift ends, already talked to Shen and he’ll cover for me.”

Five years ago, you were a fourth-year med student rotating in this very department, terrified of screwing up in front of the mighty Dr. Robinavitch. Then Dr. Robinavitch slowly became Dr. Robby to you… and eventually he was just Michael when you were moaning his name under the weight of his body in his bed.

What you and Robby once had was simple, and you both liked it that way. It was the comfort of each other’s company after a brutal shift when neither of you wanted to be alone. No strings, no labels, no complications of being a real couple. No whispered rumors in the hospital about Robby seeing a med student outside of work. No pressure on Robby’s well-known inability to commit to anything more than passionate sex at night and coffee in the morning.

But simple things didn’t always stay simple, especially not when two adults knew exactly how risky it was to keep skipping protection, and neither of you ever felt much enthusiasm about pulling out. “Fuck, this is the last time, Michael,” you’d said more than once, breathless and frustrated. “Why are you nagging me?” he’d reply with a half-smirk, still catching his breath. “I had every intention of pulling out before you wrapped your legs around me like that.”

And that’s exactly how, six months after the first night you slept in Robby’s bed, you found yourself staring at the most terrifying sight you’d ever witnessed in your life: two pink lines on a plastic stick.

The conversation that followed was painfully awkward. You told Robby you were pregnant, and Robby, being who he was, decided it was time to put on his big boy pants and play his cards right. Life had handed him something he never thought he’d get, a baby, a real chance at a family. So he did what any traditional man would do in his position: he settled with you.

You’d moved into his house, and Robby and you had settled into a routine, not as two people who casually slept together on lonely nights, but as partners, and soon-to-be parents.

Robby took you to every single appointment. He insisted on every test to ensure his child’s safety, blended you the best prenatal smoothies, disgusting carrot-and-spinach concoctions that made you gag but that he swore were just what you needed, and even pushed hard for you to take early maternity leave. But of course, you refused, determined to finish your last year of med school before the baby arrived.

The day your daughter was born was the happiest day of Robby’s life. Even now, it still brought him to tears whenever he thought about it, the moment his entire life changed forever, the day he met his greatest love, his reason to keep going, to keep living, to try harder every single day.

But even as Robby put in his best effort to be a boyfriend, it didn’t take long for the fantasy to crumble.  It wasn’t all sunrays and paradise, and after endless long shifts in the ED, endless diapers, and all-night cries that never seemed to stop, you were both running on fumes. It became painfully clear, day after day, that the only reason Robby had decided to settle down with you was because he’d gotten you pregnant.

You could see how unhappy he was. He barely spoke a word to you when he got home from work. He’d just sit on the couch with distant, lost eyes staring at the wall like he was the most miserable person alive. The only times he laughed or smiled were in the presence of his daughter. You couldn’t help but feel crushing guilt for trapping him in a relationship he never truly wanted. Robby had longed for a family and for company, but once he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.

That’s why, after five months of fights and desperate trying, you decided it was time to do the most noble thing you could: let him go. Set him free instead of keeping him trapped beside you in a pretend marriage he’d only started because he was too considerate to let you raise his daughter alone.

Hannah Robinavitch had never once envied her friends whose parents were still married. She never got sad or asked why the three of you couldn’t just be a normal family. Because she already knew you were one, a little different from the others, maybe, but still a family nonetheless. And having separate parents actually had its perks. It meant two houses, twice as many birthday presents, and two different vacation destinations every single year.

Sunlight slanted through the tall maple trees lining the backyard fence, painting patterns across the grass. Your yard was huge, the short green grass always perfectly maintained, and the swimming pool sparkled with crystal-clear water that seemed to catch every ray of light. It was the kind of house you could never have afforded on a resident’s salary in a million years. But Robby had made sure you and Hannah had it anyway the moment the two of you decided to part ways and break up. He’d never blinked at the money when it came to his daughter. If giving her (and you) the nicest possible place to live during your half of the week with her, in a safe, beautiful neighborhood full of every comfort meant making his baby girl happy, then he would do it without hesitation.

Because fuck, Robby was such a good father. The kind who puts his little girl first and everything else second. He finally had a real reason to take days off work and actually go on vacations. He finally had something to look forward to, a future worth living for: taking care of his daughter, watching her grow up, teaching her things, just being needed by this helpless little angel who still demanded he check under the bed for monsters every single night.

You’d read once that when it came to having children, women should look for a man who would make a good father, not necessarily a good husband. Because love could run out. People broke up. They got divorced. But a child was a lifelong commitment. And you’d won the lottery with Michael, even if sometimes you still wished he could have been as good a partner as he was a father.

The enormous capybara-themed bouncy castle Hannah insisted on dominated the grass as screams of delight and the rhythmic thump-thump of small feet echoed from inside it. All her kindergarten friends chased each other in circles as their parents clustered near the patio tables, drinking iced tea and making polite small talk about preschool and summer camps.

You were on snack duty, refilling the chip bowls, and right on cue, the side gate swung open. Robby stepped through, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, the sleeves catching on the muscles of his forearms, revealing Hannah’s name tattooed on his wrist.

He was carrying a large gift box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it. The second Hannah’d spotted him, the entire backyard might as well have disappeared.

“Daddy!” She launched herself down the slide so fast the inflatable nearly tipped. She was sprinting with her bare feet on the grass before she even landed properly.

Robby dropped to one knee just in time to catch her as she collided into his chest like a missile. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her clean off the ground for a second, even though she was getting too big for it. She squealed and buried her face in his neck.

“You came! You came!”

“Wouldn’t miss it, babygirl.” He set her down but kept one hand on her shoulder. “Happy birthday.”

She was s already eyeing the box. “Is that for me?”

“Depends.” He raised an eyebrow. “You been good?”

“Super duper good! Ask Mommy! I only ate two cupcakes and I shared my shovel in the sandbox with the other kids!”

You caught his eye over her head, and Robby gave you the tiniest smirk, yeah, he knew “two cupcakes” was probably an undercount.

“Guess it’s yours then.” Robby set the box on the grass, and Hannah attacked the paper. A brand-new bike glints in the sunlight, purple with whitewall tires, training wheels already attached, and even a little bell shaped like a flower.

Hannah froze for half a second, then let out a shriek that made half the parents jump. “A BIKE! Daddy, a BIKE!”

She flung herself at him again, hugging him so hard he had to brace himself. He laughed again, softer this time, and rubbed a hand over her back. “Figured it was time for you to have some riding lessons.”

“I can ride it now? Right now?”

He glanced at you for a quick check-in, the way he always does when big decisions happen, and you nod once.

“Yeah, angel,” you said, walking over. “But helmet stays on, and daddy’ll hold your seat until you’re steady.”

Hannah was already trying to climb on, so Robby steadied the bike with one hand, using the other to guide her foot to the pedal. She wobbled the second her weight hit the seat, but she was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.

Robby shot you another look and then crouched beside Hannah again. “Ready?”

She nodded furiously, and Robby started walking her forward, keeping one hand on the seat, the other hovering near her shoulder to steady her in case she fell. She pedaled hard, poking her tongue out in concentration. The bike lurched, straightened, and lurched again. Robby kept pace easily as you watched from the patio steps. The man who once told you, half-asleep after a fifteen-hour shift, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anyone’s dad, was now the same man who walked backward in front of a wobbling five-year-old, talking her through every turn.

“Push harder with your right foot… there you go. Look where you want to go, not at the ground. Yeah, just like that.”

Hannah laughed when the bike finally held a straight line for more than three seconds, and Robby let go of the seat, just for a heartbeat, and then grabbed it again when she tipped.

“I did it! I almost did it!”

“You’re doing it,” he corrected her, encouraging like he’d read in so many parenting books. “Keep going.”

They made a loop around the bouncy castle. Parents pulled out phones to snap pictures of her, and someone even started clapping, making Hannah beam like she was crossing a finish line. You felt eyes on you, Robby’s, briefly. He didn’t say anything, but the look told enough: we made this kid. Look at her.

After another lap, he slowed her to a stop near the bouncy castle. She was flushed and sweaty, but utterly triumphant. “Can we take the training wheels off?” she asked immediately.

Robby exhaled a laugh. “Tomorrow, maybe. Today we celebrate the fact you didn’t eat pavement.”

He ruffled her hair, then stood, brushing grass off his jeans. Robby walked over to you, watching Hannah show off her new ride to anyone who’ll listen.

“You good?” He asked you. “You’ve been running this circus solo all afternoon.”

“I’m fine. Exhausted, but fine.” You paused, then added softly, “She’s having the best day. Because you’re here.”

He looked at you then, and something about his eyes reminded you of the way he used to look at you when you were falling asleep on his couch with a newborn between you. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Hannah zoomed past again, ringing the little flower bell. “Five,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How the hell did that happen?”

You didn’t have an answer, you just stood there beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his, watching your daughter ride circles around the backyard.

Two hours later, you were cutting slices out of the chocolate cake while Robby stood right next to you, handing them out to the sugar-desperate kids swarming the table.

You passed another slice to Robby. He took it from your hands, brushing his fingers against yours for a brief second.

“You know, I didn’t see Vet Guy over here,” he said, pulling on a dramatically disappointed face. “Bummer. I was really hoping to finally meet the guy.” You decided to ignore the sarcastic, obviously ill-intended comment. Robby, never one to let silence win, kept going. “I suppose he was busy. Did he have a labradoodle to give a haircut?” He let out a loud, self-satisfied chuckle that rumbled into a deep “Ha!”

“That’s a pet esthetician, you know?” You mumbled, aggressively slicing the knife through the cake. “Vets don’t do haircuts.”

“Oh, you’re right,” he mock-apologized, not even pretending to drop the subject, not when he had weeks’ worth of jokes lined up. “Then I guess he had some high-risk procedure. Open-heart surgery on a hamster, maybe?”

“You’re hilarious, Michael,” you said with your biggest deadpan face. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from,” he replied, grinning. “Do you even call him Doctor? I mean, vets aren’t even real doctors.”

“Of course they are!” you shot back with sudden, exaggerated respect for the veterinary profession, purely to piss him off.

Vet guy was nice. You’d met him at the hospital after he came in with a nasty dog bite on his leg. You’d tended to the wound while he respectfully flirted with you, not too hard, not desperate or aggressive, but just enough to make you feel seen. He asked genuine questions about you, shared funny stories from his own job, and somehow managed to pull real smiles out of you even after a brutal shift.

When he asked for your number, intending to take you to what he swore was the best Thai restaurant in Pittsburgh, you’d hesitated. You didn’t need more distractions from residency and motherhood. But Dana had insisted you accept. She said you needed to spend time with adults outside the hospital, to do something just for yourself, and to let yourself be treated nicely for one night. Secretly, you knew she was cracking up at the way Robby’s jealousy flared every time Vet guy flirted with you, the way he clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and rolled his eyes like a petulant child.

You’d gone out with him a couple of times. It was fun. He was a gentleman, smart, funny, handsome, the type of man most women would be thrilled to stumble upon. But then your stupid, stupid brain did that awful thing it always did whenever you started seeing someone new: it compared him to Robby. Robby would’ve ordered that. Robby would’ve said that. Robby would’ve done that. As if your brain had never gotten the memo that you and Robby had broken up. That it hadn’t worked. That you were supposed to be looking for a guy who wasn’t like him at all.

“Oh, please. WE are doctors. They’re frauds.” Robby scoffed. “What’s that guy’s biggest life achievement? Getting vomited on by a dog?”

“You’ve clearly thought a lot about a guy I’ve only gone out with like two times,” you offered him your fakest smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one dating him, not me.”

Robby’s expression, which up until that moment had been mocking and sleazy, changed completely. His smile flattened into a thin, straight line, and his eyes turned serious. “Funny,” he mumbled as he handed another slice of cake to a waiting kid.

“And to answer your question, no, I wasn’t gonna bring some random guy I had dinner with a couple of times to my daughter’s birthday. You know me better than that.”

He didn’t say anything else. Robby knew you were right, you weren’t the type of person who introduced someone new into Hannah’s life unless it was truly serious. But behind all the mockery and cheap jokes, there was something dangerously close to jealousy. The thought of you deciding another man was better than him, more worthy of your time and interest, the idea of Hannah ever having a stepdad, of him no longer being the only male figure in both your lives… it infuriated him.

Was he an asshole for wanting to keep you all to himself when he had no right to demand to be the only man in your life? Maybe. Was he stupid to pretend that a gorgeous, smart, and amazing woman like you would stay single forever, living on the memory of what you two once were, waiting for him to finally grow a pair of balls and give you what you deserved? The same thing he’d had every chance to give you years ago, but had been too scared to reach for, letting it slip away Definitely.

As the party came to an end, kids hugged, and parents collected backpacks and stray shoes, mumbling thank yous to you and Robby.

You stood by the gate, waving and promising playdates. Robby was on Hannah duty now, helping her say goodbye to each friend, crouching so he was eye-level, reminding her to say “thank you for coming.”

Most of the crowd thinned out quickly, a few stragglers lingered, one of them was Ethan, father of Mia, one of Hanna’s closest friends from the four-year-old room. Divorced last year, or so the gossip went. Nice enough guy. Tall, with an easy smile. He was hanging back near the patio table, helping stack chairs while his daughter ran one last lap around the bouncy castle.

You walked over to grab the last of the empty cups. “Great party,” he said, straightening up. “Hanna’s in heaven. That bike was a killer gift.”

“Thanks. Robby picked it out.” You smiled, tossing cups into the trash bag. “She’s been begging for one since she saw the big kids riding at the park.”

Ethan nodded, lingering his eyes on your face for a second. “Smart move.” He paused, then added, softer, “You pulled this off like a pro. Solo hosting a kindergarten party? Respect.”

You laughed lightly. “Not entirely solo. Robby’s been here all afternoon.”

“Yeah, I saw.” His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity there, maybe appraisal. “You two seem… good. Co-parenting goals and all that.”

“We manage,” you said neutrally.

He stepped a little closer, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Listen, if you ever want a break from… all of this. I just… figured it might be nice to talk to someone who gets the single-parent thing.” He smiled warmly. “Mia talks about Hannah nonstop. Be good for them to have more playdates. And for us to… catch up. Maybe you could give me some tips for this whole co-parenting lifestyle.”

It wasn’t subtle at all. The way he held eye contact a beat too long, the slight lean, the casual brush of his hand against yours when he handed you a stray napkin. You felt heat creepong up your neck. It wasn’t interest, exactly, just the awkward awareness of being seen that way. 

You opened your mouth to deflect politely. But before you could, behind you, a voice cut in.

“Ethan, right?” Robby was there suddenly, casual as anything, holding Hannah’s new helmet in one hand. “Mia’s dad.”

Ethan straightened, his smile faltering only a fraction like he’d been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Hey, man. Good to see you.”

Robby nodded once. “You too.” He flicked his gaze to you, then back to Ethan. “We’re starting to clean up over here. You need help finding her shoes? Think they’re by the slide.”

Ethan blinked, then laughed it off. “Nah, we’re good. Just saying goodbye.” He looked at you again. “Think about what I said, okay? No rush.” He waved, called for Mia, and headed toward the gate.

You exhaled slowly, but Robby didn’t move. He was quiet for a long minute, then: “Sooo. Ethan.”

You snorted as you started gathering stray plates from the patio table. “Yeah?”

Robby followed, picking up cups without being asked. “Seemed chatty.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Very friendly.” Robby stacked the cups. “Animated, even.”

You glanced at him. His face was neutral, almost too neutral, a sign of how secretly annoyed he was. “Robby.”

“What?” Innocent. It sounded too innocent.

“You’re being nosy. First with vet guy, and now again.”

“I’m making conversation.” He set the stack down. “Guy was all secretive talking in your ear. What’d he want?”

You laughed despite yourself. “None of your business.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Not bad. Just… standard divorced-dad. He wanted to organize some playdates. The usual.”

Robby nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. “Huh.”

You waited, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he picked up a stray balloon string, winding it around his fingers. “Guy’s got some nerve. Hitting on you in the middle of our kid’s birthday party.”

Our kid. He didn’t say it possessively, just as a fact. You turned to face him fully. “Jealous, Robinavitch?”

He met your eyes without flinching. “Curious,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

“Sure.”

He didn’t deny it. “Anyway,” he said, his voice back to normal without the edge of jealousy in it. “I’ll help deflate that monstrosity in the yard before it blows away. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

After Robby had helped the bouncy castle guys, he hauled the last of the folding chairs back to the garage and carried out three trash bags without being asked. He stepped back into the kitchen through the sliding door. “Hannah's out cold,” he said, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake her. “Tried to get her to brush her teeth, but she rolled over and kept sleeping.”

You laughed under your breath. “She’ll be up at six tomorrow demanding to ride the bike again.”

“Good luck trying to talk her out of it.” You felt the weight of his gaze as he pushed off the counter. “Anyway, I should head out. Early shift tomorrow.”

You turned the faucet off, drying your hands on a dish towel. “Thanks for everything today. Seriously. She had a great time thanks to you.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks to both of us. We’re a good team.”

You walked him toward the front door. At the door, he stopped, with one hand on the knob as he turned back to you. For a second, he just looked, not at your face, but at all of you.

His eyes started at your bare shoulders where the thin straps of your sundress sat, tracing the line of your collarbone, then they dropped deliberately down the front of the dress. You felt suddenly aware of every inch it covered, and of every inch it didn’t. Robby lingered his gaze on your waist, the flare of your hips, and the hem brushing just above your knees. Then lower, to your legs, and back up again, slower this time, until he met your eyes.

There was heat in the way he looked at you, nothing subtle about the way his eyes roamed your body. It was the look of a man who was remembering exactly what you feel like under his hands, what you tasted like, what sounds you used to make when he was inside you. The kind of look that said he wanted to back you against the nearest wall, hike that dress up around your waist, and fuck you until the only thing either of you could hear was your own breathing and the wet sound of skin against skin.

He didn’t say anything, there was no need for words. Your mouth went dry as the heat coiled in your lower belly, the same way it had many nights before. Five years since you stopped sleeping together. Five years of boundaries, separate beds, separate lives. And still one look was enough to make your body remember. 

He exhaled through his nose, almost an incredulous laugh, “Happy birthday to her,” he said quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We made something good.”

“Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “We did.”

The weeks slid by in the same rhythm you’d grown accustomed to: long shifts at the hospital, trying to be a present mom whenever you weren’t buried in charts, and the handoffs with Robby at your house.

It was a Saturday afternoon, the day of Hannah’s ballet recital. You arrived a little early because she had been buzzing about it for weeks, her first real performance after long months of practice. Plus, you appreciated every rare opportunity life gave you to wear something that wasn’t scrubs. You’d gotten your hair done, put on soft makeup, slipped into a nice dress and high heels, and for once you felt like a whole different person. Someone confident. Someone who could take on the world.

You loved Hannah. You loved being a mom. But sometimes you missed the person you used to be before all of this. You missed being seen as more than just “Mom.” You missed conversations with adults that didn’t revolve around kindergarten, tantrums, or pediatric appointments. You were still young, and even though you’d always been mature for your age, you’d had to grow up fast the moment you became a mother. You had never imagined yourself with a child before you even became a doctor. You certainly hadn’t pictured managing residency at the same time you were raising a tiny human being.

But even if life hadn’t turned out the way you’d once planned, you didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought you here in this auditorium, about to watch your daughter’s ballet recital.

You spotted Robby near the front row, saving seats for the two of you. When he saw you, he stood, waving you over with a half-smile.  “Hey,” he said as you slid into the seat beside him. “She’s backstage, losing her mind. Kept asking if both of us were coming.”

You laughed softly, settling your purse on the floor. “Wouldn’t miss it. Was she nervous?”

“Not one bit. She made me practice clapping in the car.” He glanced at you, his eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. “You look nice.”

You couldn’t avoid feeling the heat creeping up your neck, but you brushed it off. “Thanks. You cleaned up nice, too.”

Before he could reply, the lights dimmed, and the ballet instructor, a woman in her sixties, welcomed everyone, and then the curtain slowly parted.

There she was. Hannah stood front and center in her pink leotard and tutu, her hair,the same brown shade as Robby’s, pulled into a slightly lopsided bun secured with a sparkly clip. She immediately scanned the audience, spotted the two of you sitting side by side, and her whole face lit up like sunrise. Forgetting every rule about staying still, she waved at you both with both hands.

The routine was equal parts adorable and chaotic, little arms waving with enthusiasm, a few spins that turned into giggles, and tiny dancers bumping into one another. But when it came time for her part in the middle, Hannah nailed it,  twirling with maximum concentration, poking out her tongue slightly the way it always did when she was trying her hardest.

You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached as you recorded the whole thing on your phone, careful not to miss a single moment. Beside you, Robby was doing the same, leaning forward in his seat like he was afraid to miss even one second of his little girl shining under the stage lights.

When it ended, the room erupted in applause. You and Robby were on your feet first, clapping loud enough to drown out half the parents. Hannah beamed, blowing kisses at the audience, then bolting offstage the second she was allowed.

Backstage, Hannah launched herself at you both at once, her arms around your legs and Robby’s in a group hug.

“Did you see me twirl, Mommy? Daddy, did you see?”

“We saw everything,” Robby said, scooping her up in his arms. “You were the best one up there, angel. Hands down.”

“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning to place a big and loud kiss into her hair. “So proud of you, baby.”

Hannah tugged at your hand. “Can we get ice cream? To celebrate?”

Robby raised an eyebrow at you as if awaiting to see what your answer would be, and silently hoping it’d be a yes.

You smiled. “Ice cream sounds perfect.”

He set Hannah down on the floor, then crouched so she could climb onto his back. She wrapped her little arms and legs around him tightly, her favorite perch. With a soft grunt and an easy smile, Robby straightened up, carrying her like she weighed nothing.

The three of you headed for the exit together. You walked beside Robby, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his every few steps, but neither of you pulled away. There was something about the way the three of you looked, almost like a picture-perfect family to anyone glancing from the outside. It made your mind loosen the reins on old fantasies: how different life would have been if the three of you had managed to make it work. If being together had been a choice made out of love instead of obligation, the only option he felt he had at the time.

God, how much you still wished things had worked with Robby. What wouldn’t you give to see him truly happy to be with you, instead of miserable the way he looked every time the two of you came home from a long shift.

The ice cream shop had a neon sign flickering “OPEN” in red letters, sticky vinyl booths, and the widest variety of ice cream flavors you’d ever seen. Hannah insisted on extra sprinkles and chocolate sauce on her cone. She was perched between you and Robby on the bench seat, swinging her legs and recounting her ballet routine for the third time.

“I did the spin and everyone clapped SO loud! Did you hear it, Daddy?”

“Loudest ovation in the room,” Robby said, wiping a streak of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. “You owned that stage, babygirl.”

You watched them as you ate your strawberry ice cream cone drizzled with hot fudge. It was uncanny how much Hannah looked like Robby,  like he had been cloned into a tiny, feminine version of himself. The same soft brown hair, the same big, puppy-brown eyes that were easily the warmest you’d ever seen in your life. Eyes you could never say no to, because one single look from them melted your heart every time.

She was already slowing down, the adrenaline from the recital and the sugar rush from the ice cream finally catching up with her. Her head rested heavily against Robby’s shoulder as she munched the last bites of her ice-cream, her little eyelids starting to flutter.

The walk home was only ten minutes, but Hannah's steps turned sluggish halfway there. Robby scooped her up without a word, and she curled against his shoulder as she’d always belonged there, tucking her head under his chin as she fisted her little hand on his shirt.

At your front door, Hannah was completely out, her rosy cheek smooshed against Robby’s collarbone, with her mouth slightly open. You unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside. 

Robby carried her upstairs like she weighed nothing. You followed, watching the careful way he lowered her to the bed, tugged off her ballet slippers and pink tutu, and pulled the covers up. 

Downstairs again, you were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was without her chatter filling it. He stopped a few feet away. “She’s wiped..”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “She had a big day today.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you… in that dress. You’re punishing me. You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Robby.”

He didn’t back off. Just looked at you in the same way he did the night of the birthday party. Tracing his eyes over the neckline of the dress, the way it hugs your waist, the bare skin of your breasts. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you intended. As if part of you didn’t really want him to stop. You longed for the validation, for knowing you were still the woman who drove him insane, the one who made him feel things no one else could, his soft spot, his weakness. 

And for Robby, you still were. Until this day, you were the only one who could bring out the most vulnerable side of him. It wasn’t just the physical part, though God, your body drove him insane. He could still feel the ghost of your skin against his every night when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t the sex either, though in fifty-four years of life he’d never found anyone who felt quite like you did, anyone who made him feel so many things, who woke up the most primitive, most virile part of him.

It was simply you. Your strength when you carried a pregnancy and still worked your ass off for your career. Your quick mind and the way you could deliver a witty comeback that put him in his place when he deserved it. Your competence, something he found extremely attractive, both at work and as a mom. And watching you raise his daughter with a patience and love only you could give, loving her so fiercely with every bone in your body… it made him feel things he’d never felt before.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me alive.”

He huffed a half-laugh as he stepped closer. “Can’t blame a guy for looking.”

You swallowed, using all the self-restraint you had in your body to stop yourself from jumping into his arms. “Every time we’re close like this, I have to remind myself why this is a bad idea.”

He tilted his head. He knew you too well, he could see how much you were trying to be strong and how much you wanted it too. “And why’s that, exactly?”

“Because we tried. We crashed. We hurt each other. We’ve got a kid now, it’s not just us we gotta think of, but her. And we’ve got a good thing going on, we’re good at this.” You gestured between you. “At being her parents. At not screwing it up. Adding… whatever this is… risks that.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Don’t think. Just do what you want.”

You stared at him. “Is that your new motto? ‘Don’t think, just do it?’”

He took another half-step, close enough you could smell the mint from his ice-cream on his breath. “One night,” he said. “Doesn’t have to mean more. Doesn’t have to change anything tomorrow. We used to be so good together. You remember that? Because I do, I remember it every single night.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat, a rhythm that matched the sudden heat blooming in your belly. You remembered it too, every vivid and overwhelming detail.

The kind of chemistry you and Robby had in bed had been like nothing you’d ever experienced before. The way your bodies responded to each other was like they were made for it, instinctive, almost frightening in its intensity. Every single touch felt magnetic and electrifying, sending sparks racing across your skin even from the lightest brush of his fingers. The way he knew exactly how to unravel you, and how you could do the same to him. You had both cried out in pleasure every single time, sounds that echoed in the dark of his bedroom, your bodies slick and trembling, chasing that peak until the world narrowed down to nothing but the two of you.

It was the kind of fire you only find once in a lifetime. But you couldn’t do it.

You couldn’t risk setting that fire loose again and burning down the delicate, carefully manufactured system you had built together. For Hannah’s sake, you needed to keep Robby exactly where he was: your co-parent, your reliable partner in raising your daughter, not your lover anymore. One wrong move, one night of giving in to the pull that still crackled between you, and everything could crumble,  the peaceful handoffs, the shared birthdays, the stability Hannah thrived on. You refused to gamble with her sense of security just because your body still remembered how perfectly he once fit against you, how his voice sounded when he fell apart because of you.

 “Of course you’re horny. You just want a quick fuck. I should’ve known.”

His expression flickered, showing a little of something that looked like hurt in his eyes. “Come on. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I do want sex,” Robby admitted, “but come on, don’t pretend you don’t want it too. You remember how much fun we used to have.”

He found your waist, pulling you gently against him. You gasped softly as he slid his palms lower, cupping your ass through the fabric, possessive squeezes that send sparks straight through you. He massaged your flesh deliberately, pressing his thumbs in just the right spots, drawing you closer until you were flush against his chest.

“God, I want you,” he murmured against your ear. “So fucking much. Always have. Always will, probably.”

He dug his fingers a little harder into the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh with confidence. You were so close that you could already feel the hard outline of his cock pressing insistently against your lower stomach. He was hard for you, just from being this close, just from a few lingering touches. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to give in, not to reach down and palm him over his pants until he groaned into your mouth the way he used to.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Robinavitch,” you warned, trying to sound threatening. It came out breathy and weak instead. You couldn’t fool anyone, least of all him. You wanted this, maybe even more than he did.

“You don’t want my hands where you can see them,” he replied with that stupid, cocky tone he always slipped into when he knew he had you right where he wanted you. “You want them in places you can’t see. You haven’t forgotten how good I am with them, have you? Nah… some things these hands did to you are impossible to forget.”

You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling. Cocky motherfucker.

Finally, with the last scrap of self-control you could muster, you pushed him away. “You had your fun. Time for you to leave.”

“I was barely starting to have fun,” he said with a wicked smile as he took a step back, rubbing one hand over his face. “You, cruel, cruel woman.”

“You’ll live,” you muttered. “Go chase some nurses. They love you. Well… the ones who don’t actually work with you do.”

“You hurt me,” he exclaimed dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I don’t have any nurse to chase. And even if I did, nobody could compare to us. You know that.”

“You broke things off with the last one?” you asked in mock surprise, playing dumb. “What was her name? Nora? N… Natalie?”

You knew Robby had had his fair share of affairs throughout the years, nothing too serious, nothing that ever deserved a real conversation, and definitely nothing meaningful enough to introduce to Hannah. Still, it stung. You couldn’t exactly throw it in his face, you’d gone out with people too. But you wished the asshole would keep his flings away from the hospital, away from the place where you had to watch him flash those stupid little smiles and do his little shoe-lace trick for whatever nurse had caught his eye this month. The same way he’d once done it for you.

“I won’t answer to those accusations against me,” he said, shaking his head with a low chuckle. Robby stepped closer again and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Have a good night. I’ll see myself out.”

You couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips as you watched him walk toward the door and finally leave the house. Five years later, and your body still caught fire whenever his hands were on you. Five years later, and you still loved your silly arguments and the way he could make you laugh even when you were pretending to be mad at him. Five years later… and you were still deeply enamored with Michael Robinavitch.

The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m. when the first cry cut through the dark.

It wasn’t not the usual sleepy whimper or the “I had a bad dream” whine. It was a sharp sound, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the floor.

You were out of bed before your brain fully registered it, rushing down the hall. Hannah’s room light was already on, and she was sitting up in bed, with the bedsheets twisted around her legs, her face shiny with sweat, and her eyes glassy because of the tears. There was a small puddle of bile on the rug beside her, and another streak down the front of her pajama top.

“Mommy—”

“I’m here, baby.” You dropped to your knees beside the bed, lifting your hand to her forehead. She was burning, her skin hot enough to make your palm sting. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She leaned heavily into you, her body trembling as another wave hit her. This time it was dry heaves because there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. You lunged for the small trash can under her desk just in time, holding it steady beneath her chin while your other hand gathered her soft brown hair back from her face. With gentleness, you rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, murmuring the same comforting nonsense you always did in moments like this.

“It’s okay, baby… you’re okay. Mommy’s got you. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

Your voice stayed calm and steady for her sake, but inside, your mind had flipped into full doctor mode, racing through the mental checklist at lightning speed. Fever. Persistent vomiting. She had been fine at bedtime, tired from her long ballet practice, a little sniffly maybe, but nothing that had raised any red flags. 

“Mommy… tummy aches,” Hannah mumbled weakly.

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You scooped her up immediately, blanket and all, and carried her to the bathroom. You ran a washcloth under cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the back of her neck, hoping the chill would bring some relief. Then you offered her a small sip of water from the cup on the sink. She took it obediently, but almost instantly spat it back out, coughing and whimpering.

Reaching out for the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, you grabbed it and slipped it under her tongue, holding her close while you waited for the beep. 103.8. You managed to get a dose of Tylenol into her, but she could barely keep it down, her whole body shuddered as she fought the nausea, and her teeth chattered from the fever chills as she curled into you even tighter, shaking hard.

Helpless, that’s how you felt, completely helpless. And as a mother, feeling helpless was the worst torture imaginable. You were a doctor, and yet here in your own house, with your own child, there was only so much you could do. The cold washcloths weren’t bringing her temperature down fast enough. The medicine wasn’t staying in her long enough to work. Nothing seemed to help.

You couldn’t stand seeing your baby like this: so pale, so tired, her usual bright energy drained away, her little body trembling in your arms.. In this moment, more than anything, you wished Robby were here. Robby would know exactly what to do. He always did. He’d take one look at her, assess the situation and figure out what was wrong with Hannah right away. He’d fix it the same way he fixed dozens of people every single day in the pitt.

You sat on the edge of the tub with her in your lap, rocking her slowly, trying to keep her calm while you dialed Robby.

He picked up on the second ring. His voice was rough with sleep, but instantly alert when he realized you wouldn’t be calling this late at night if there wasn’t something really urgent going on. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Hannah’s sick. Fever’s 103.8, she’s been vomiting for the last twenty minutes. Won’t keep anything down. She’s shaking.”

There was the rustle of sheets and the immediate creak of a bedframe on Robby’s end. He was already moving, even half-asleep. You could practically see him sitting up in the dark.

“Okay,” his voice came through the phone. “Did you give her Tylenol?”

“Yes.”

“Motrin too? You should alternate if the fever’s that high.”

“I only have children’s Tylenol here,” you answered. “Motrin’s at your place.”

There was a brief pause, then a quiet “Okay… okay. Alright.” You heard him exhale slowly, the sound of fabric shifting as he moved. “Cool clothes? Cold washcloth on her neck or forehead?”

“I’m trying the cloth right now, but I’m not seeing any changes. The fever won’t come down at all.”

“Are you hydrating her? Give her small sips of water, tiny amounts so she doesn’t throw it right back up.”

“I am,” you said, glancing at the half-empty cup on the bathroom counter. “She’s spitting most of it back up. She can’t keep anything down.”

Another pause stretched between you. Even for a man who could keep ice-cold composure during the most chaotic live-or-die codes in the ED, something in Robby’s voice betrayed how uneasy he really was. You heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on quickly, then the unmistakable jingle of keys.

“So, fever’s still not budging?” he asked.

“Not yet. She’s miserable, Robby. Keeps saying her tummy hurts, and the dry heaves are getting worse. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering.”

You heard loud, hurried footsteps crossing his floorboards, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing with a firm sound. 

“Take her to the ER. Now.” There was no hesitation left in his words. “I’ll meet you there.”

Your stomach dropped. “You think it’s that bad?”

“I think 103.8 in a five-year-old who can’t keep meds or fluids down is worth getting checked. Could be viral, could be something else. Better be safe.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll get her dressed. We’re leaving in five.”

“I’m already in the car. Text me when you’re on the road.”

He hung up, and you moved fast, changing Hannah into fresh pajamas, wiping her face, and wrapping her in the softest blanket she owned. She was listless now, her soft head lolling against your shoulder as small whimpers left her lips every time the nausea rolled through her again. You grabbed her insurance card, your wallet, a spare change of clothes for her, and the little stuffed unicorn she’d been sleeping with every night.

You placed Hannah in her car seat, with her blanket tucked around her. You buckled her in carefully, kissing her hot forehead. “We’re going to see the doctors, okay? Daddy’s meeting us there. You’re gonna feel better soon.”

She just nodded with her eyes half-closed. The drive to the hospital was only fifteen minutes at this hour through the dark and empty streets. You kept one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching back to hold hers. She was quiet except for the occasional gags into the bowl you’d wedged beside her seat.

You pulled into the ambulance bay lot, killed the engine and unbuckled Hannah. She was burning up, her usually light body now felt heavy and limp because of the fever. You wrapped the blanket tighter around her and lifted her carefully into your arms as you hurried toward the sliding glass doors.

They whooshed open, and Lena, the night-shift charge nurse, looked up from the desk. Her face immediately softened with concern the moment she recognized you.

“Hey… oh, honey.” Her voice dropped gently. “Is that Hannah?”

“Fever hit 103.8 at home,” you rattled off, shifting your daughter’s weight higher on your hip, trying to keep your voice steady, as if you were presenting a case, not describing your daughter’s symptoms. “Persistent vomiting, abdominal pain. I gave her Tylenol twenty minutes ago, but no improvement at all.”

Lena nodded briskly, already waving you over. “Bay six. We’ll get vitals right away.”

“Who’s on tonight?” you asked, walking fast down the familiar hallway. “Shen?”

“Dr. Abbot. I’ll send him your way as soon as he’s free.”

“Oh, thank God,” you exhaled, the relief hitting you so hard it made your shoulders sag for a moment. If there was anyone in this entire hospital you’d trust with Hannah besides Robby, it was Jack, Hannah’s godfather. You still remembered the day Robby had asked him to be his daughter’s godfather. The way Jack’s eyes had filled with tears, the two men pulling each other into a tight hug like brothers, like two men who were the only ones who truly understood the weight of this life, the long shifts, the losses, and the rare moments of hope like that one. Abbot had promised right then that he’d always have her back, no matter what.

You were halfway down the hall when Robby rounded the corner. The second his eyes landed on Hannah in your arms, his entire expression shifted to fatherly fear.

“Hey, angel,” he said softly, stepping close. He brushed a gentle hand over her back. “Mom said you’re not feeling good, huh?”

Hannah managed a weak, cracked little “Daddy…” before turning her face back into your neck, hiding from the bright lights and the unfamiliar sounds.

Robby flicked his gaze up to yours, doing that assessing scan he always did, checking not just Hannah, but how you were holding up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you whispered, though your voice trembled as the tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Just… scared. I hate seeing her like this. She’s never been this sick.”

He nodded once. “I’ve got her.”

You handed her over without hesitation. Hannah clung to him immediately, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder like he was her safe place. Robby carried her the rest of the way into the bay. He laid her down gently on the hospital bed, keeping one hand resting protectively on her stomach while the other smoothed damp strands of hair off her forehead with tenderness.

One of the night-shift nurses stepped in right away and rechecked her temperature. “It’s up to 104.1 now.” Her oxygen saturation was still holding steady, but she was clearly dehydrated, her lips cracked and dry, her eyes a little sunken, her usually rosy cheeks pale.

A couple of seconds later, Abbot strode into the bay, sweeping his eyes over the scene: little Hannah lying on the bed, Robby standing guard on one side, you on the other.

“Hey,” Abbot said, pulling Robby into a quick, one-armed brotherly hug, clapping his back once, and giving you a nod. “Heard our girl was here. Sorry, I was tied up with a gunshot wound, perforated lung. It’s chaos tonight.”

“She’s been throwing up everything, couldn’t even keep the Tylenol down,” Robby reported, giving the facts the way two attendings would, except this time his voice carried an edge of helplessness he rarely showed. He wasn’t the doctor tonight. He was the father. “Fever’s up to 104.1. We should get an IV going, more Tylenol, Zofr—”

“I’ve got this,” Abbot interrupted gently but firmly, keeping his tone calm and reassuring as he stepped closer to the bed. He looked down at Hannah with the softest smile, dropping his voice into that sweet, playful tone he saved only for kids. “Hey, Hannah Banana… we’re gonna get you feeling brand new before you even realize, okay?” He offered her a warm smile and the gentlest pinch on her cheek.

“Uncle Jack…” she mumbled, her voice cracking pitifully as another wave of nausea rolled through her.

The nurse started the IV in her tiny hand. Hannah cried out at the poke, a heartbreaking whimper that twisted something deep in your chest. Robby was right there, holding her other hand tightly, talking her through it in that calm voice he used with every scared kid who came through these doors. “Just a little pinch, angel. You’re being so brave. Almost done… that’s my good girl. Daddy’s right here.”

You stood on the opposite side of the bed, holding her foot gently in both hands and rubbing soothing circles over her ankle with your thumb, as if your touch alone could somehow absorb her pain and make it yours instead.

“We’ll keep her under observation for a while, wait for the fever to come down,” Abbot told you both. “I’ll come back in fifteen to check on her again, but she’s in the best hands tonight with the two of you right here.”

“Thank you, Jack,” you said quietly with gratitude. He gave your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

“Thanks, brother,” Robby added right after you, his hand never leaving Hannah’s hair.

Robby didn’t leave her side for even a second. He didn’t glance at his phone, didn’t step out to grab coffee, didn’t let himself get distracted by anything else. He stayed right there, anchored to the bed, resting one large hand gently on Hannah’s forehead, occasionally stroking her damp hair back from her skin. Every few minutes he’d lean in and murmur soft, ridiculous nonsense to her sleeping body, telling her she was tougher than any superhero, that the doctors here were the absolute best because they all knew her dad, and that meant she was getting the royal treatment, the best care in the house. You watched him from the corner of your eye. Even after everything, this was still who he was when it mattered most: steady, devoted, completely focused on the tiny human you’d made together.

The hours dragged, and eventually, after the second round of meds, Hannah’s fever finally started trending down. It had dropped to 100.7, and for the first time all night, some color began creeping back into her pale cheeks as her chest rose and fell more peacefully under the blanket.

You and Robby were slumped in the two chairs pulled up beside her bed. Robby broke the silence first. “I know what you’re thinking. You did everything right.”

You let out a shaky breath, staring at Hannah’s sleeping face. “Maybe I should’ve brought her sooner. She would’ve gotten better faster.”

He shook his head slowly. “You waited until it was warranted. You’re a doctor. You know the signs.” He reached over without hesitation, covering your hand with his on the shared armrest. His palm was warm and grounding in a way that made your throat tighten. “It’s just viral. She’s gonna be okay.”

Without thinking, you turned your hand over beneath his and laced your fingers through his, holding on tightly. For a moment, you didn’t care what it meant, or what anyone walking past the bay might think if they glanced in and saw the two of you like this, exes, co-parents, sitting together holding hands. The exhaustion of the night had stripped everything down, and right now, all that mattered was that Hannah was improving and Robby was here.

“Thanks for coming,” you whispered, even though you knew the words weren’t really necessary. Robby would drop everything and be anywhere either of you needed him, that had never been in question.

“Always.” He brushed his thumb slowly over your knuckles, a gentle motion. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

By the 6 a.m. check, Hannah’s fever had already dropped to 99.8. The IV fluids had done their job, and she hadn’t vomited anymore, even managed a few sips of apple juice without it coming right back up.

She shifted under the blanket, blinking up at you both. “Mommy? Daddy?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” you whispered, leaning forward to brush her hair back. “How’s your tummy?”

“Better,” she mumbled. “Did uncle Jack cure me?”

“He did.” You smiled, feeling a wave of relief flood through you. “You’re doing great now.”

Robby reached over, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Morning, angel. You scared us.”

She managed a tiny smile, then winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He kissed her temple, lingering there for an extra second. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”

Jack came back a moment later for a quick exam and a review of vitals and labs, thankfully nothing alarming. Viral gastroenteritis, most likely, with a febrile response. 

“Thanks for curing me, Uncle Jack,” Hannah said softly with that radiant smile that could melt absolutely anyone in seconds. “You’re the best doctor ever.”

Abbot grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her. “Well, thank you, Hannah Banana. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

Robby cleared his throat dramatically from the other side of the bay, crossing his arms. “Second best,” he corrected, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.

“Second best,” Hannah agreed immediately, turning that same sweet, dimpled smile toward Robby now, like she was bestowing him with the highest honor.

“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Jack said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I won’t tell your dad that you actually think I’m the better doctor.” He glanced sideways at his best friend with a mischievous glint. “A man with a fragile ego like him couldn’t take it.”

Robby let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head. “Is she clear to go back home?” he asked, his tone shifting into something more serious, though the corner of his mouth still twitched. “See? I’m asking for your professional opinion and everything.”

Jack nodded, glancing once more at the monitor readings before looking back at both of you. “I’d say she can go home. Fever’s trending nicely downward, and she’s keeping fluids down now. Just keep checking her temperature regularly to make sure it stays down. If she starts vomiting again or the fever spikes back up, bring her straight back, but you two already know that better than most.”

Robby stood, stretching his back with a low groan. “I should head out,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Shift starts in thirty. Gotta change, grab coffee, pretend I’m human.”

You looked up at him, still holding Hannah’s hand. “You’re going in?”

He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Someone’s gotta run this place. You—” He nodded toward Hannah, then you. “—should take the day. Go home with her. Get some sleep, keep an eye on her. She’s fine now, but she’s still wiped. And you’ve been up all night.”

You opened your mouth to argue, out of pure habit, mostly. The words were already forming on your tongue, something about not wanting to burden the team, about pulling your weight like everyone else. But they died the instant your eyes landed on Hannah.

She was curled up small on her side in the hospital bed, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. You couldn’t stay away from her, not today. The thought of leaving her for twelve long hours, of being stuck in the ED while she was at home, possibly starting to feel worse again without you to notice the fever creeping back up made your stomach drop. You wouldn’t be able to focus. You wouldn’t feel at ease for even a second. Every patient you saw would be overshadowed by the constant fear that Hannah might need you and you wouldn’t be there to catch it, to bring her right back in.

And honestly… part of you simply wanted the day off. You wanted to take her home, wrap her up in her favorite blanket, and spend the whole day curled together on the couch. Just the two of you. A Disney marathon playing in the background while she rested her head on your chest and you stroked her hair.

So instead of arguing, you closed your mouth and let the silence settle. The decision had already been made the moment you looked at her.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Okay.”

Robby nodded, satisfied. He leaned down to kiss Hannah’s forehead again. “I’ll come by after shift to see how you’re doing.” He straightened and hesitated for half a second, then reached out and squeezed your shoulder, brushing the side of your neck, just once, before he pulled back. “Text me updates. I’ll turn off silent mode.”

“Will do.”

He lingered for another beat, like he didn’t quite want to leave the room, then turned toward the door. “See you later, angel,” he called softly to Hannah, who was already drifting again.

“Bye, Daddy,” she mumbled, half-asleep.

He gave you one last look, longer than necessary, before slipping out into the hallway. You exhaled slowly, while Robby and Jack handled the last few details with the nurse, you gathered Hannah’s things. 

Home sounded like the best idea you’d had in hours. If there was one thing you truly hated about this life, it was how little time work left you to be the kind of mom you desperately wished you could be. Residency had already demanded so much, and motherhood had taken the rest. Every free moment you managed to carve out, you longed to spend it with Hannah. You didn’t want her to grow up one day and feel like you had missed it,  like you weren’t there for the special moments. You didn’t want her to remember a childhood where her mom was always rushing, always tired, always halfway out the door. 

By the time you pulled into your driveway, Hannah was already dozing in her car seat again. You carried her inside and laid her gently on the couch. The house felt wonderfully quiet after the night chaos of the ED. You changed into new pajamas, made her a nest of pillows and her favorite fuzzy blanket, then crawled in beside her, pulling her body against your chest. She stirred just enough to wrap one arm around your waist and mumble, “Mommy, will you stay today?”

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Today is just us.”

The rest of the day unfolded slowly. You started with her favorite movie, Encanto, because she never got tired of singing along to every song, no matter if she was just recovering. Hannah curled up with her head in your lap, as you gently played with her hair while she hummed to the songs.

When the movie ended, you made a simple lunch together, something easy on her stomach, a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and strawberries. She only ate half, but she kept it down, earning praises from you. After lunch, you moved on to Moana. She sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in her blanket like a burrito, occasionally lifting her head to point at the screen and say, “Look, Mommy, the ocean! Can we go to the beach too?” You laughed softly and pulled her closer, letting her rest her cheek against your shoulder.

Robby’s shift ended late, as usual, and by the time he signed out, he was bone-tired, but the pull to check on Hannah overrode everything else. He texted you: Just got off. Coming by to check on her. You home?

Your reply wasquick: Yeah. She’s asleep. Door’s unlocked.

He let himself in quietly, finding you on the couch where you were curled up with a blanket. “Hey,” you whispered. “She crashed about an hour ago. Fever stayed down all day, no more vomiting.”

Robby exhaled, shrugging out of his jacket and walking over. “Good. That’s good.”

You nodded toward the hallway. “You want to peek in on her?”

He did, already heading to Hannah’s room. She was sprawled on her stomach, with one arm flung out and her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. Her breathing was deep and even, Robby stood in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her chest rise and fall.

When he came back to the living room, you’d poured two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough to keep the boundary.

“She looks so much better,” he said quietly. “Color’s back.”

“Yeah.” You tucked your legs under you, pulling the blanket tighter to your body. “I was terrified last night. Thought… I don’t know. Worst-case scenarios kept running through my head.”

He nodded. “Me too. When you called, my heart stopped for a second.”

You took a breath, then another. “You’re a great dad, Robby. You know that, right?”

He glanced at you, surprised by the sudden moment of honesty. “Trying to be.”

“No. You are.” You met his eyes so he could see how much you meant every word that left your lips. “I always knew you would be. Even back when… everything was a mess. When we were still figuring out how to be parents instead of just two people who accidentally made a kid. I saw it in the way you held her the first time. You stepped up. Every single time.”

He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a callus on his palm, like he didn’t know how to take the compliment.

“We might not have planned her. But Hannah got the best possible dad out of the deal.”

Robby swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat. His voice came out rough when he finally spoke. “I’ll always be grateful to you for that. For giving me her. For making me a dad when I didn’t even know I could be one. When I didn’t even know if I wanted to be alive.” He exhaled, sounding almost like a laugh without humor. “I look at her sometimes and think… how the hell did I get this lucky? She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s fearless. And half of that’s you. But the other half… I get to be part of it. Every day. Because of you.”

The air between you thickened, it was full of years of shared history, good, bad, messy, beautiful. “I still love you for that,” he said quietly. “Not like… not trying to cross lines. Just… I’ll always have love for you. Because you gave me the best thing in my life. And you trusted me with her. That means more than I could ever express.”

“I know. I feel the same way.” You rolled your head to the side, trying to loosen the knot that’d been building since last night. The motion made your neck crack loudly, and it pulled a wince out of you.

Robby lifted his brow. “You okay?”

“Just the couch napping. My neck’s killing me.”

He didn’t hesitate, standing up right away. “Come here.”

You did hesitate for half a heartbeat, long enough to consider the offer. You were too tired to argue, and you knew how good Robby’s hands were, so you stood up from the couch, then turned so your back was to him. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before his hands even touched you.

He settled his fingers on your shoulders first, pressing his thumbs into the muscles along the tops of your traps, working in slow circles. You couldn’t help dropping your head forward on a soft exhale, closing your eyes as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

“God,” you murmured. “You’re still really good at that.”

He huffsed a quiet laugh against your hair. “Muscle memory.”

Robby moved his hands, working down the column of your neck, tracing the tense line on either side of your spine, then out across your shoulders again. You melt into it without meaning to, dropping your shoulders and slowing your breath as the ache unwound thread by thread.

For a minute, it was just that: his hands on your shoulders. Then he slid his palms lower, intentionally, until they settled at your waist. He pulled you back gently, just enough that he had your back pressed against his chest. 

He brushed his lips along the side of your neck, teasingly soft at first. Then, firmer in a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.

Your pulse jumped immediately at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Robby.”

He didn’t stop. Another kiss, lower this time, along the curve where neck meets shoulder. He tightened his hands on your waist, slipping his thumbs under the hem of your top, grazing your bare skin.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered but it came out unsteady. 

Robby moved his mouth over your skin. “Then why does it feel so good?”

You didn’t have an answer, you couldn’t think of one that made sense. He kept going, trailing kisses along the side of your throat, sliding one hand up your side, splaying his fingers across your ribs, the other staying firm at your hip, holding you against him. 

You tipped your head back against his shoulder in instinct, and he took the invitation, kissing the exposed line of your throat. Robby drifted his hand higher, brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric. Your hands came up in response, half to stop him, half to hold on, and they landed on his forearms, gripping them.

He murmured against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t stop it. Not one single part of you wanted to. Maybe if you weren’t so bone-deep tired, physically drained from years of resisting him, of constantly convincing yourself that you didn’t want this, that you weren’t aching for this every time he got too close, you might have found the strength to push him away again. To remind yourself of all the careful boundaries you’d built for Hannah’s sake. To remember why this was dangerous.

But right now, none of that mattered. Right now you needed Robby. You needed his warmth, you needed his touch, those large, capable hands that knew every inch of your body better than anyone else ever had, or ever would. You needed the intoxicating pleasure only he could ever give you, the rumble of his voice in your ear, and the way he could make you forget every careful reason you’d built to keep him at arm’s length.

The resistance you’d been carrying for years suddenly felt too heavy to hold anymore. In this quiet moment all you wanted was to let go. To stop fighting the pull that had never really gone away. To let Robby remind you, just for tonight, how good it felt to be wanted like this.

Under your shirt, one of Robby’s hands cupped the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra. He traced slow circles over the peak, teasing the nipple into a tight point, making you arch without meaning to, and he rewarded you with a soft bite at the curve of your shoulder.

“Fuck,” you whispered, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.

Robby exhaled a rough laugh against your throat. “There she is.” He sounded proud of getting this reaction out of you, of remembering your body even if it’d been years since the last time he’d touched you.

He palmed your other breast now, both hands working in tandem to knead your flesh, brushing his fingers back and forth until the friction through your bra was almost too much. Your nipples ached, already feeling oversensitive, and every pass of his fingers sent heat straight between your legs. You could feel him behind you, his thick cock rigid, pressing against the small of your back through his jeans. The size of him, the heat of him, the way he rocked forward just enough to let you feel every inch, made your thighs clench.

You should stop this. You knew you should. But your hands were already reaching back, curling into the fabric of his shirt at his hips, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.

He growled with approval, leaving one of your breasts to slide his hand down the front of your body. He was slow, giving you every second to say no.

“When was the last time someone fucked you the way you deserve?” he murmured against your neck, slightly tightening his fingers once he reached your thigh, dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts.

You stayed silent, like part of you didn’t want to admit the truth. Robby didn’t pull back, he kissed your neck again. “Tell me, baby. When was the last time you were properly fucked? Deep and hard like I used to… Until you couldn’t think straight?”

You swallowed once, then answered honestly, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the last time we were together. About four years ago.”

Robby stilled completely. He lifted his mouth from your neck like he was waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”

You shook your head. “I’m not.”

He stared at you for a moment, processing the new information. Then he let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “What about those guys you’ve dated? The vet? That other guy a year ago, what was he? An engineer? What about him?”

“Two dates, maybe three at most with any of them,” you said quietly. “Never went further. Never slept with any of them. Being a mom and a resident… there’s no time. Between Hannah’s schedule, shifts, studying, and trying to keep everything together, sex just wasn’t a priority.”

Robby tightened his jaw, and a fix of emotions flashed through his face, surprise, heat, and a fierce kind of possessiveness. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You can’t just tell me you haven’t been fucked in four years and expect me to act like it’s nothing.”

Before you could respond, he dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then under the elastic of your panties. “Four years. Four fucking years without anyone touching you the way you need. Without anyone filling this perfect pussy. I’m gonna leave you so fucking wet and satisfied when I’m done with you tonight. You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else after this.”

There was no hesitation now. He parted your pussy with two fingers, finding you already slick with arousal, your lips swollen, and he dragged his digits up through your folds in one long stroke, making your knees nearly buckle.

“Jesus,” he whispered against your ear, already sounding wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”

Robby circled your clit, it was light at first, his touch feather-soft, just enough to make your hips jerk. Then it turned firmer, pressing down in tight circles the way he always knew you liked. The exact pressure, the exact rhythm. Muscle memory for him too, apparently.

You tipped your head back against Robby’s broad shoulder, fluttering your eyes shut so you could focus entirely on the intense pleasure flooding through your body. A shaky breath escaped your lips as his fingers worked you open with precision.

He kept his other hand on your breast, tugging your bra down roughly so he could give your nipples the attention they craved. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging in perfect time with the slick strokes between your legs. The dual sensation was devastating in the best way, making your pussy clench and flutter around nothing.

He slid one thick finger inside you, stretching you carefully, opening you up with a patience that drove you insane. When you pushed your hips back greedily, silently begging for more, he added a second finger, sinking them deeper. You were so tight, clenching hard around the intrusion, and Robby let out a guttural groan against your ear, like the feel of you was almost painful for him too.

“Still so fucking perfect,” he rasped with want. “Fuck… the way you grip me. Like you never want to let go.”

He curled his fingers deliberately, hooking them forward until he found that spongy spot inside you that made your vision flash white for a second. A broken moan tore from your throat as he started stroking your g-spot with every thrust. The sound was loud enough that you both froze for half a heartbeat, listening for any noise from upstairs. The house stayed quiet. Hannah was still fast asleep. Robby didn’t waste another second, he resumed his movements, going deeper now, fucking you steadily with his fingers while his thumb kept the pressure on your clit. 

Robby alternated the pace just to torment you, slow and deep, then faster and harder, then dragging it back to that torturous slow rhythm again. Teasing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over it.

You rocked back against his hand, chasing the pleasure, chasing him. Every curl of his fingers and every swipe of his thumb made your clit throb and your walls flutter around him. You were soaking his hand, the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet room.

Your breathing turned ragged. Small and desperate sounds slipping out despite your best efforts, whimpers, half-moans, his name once or twice when he hit the spot just right.

He kissed your neck again, sucking lightly and then soothing with his tongue. Robby couldn’t stop his hips from rocking against your ass in shallow thrusts, matching the rhythm of his fingers, allowing you to feel how hard he was, painfully so.

Your thighs started to tremble. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. You were close, so close, and he knew it, still remembered how your body shook, how your pussy pulsed and clenched when you were about to let go.

“Come on,” he murmured against your ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.” He pressed his thumb harder on your clit, and crooked his fingers again, stroking that spot in quick pulses. “Let me feel you cum. Please, baby, I want it so bad.”

It hit you like a wave. As you orgasmed around his fingers, your back arched, throwing your head back against his shoulder, opening your mouth on a silent cry that turned into a choked moan when the pleasure finally broke. You came hard, shuddering and clenching around his fingers. He had to tighten his arm around your waist to keep you upright when wave after wave of pleasure hit you, until your legs felt like liquid.

Robby’s arms stayed locked around you for a long moment after you came down. Slowly, he turned you in his arms until you were facing him. Your legs felt unsteady, so he steadied you with his hands on your waist.

When he lifted the hand that was inside you, the one still slick and shining with you, he brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact with you.

Robby licked his fingers slowly, first one, then the other, dragging his tongue flat and thorough, tasting every bit of you. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, humming as if the taste of your slickness pleasured him. “Still taste the same. Sweet. So goddamn good.”

Heat flooded your face, your chest, everywhere. You couldn’tlook away, the sight of him, with his lips wet and his eyes locked on yours, while he savored you like that, made your core clench again. It felt so aching and empty without him inside you, and you desperately needed to be filled again, to feel the stretch of his cock impaled inside you, to have his weight over you while he made you feel owned. 

The words slipped out before you could think them through. “Fuck me, Robby.”

His mouth curved almost predatory. The words he’d longed to hear for so long. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, allowing you to feel his hot breath on your lips. “Ask nicely.”

You narrowed your eyes with defiance even through the haze of want. “Go to hell.”

He laughed, the same laugh he used to give you in stolen moments years ago, when you’d push back just to watch him unravel. “Still stubborn,” he said, almost fond. “Good to know some things don’t change.”

Robby didn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nd your arms around his neck, as he carried you up the stairs. His mouth found your neck again on the way, kissing and nipping while he navigated the familiar hallway in the dark. 

He pushed open the door to your bedroom with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, and turning the lock with a click. Robby set you down on the edge of the bed but didn’t step back. He stood between your spread thighs, looking down at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.

“Fuck… I feel like I’m dreaming,” he cupped your face, stroking his thumb over your cheeks. “You, here, letting me touch you again after all this time. After everything.”

Then he was on you, Robby climbed onto the bed, his knees bracketing your hips, and pressing you back into the mattress with his weight. He crashed his mouth down on yours in a desperate kiss while he ran his hands over your body.

He groaned like a man starved, staring at your chest. “These tits… God, I missed them.” His mouth descended immediately, devouring you with almost frantic need. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue roughly around the peak before he sucked it hard, hollowing your cheeks. He kneaded the other breast, digging his fingers in, flicking and pinching the neglected nipple until you arched off the bed with a loud moan. He switched sides, licking and biting, sucking marks into the flesh like he wanted to claim every inch. His stubble was scraping deliciously against your skin, making you whimper and thread your fingers through his brown hair, holding him to you.

He was almost desperate in the way he worshiped your body, groaning against your skin, grinding his hips down against your thigh so you could feel how painfully hard he was. “So fucking perfect,” he mumbled between sucks and bites. “These tits were made for my mouth. Look at how pretty they look. I love sucking on them… fuck, baby.”

You were panting, pushing your chest further into his face as pleasure shot straight to your cunt. Robby spent long minutes there, alternating between teasing licks and rough hungry suction, until your nipples were swollen, sensitive, and glistening with his spit.

Then he started moving lower. His mouth trailed wet kisses down your sternum, over your stomach, pausing to nip at the soft curve just below your navel. He settled between your spread thighs, pushing your shorts the rest of the way down to bunch around your ankles. For a moment, he just stared at the damp spot on your panties with eyes full of lust.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his hot breath right against your dripping pussy. “You’re making such a big mess for me. You ruined your panties… so fucking soaked.”

He leaned in and mouthed at your pussy over the thin fabric, pressing kisses along your slit, dragging his tongue slowly from your entrance up to your clit through the soaked cotton. He sucked gently on your clit through the material, making your hips jerk. Then he pulled back just enough to blow cool air over the damp spot before diving in again, licking broad stripes, nipping at your folds, mouthing at you like he was trying to taste every drop of your arousal through the barrier.

You moaned louder, with your thighs trembling around his head and your hands fisting the sheets as he teased you mercilessly. Robby hooked his arms under your thighs, holding you open while he continued the torturous worship of his mouth. Every time you tried to grind harder against his mouth, he pulls back slightly, keeping you right on the edge, whimpering and desperate.

“Robby… please…” you gasped, but he only groaned against your pussy and keept teasing, determined to drive you insane before he finally gave you what you both needed.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, gleaming with satisfaction. Robby hooked two fingers into the thin cotton at your hip and ripped. The sound of fabric tearing filled the quiet room. You only had a second for the cool air to hit your bare, dripping pussy, because right away Robby’s mouth was on you, aggressive and devastatingly skilled.

He devoured you like a man who’d been starving for years. There’s no gentle buildup or teasing licks. He buried his face between your thighs with a hunger that bordered on feral. He drags his tongue broadly, giving you flat strokes from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

He groaned deeply into your pussy, the sound was filthy. “Fuck, baby… you taste even better than I remembered,” he said against your folds before diving back in.

He ate you out with aggression, swallowing your clit into the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves before releasing it with a filthy pop. The sudden loss of suction made you whimper, only for him to immediately flick the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit as his stubble scraped against your inner thighs with every movement of his head.

Robby alternated between deep licks that plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow strokes that had you dripping down his chin, and tight suction on your clit that made you curl your toes hard.

Every time you tried to muffle your moans, he only doubled down, sucking harder, licking deeper, devouring you like he’d been dreaming about this exact taste for years. He gripped your ass, spreading you wider for his mouth, holding you firmly in place so you couldn’t escape the assault of his tongue.

“Oh my God… Robby—” Your voice cracked as he flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit. “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

He ate it like he loved it. Like he needed it. His hands weren’t idle either. One arm banded across your lower stomach, holding you down when your hips started bucking too wildly. The other hand reached up to palm and squeeze your bare breasts, making you moan louder.

You pushed up onto your elbows, desperate to watch him. The sight was both obscene and intoxicating, Robby’s head buried between your thighs, his shoulders flexing as he worked, eyes closed in pure bliss while his mouth devoured your cunt. His jaw was moving with every lick and every suck, his lips and chin already shiny with your wetness. When he glanced up and caught you watching, his eyes darkened even more.

He pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your swollen pussy, a thick glob of saliva landing right on your clit. The warm sensation made you gasp, asd he watched it drip down your folds for half a second before he drove back in, spreading the spit with his tongue, mixing it with your own slick until everything was messy and glistening.

“God, look at this pretty pussy,” the words came out muffled against you. “So fucking wet for me. Been waiting four years to taste you again.”

He continued his relentless assault on your clit, and you couldn’t look away. The sight of this strong man, completely lost between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his favorite meal, was almost too much.

“You’re so fucking good at this… shit, your mouth—” A broken moan escaped you when he sucked hard on your clit again. “I’m gonna… I can’t!  Robby, I’m close already…”

Your second orgasm built fast, and it crushed over you without mercy, making you bow your back off the bed, tearing a broken cry from your throat as the pleasure peaked. Robby didn’t let up for a second, he sucked your nub harder, drawing the orgasm out until it felt endless.

Your vision whited out, tears spilling down your cheeks as the pleasure rolled through you while he kept licking you through it greedily.

You sobbed his name, “Robby… fuck—oh god,” as your body shook uncontrollably, clamping his thighs around his head when the intensity bordered on too much. 

He finally eased off only when your cries turned into overwhelmed whimpers, your body limp and trembling on the bed. But even then, he didn’t pull away completely. Robby continued placing soft kisses to your folds, licking up every drop of your release like he couldn’t bear to waste any of it. His hands soothed your thighs, rubbing circles while you came down.

Robby lifted his head, letting you admire his lips and chin glistening with your cum between your spread thighs. “Four years… and you still taste like heaven.”

When he finally started kissing his way up your body, his mouth was soft, reaching your mouth and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back, hovering his face above yours. “You okay, baby?” he asked with an edge of worry in his tone, cupping your cheek with one hand, brushing away a tear. “Talk to me. Was that too much?”

You managed a shaky nod, still catching your breath. “I’m… fine. Just… holy shit, Robby.”

He chuckled softly, pleased with himself after seeing the effect his mouth had on you. “You’ve got the most perfect pussy in the world, you know that? So fucking pretty when you cum. And look at the mess you made…” He glanced down between your bodies at the soaked sheets, a proud and filthy smirk tugging at his mouth. “You still soak everything when I eat you out. God, I love how wet you get for me.”

Your voice came out breathy, needy, honest in a way you haven’t been with him in years.You were finally embracing what you truly wanted. “I need you, Robby. All of you. Please.”

Something possessive flashed in his eyes. He didn’t make you ask twice this time, just sat back on his heels and stripped in a rush, yanking his shirt over his head, then shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, looking every bit as thick as you remembered it, with the head already flushed in a dark red, leaking precum. 

He was rock-hard, with the veins standing out along the shaft, curving slightly upward the way you loved, because it hit your g-spot so easily. He knelt between your spread thighs, pressing his into the mattress, and looked down at you with hunger. “Stroke it a little,” he asked you. “Let me feel your hand on me first.”

You sat up just enough to reach him, wrapping your fingers around his impressive length. He felt hot in your palm as you gave him a firm stroke from the base to the tip, swirling your thumb over the leaking head to spread the precum. Your touch made Robby groan deeply, twitching his hips forward into your touch.

“Fuck… It’s so big,” you whispered, locking your eyes on the way your hand looked around him. “I need it so much, Robby. I’ve missed this cock. Missed how full you make me.”

He watched your hand move, his breathing growing increasingly ragged with every stroke. “Slow, baby. Just like that. Real slow.” His voice was strained, like he was already fighting not to cum from your touch alone. “Shit, I’m close already. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this… your hand feels too fucking good.”

You kept stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, squeezing just the way he’d always liked. Robby's head fell back for a moment, a moan rumbling in his chest, before he looked down again, watching your tits move with each stroke, watching your slick pussy still glistening from his mouth, waiting for him.

He reached down and gently took your wrist, stilling your hand. Then he shifted forward, gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the thick head up and down your soaked slit, coating himself in your wetness. The pressure against your clit made you whimper.

Robby leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still holding his cock against your entrance. He locked his eyes onto yours. “Should we.. uh… grab a condom?”

You didn’t even hesitate, spreading your legs wider for him, sliding your hands up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered. “Go raw. I want to feel all of you.”

A deep groan escaped him as he notches the head of his cock right against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch without pushing inside yet. He cupped your face with his free hand, brushing your lower lip while he held himself right there, waiting for the moment he finally sank into you after four long years.

When he finally pushed forward, you felt the blunt pressure increasing, letting you feel every inch as he sank into you. You both moaned at the same time, he was thicker than you remembered in the haze of memory, and the stretch was intense, bordering on overwhelming after so long without anyone inside you. Your walls parted around him, fluttering and clenching as he slid deeper, inch by slow inch, until his hips were flush against yours and he was buried to the hilt inside you.

The fullness was perfect, almost too much, pressing against that deep spot that made you curl your toes instantly. “Fuck… baby,” Robby groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for a second. “You feel… Jesus Christ. So tight. So fucking wet and warm. I missed this pussy so much.”

He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, both of you just breathing each other in after four long years. Then he started to move. The first thrust was slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a wet sound. The second was a little harder. By the third, he’d found a steady rhythm, long and powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The drag and stretch were incredible, every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock kissed that deep place that made sparks explode behind your eyes.

“Oh my God… Robby,” you moaned, already trembling, and he’d just started. “You’re so fucking deep.”

It felt amazing for both of you. For you, it was like waking up after years of numbness, every nerve lighting up, pleasure flooding your body in waves with every thrust. For Robby, the groan that left him is guttural, almost pained with how good it felt to finally be inside the only place that’d ever made sense in his life.

His hips snapped forward harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the bedroom as he fucked you with measured strokes. You were trying so hard to stay quiet, bringing your hand to your mouth to bite down on the side of it, muffling the moans that kept trying to spill out. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, then fluttered them open again. Robby was watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, flicking his gaze between your face, your lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure, to your tits bouncing with every thrust, and down to where your pussy was stretched wide around his cock. 

He watched himself disappear inside you, the shiny wetness coating his shaft every time he pulled back, your folds clinging to him greedily. “Fuck, look at that. Your pretty pussy taking me so well after all this time. Stretched so tight around my cock… making such a mess on me.”

You bit harder into your hand as a particularly deep thrust made you whimper loudly. Robby’s rhythm started to pick up, snapping his hips with more force, the perfect angle to hit your spot inside you over and over, making you clench around his length.

“Shit… right there,” you whimpered. “That spot… fuck! I can feel every inch. God, I’m so full.”

“Stop squeezing like that,” he groaned, almost pleading, tightening his grip on your hips. “You’re gonna make me cum already if you keep clenching around me like that. This pussy is too perfect… so fucking good. Feels like heaven. I’ve dreamed about this for years… being buried inside you again.”

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your muffled moans, before he suddenly gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and the next thrust punched the air out of your lungs as he bottomed out completely, pressed his hips tightly against your ass, grinding his cock against that deepest spot.

“Oh my god—Robby!” You gasped against your hand, rolling your eyes back. “Like that! Like that… Please don’t stop.”

He fucked you harder now, making the bed creak softly beneath you. “So perfect,” he panted between thrusts. “You feel so fucking perfect. This body… these tits… this tight little pussy squeezing me. I missed you so much. Missed fucking you like this.”

He slid a hand between your bodies, finding your swollen clit with his thumb and rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation was pushing you toward the edge fast.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you cum around my cock. Let me feel it.”

When the pleasure started cresting, your words turned into fragmented, needy whimpers. 

“Yes… yes… right there, oh fuck, I’m cumming. Michael, I’m cumming—”

The combination of his deep strokes, the pressure on your clit, and the overwhelming fullness after four years was too much. Your third orgasm of the night crashed over you even harder than the other two. Your back arched violently off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat despite your teeth sinking into your hand. Your pussy clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically as waves of intense pleasure ripped through you.

Robby groaned loudly, his hips stuttering as he felt his own impeding orgasm approaching. “That’s it—fuck, yes—milk me, baby. I’m cumming—”

He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself as far as he could go, and finally allowed himself to cum. You felt the thick pulses of his seed as he filled you up, rope after rope of cum flooding deep inside you, so much that you could feel it spilling out around his cock where you were stretched around him. Robby kept grinding his hips against you through his orgasm, drawing it out, making sure every drop stayed inside you as long as possible.

He stayed buried deep while you both came down, breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. Your legs were still over his shoulders, your pussy still gently fluttering around his softening cock. 

“Four years,” he whispered hoarsely against your lips. “And you’re still mine.”

An incredulous chuckle rumbled out of his chest, utterly satisfied. His brown eyes were in disbelief, like he genuinely couldn’t believe he just got to be inside you again after all this time. The lines around his eyes crinkled deeply as he smiled. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, sounding a little husky fro  the exertion. “I can’t believe I just got to be inside you again. That was… fuck. That was the best fuck of my life. Better than I remembered. Better than anything.”

He stayed there a moment longer, savoring the connection, before he finally pulled out of you. You both groaned at the loss, a thick of his cum leaking out of you onto the already-soaked sheets. Robby rolled off you and onto his back beside you, reaching out with one arm to pull you against his side

He turned his head to look at you, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead with gentle fingers. “How was that for you, baby?” he asked softly. “Tell me. Was it okay? Did I hurt you at all?”

You huffed a small, tired laugh against his collarbone. “You already know the answer.”

He hummed, but didn’t let it drop. “Say it anyway.”

“Robby.” You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. You already know exactly how good it felt. It was amazing. More than amazing. I don’t even have words for it. I came so hard I— God, I needed that.”

He smiled again with a satisfied grin, and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Good. That’s all I wanted, to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”

As the afterglow started to fade, and reality started to creep back in… the sleeping five-year-old down the hall, the careful co-parenting boundaries you’ve both worked so hard to maintain. You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him.

“You should get going now. It’s late. Hannah will be up early, and I don’t want her to wake up and find you here. It might make things weird or confusing for her.”

Robby let out a genuine laugh, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You use me to break your four-year celibacy, three orgasms, mind you, and now you’re kicking me out?” His eyes sparkled with humor, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Cold, woman . Real cold. I give you the best, and only, dick you’ve had in years, and this is the thanks I get? Straight to the door?”

You couldn’t help but laugh with him, swatting lightly at his chest. “I’m serious. You know how she is. If she comes in here looking for me in the morning and sees you in my bed, she’ll have a million questions. Or she’ll think we’re back together and get her hopes up. We can’t do that to her.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, too, mirroring your position, still grinning that cocky grin that made him look ten years younger. “Three orgasms,” he repeate, holding up three fingers like he was making a point. “I ate that pussy until you were crying and shaking, then fucked you so deep you saw stars, and now I’m being evicted? Harsh, really harsh. I feel so used right now.”

“Robby,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing as another laugh bubbled up. “Come on. You know I’m right.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow but keeping one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer so your bare breasts pressed against his chest. “I don’t want to go. Not yet. I want to stay here and cuddle you. Just hold you for a while. I promise I’ll leave early tomorrow morning, before Hannah wakes up. I’ll set an alarm, sneak out. She’ll never know I was here. Please, baby. Let me stay. I missed this. Missed holding you after.”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. The warmth of his body against yours, the beat of his heart under your palm, the way he kept tracing circles with his  fingers on your lower back… it all feels dangerously good. 

He sensed your wavering and leaned in, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, then to your lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect. The way you took me tonight, the way you came for me… You made me feel whole again. Nothing in my life has ever compared to this. You and Hannah… you two are the best things that ever happened to me. Being inside you again, hearing you moan my name… it reminded me how much I still need you. How much I’ve always needed you.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you fully against his chest so you were tucked into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Robby slid one of his legs between yours, tangling you together under the messy sheets. He kept kissing you, your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, then back to your mouth in lingering presses. 

“I mean it,” he whispered against your hair. “You made me the happiest man alive when you gave me Hannah, but nights like this… being with you like this… it completes something in me. I feel alive. Whole. Like the missing piece finally clicked back into place. No one else has ever made me feel this way. No one else ever could.”

You melted into him despite yourself, and the night passed in fragments of deep sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Robby’s arm stayed across your waist the whole time, with his fingers splayed over your stomach like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His chest rose and fell against your back in an even rhythm, and the snoring… God, the stupid snoring you’d missed so much.

You woke slowly, first to the weight of him, then to the ache between your legs, the reminder of last night still dried on your inner thighs. You felt him stir behind you as consciousness returned. You could practically hear the smile before you even turned your head.

When you did roll over, he was already looking at you with his eyes half-lidded, sleepy, and crinkled at the corners. And yeah, there it was, that stupid and contented grin spreading across his face like he’d just won the lottery.

“Stop smiling,” you muttered. “You’re creeping me out.”

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, didn’t even try to dial it back. If anything, it got wider. “Can’t help it,” he said. “Woke up next to the most gorgeous woman in the world. Kinda hard not to smile about that.”

Heat climbed up your neck despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “Flattery at six a.m. is a cheap move, Robinavitch.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, roaming his eyes over your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Look at you.”

He dropped his gaze appreciatively, taking in the messy hair spilling across the pillow, the sheet tangled around your bare hips, the faint marks his mouth left on your collarbone last night. He reached out, tracing one with his thumb, gently.

“Don’t even think about it, Michael,” you warned him. You’d had your fun last night. It had been amazing, even better than you remembered sex with Robby ever being. But it had been one time. One stupid lapse of judgment, one moment of weakness that couldn’t repeat itself again. You couldn’t let it. Not when the delicate balance you’d fought so hard to maintain for Hannah was so stable. You refused to risk your daughter’s sense of security just because your body still craved the man who used to know every inch of you better than anyone else.

Robby snapped his eyes back to yours, looking equal parts hungry and amused. “You know how I get when you call me Michael.”

“Last night was a relapse. I was tired, and… Emotional. Not happening again today. Not happening again ever, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah?” He laughed before he shifted, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. His body came down over yours, caging you under his weight. Robby braced his forearms on either side of your head, his knees bracketing your hips. “You sure about that?”

You pushed at his shoulder. “Robby… get off.”

He stirred above you, lifting his head. For a moment, he didn’t move, but you kept pushing, gentle but insistent, until he finally rolled off you with a sigh and propped himself up on one elbow.

“All of this… It was a mistake,” you sat up and pulling the sheet up over your bare chest, suddenly too aware of your nakedness.

Robby reached for you instinctively, but you shifted away, scooting back against the headboard. “Why?” he asked. “It felt fucking amazing for both of us. You know it did. We’re good at this, we’ve always been good at this.”

You shook your head, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies still fit together like they remembered every single time before… it made your resolve weaken. “You know why not. I can’t just think about ourselves anymore. We have to think about Hannah. We can’t hurt her. We already crashed once, and I’m not putting her through big changes, through the uncertainty, the chance that everything falls apart all over again.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know you, Michael. In a month you’re going to regret this. You’re going to need space, and your head won’t be in the right place for commitment. I won’t do that to her. I won’t do that to any of us.”

Robby sat up fully now, the playful morning haze completely gone from his face. “It’s different this time. The first time… everything was happening all at once. You know how fucked up I was… After Covid, after… everything that happened. Having to take care of the whole ED… I was drowning. I couldn’t be what you needed. But I’m not that man anymore. You know I’ve changed. You’ve seen how much being a father changed me.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want you. I want this. I want the family. I want the commitment.”

You swallowed hard, and for one dangerous moment, you let yourself imagine it, waking up like this every morning with his warmth beside you, the three of you as a real family, lazy weekends and shared dinners and Hannah running between you both. The picture was so beautiful it hurt, but reality settled back in fast.

“You should go,” you whispered, looking away toward the window so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in your eyes. “We shouldn’t keep talking about this anymore.”

Robby exhaled, running a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. “It’s not fair.”

You let out a bitter little laugh. “A lot in life isn’t fair, Robby. You know that better than anyone else.”

He watched you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you until he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. You stayed under the sheet, trying not to watch the familiar way his muscles moved as he gathered his clothes from the floor and got dressed.

When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, turning back to you with that half-smirk that you knew meant trouble. “You can try, but I know you can’t stay away from all of this for too long. I’m a real catch.”

You couldn’t help the tired laugh that escaped you. “Goodbye, Michael.”

He gave you one last long look full of affection before he slipped out of the room and down the stairs. The sheets still smelled like him, your skin still remembered his hands, nd you were left alone with the echo of everything you wanted but couldn’t let yourself have. 

A/N: Oh my god, I finally wrote something!!!😭 I’d had this idea sitting in my brain for so long, and the other day I finally felt the urge to start it. After about a week, and using all the free time I have between work and college, I actually managed to finish it. Finally something with a bit of plot, lol.

I really hope you enjoyed this idea! I’d love to write a second part, but with my schedule… that could be anywhere from two weeks to a year from now. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so it’d be really nice to hear your thoughts, if you liked it, your favorite parts, anything really🫶🏻

You’re halfway through a lukewarm beer you didn’t really want, condensation dampening your fingers as you perch on the arm of J’s chair, when you catch it. The way Pope watches the room from the shadowed corner—eyes moving in slow, deliberate sweeps, brow furrowed slightly—like it’s a crime scene he hasn’t pieced together yet.

He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator sensing movement in tall grass. You don’t look away. His eyes narrow just slightly, hazel irises contracting around dilated pupils, like he’s trying to discern if you’re a threat. You lift your chin a fraction, feeling the cool air on your throat. Not a challenge. Just… not backing down. After a beat, he walks over, footsteps nearly silent against the worn floorboards.

“Have you two met?” J asks, casual, fingers still tapping that same rhythm against his thigh.

Pope doesn’t answer him. His eyes stay on you, unblinking, focused with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“No,” you say, offering your name, voice steadier than you expected.

He repeats it, quieter. Testing how it sounds on his tongue. The word hangs in the air between you, simple and insufficient.

“That’s it?” you ask, one brow lifting, condensation from your bottle dripping onto your knuckles. “That’s all I get?”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, just a momentary softening of that granite expression. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Your name?” The question feels more intimate than it should.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him deciding, jaw working slightly beneath stubbled skin. “Pope.”

You tilt your head, hair brushing your collarbone. “You always this intense?”

J lets out a quiet huff beside you, like he’s expecting this to go sideways, his body tensing subtly, as the eyes of his uncles flicker nervously between you and Pope.

But Pope just watches you, shoulders squared beneath his faded gray t-shirt. “You always ask questions like that?”

“Only when people answer like you do.” The words come out with more heat than intended.

He reaches out, taking the beer from your hand, and takes a slow swig, throat working as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. After another beat, he walks away, leaving nothing but a lingering tension in the air where he stood.

You roll over, unable to fall asleep next to J in his small twin bed, his breathing too even, too controlled, like everything else about him. The clock’s red numbers cast a glow across the rumpled sheets: 2:17 AM. You decide to give up on sleep, easing your weight off the creaking mattress and padding barefoot across the cold tile floor to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

You turn, droplets sliding down your wrists as you dry your hands on a dish towel that was probably more expensive than any clothing hanging in your closet, unfazed by the man standing in the shadowed doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. “The dishes.”

“Why?” His voice is gravel, rough from disuse at this hour.

“Can’t sleep. Figured I might as well do something useful.” The faucet drips behind you, each drop echoing in the quiet kitchen.

He steps closer, not threatening—just intent, the moonlight from the window catching the sharp angles of his face. “It’s not your house.”

You shrug, leaning back against the counter’s cold edge, ceramic pressing into your lower back. “So that means I can’t be helpful?”

His brow furrows, deep lines etching between his eyebrows like they’ve been carved there. “You’re not doing it right.”

“Sorry,” you huff, “I didn’t know there was a wrong way to scrub crusty mashed potatoes off a plate.” Your words hang there, suspended in the dim kitchen like dust motes.

Pope stares at you like you’ve said something wrong, his eyes unnervingly focused, pupils dilated in the low light. He doesn’t respond with words, instead stepping to the sink beside you, his arm brushing yours as he grabs the wet sponge off the counter, water dripping between his calloused fingers.

“Pope, you don’t—“

“Andrew,” he says, rinsing a plate under the stream of water, the sound cutting through the silence as he hands it out to you, waiting, droplets sliding down the ceramic.

“What?” you ask, grabbing a dishcloth that smells faintly of detergent.

“My name. It’s not Pope. It’s Andrew.” His voice softens on his own name, like he’s sharing something precious and forgotten.

“So why does everyone -”

He cuts you off again, turning to face you, locking your eyes in his stare. The hazel of his irises catches the moonlight, turning them almost amber. “You can call me Andrew.”

A slight smile curves on your lips, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough to create a dimple. “Okay, Andrew. What makes me so special?”

He turns back to the now empty sink, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles shine white against his tanned skin. You can’t help but notice how the muscles in his arms flex at the movement, veins rising beneath the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt.

“Because you treat me like a person,” he offers simply, voice rough like sandpaper against concrete.

In the half-day you’ve known him, you’ve seen how the rest of his family treats him - guarded, almost afraid, like they have to walk on eggshells around him. The way they tense when he enters a room, conversations dying mid-sentence. J had mentioned his uncle had some...odd behaviors, but something in Pope’s careful stillness doesn’t frighten you the way it should.

“Well, you are a person,” you respond, offering the small joke to try to ease his tension, your voice softer than intended.

He exhales slowly, his broad shoulders dropping a fraction, like that hit somewhere deeper than expected. “You don’t know what I am,” he mutters, the words barely audible over the persistent drip of the faucet.

You meet his eyes, stepping close enough to catch the faint scent of soap again. “Then tell me what you are.”

Silence stretches between you, thick as honey. For a second, you think he might actually tell you.

Instead, he shakes his head, jaw clenching tight enough that a muscle jumps beneath the stubble. “You wouldn’t come around here if I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Because that feels like a test. And you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince when you say, “You don’t know that.”

His gaze sharpens, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains. “I do.”

“How?”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just there, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. “Because no one else wants to. Not really.”

He walks away without another word, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, your fingers still damp from dishwater, gripping the counter edge too hard.

The next few weeks become a slow torture. Whenever his brothers throw a party, Pope is there—not having fun, but cleaning up, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting. When he finally lets himself relax, his eyes are on you. You tell yourself to look away, but can’t. You sit on J’s lap, his hand rubbing small circles on your bare thigh, while Pope brushes off any woman who approaches him. J’s lips brush against your neck, and instead of closing your eyes and savoring the feeling, you meet Pope’s gaze across the room, hating yourself for the electricity that sparks between you.

You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—just attention from someone when J has grown distant since moving in with Smurf. But late at night, guilt gnaws at you, making your stomach twist, yet you still count the hours until you might see Andrew again. Wrong and right fade together like watercolors, leaving you sick with want and shame.

A few weeks later, you arrive at your apartment to find Pope leaning against your door, one shoulder pressed to the peeling paint, his face half-shadowed in the dim hallway lighting.

“Andrew,” you say, his name still unfamiliar on your tongue. “What are you doing here...and how do you know where I live?”

“You never ask me for anything,” he says with no greeting, ignoring your second question entirely. You probably don’t want to know anyway.

“I can say the same to you.” You dig through your bag, past crumpled receipts and loose change, for keys that somehow always fall to the very bottom.

“I’m asking now.” His eyes, hazel with flecks of amber, lock onto yours.

“For what?”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, lingering on your lower lip for a heartbeat too long, then back to your eyes. “For you to open your door.”

You exhale slowly, the sound loud in the quiet hallway, and slide the key into the lock. The familiar click echoes as you step into your apartment, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet. He’s your boyfriend’s uncle. A man whose very presence makes rooms go silent. But you can’t resist his pull, magnetic and dangerous.

“Want to talk about what’s bothering you?” you ask, standing beside the open door, one hand still on the knob. You study him, noticing the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens at the question.

“I don’t know,” he admits. It’s quiet. Honest.

More honest than you expected from him. You feel something loosen in your chest, just a fraction. “Fair enough.”

The rapid knocks slice through the silence of your apartment. Adrenaline floods your system as you lunge across the room, fingers fumbling with the lock, your pulse hammering in your throat. There’s only one person who would come to see you at this hour of the night.

When you swing the door open, you find Pope slumped against the frame. Ghostly pale. Each breath a gasp. His hand clamped against his side where thin, crimson liquid seeps between his fingers, darkening his already dark shirt.

“Oh my God—” You choke back his name, glancing frantically down the hallway. “Get in. Now.”

He staggers forward. You yank him inside, slamming the door, eyes darting wildly—lock engaged, blinds closed, no witnesses. Blood roars in your ears as your body shifts into survival mode.

“Sit,” you command, half-dragging him toward the couch.

“I’m fine,” he growls through clenched teeth.

“You’re bleeding through your goddamn shirt.”

“Had worse.”

“Congratulations,” you hiss, shoving him down. “Sit your ass down before you collapse.”

He sits slowly, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

You’re already grabbing a faded blue towel from the bathroom, your brain flipping through your inventory—first aid kit under the sink, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze bandages. Not enough for a wound like this, but it’ll have to be.

“What happened?” you ask, kneeling on the hard floor in front of him, the chill seeping through your thin pajama pants.

“Nothing,” he says automatically, voice a raspy whisper.

You give him a look, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a thin line. “Try again.”

You watch the veins in his throat as he swallows. “Job went sideways.”

“Clearly.” You reach for the blood-soaked hem of his shirt. His hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm, his palm hot against your skin.

“Wait.”

You still, pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. “What?”

His eyes flick over your face, searching. “You don’t have to do this.”

The words hit wrong, settling like stones in your stomach. Almost like he’s giving you an out. You frown, the crease between your brows deepening. “Yeah, I do.”

“No,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t.”

“I’m already doing it,” you reply, softer now, leaning close enough to smell copper and sweat. “So unless you want to bleed out on my couch, let go.”

His grip loosens, fingers trailing reluctantly across your skin as they fall away.

You pull your hand free and pull up his shirt. Your stomach drops. The gash tears across his ribs, jagged and raw, still weeping blood that pools in the hollows of his abdomen. Purple bruising is already radiating outward from the wound.

You inhale sharply. “Jesus Christ, Andrew.”

“Told you, I’ve had worse.” His voice is labored.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

You lock eyes with him, heat rising in your chest. “It’s really fucking not.” His gaze burns into yours, unblinking. Devouring. You snatch the towel and press it hard against the wound. He hisses, body going rigid, veins standing out on his neck.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Hold still.”

“I am.” His jaw clenches tight enough to crack.

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Each word is forced through gritted teeth.

“You’re shaking.”

You press harder on the wound, blood seeping between your fingers as you reach blindly for the first aid kit. “A hospital never crossed your mind?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

He just stares at you, jaw muscle twitching.

“Right.” You press harder, making him hiss. “Stupid question.” The silence between you pulses like the blood under your hands. “You came here,” you finally say, the accusation hanging.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t have any other options.” Your eyes burn into his.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not ones I wanted.”

Your hands freeze against his torn flesh. Something electric passes between you before you force yourself back to the task. “Andrew—“

“I know,” he cuts in, voice raw. “I’m sorry.”

You rip open gauze packets with your teeth.

“Wasn’t thinking.” His admission hangs in the air between you.

You meet his eyes, close enough to feel his ragged breath, as you tear the blood-soaked towel away without warning. He stifles a groan that vibrates through your bones. “I need to clean it.”

A curt nod.

“This is gonna hurt like hell.”

“Do it.”

Your fingers hover over the wound. “Nothing for the pain?”

“No.” The word is final.

You exhale shakily. “If you hit me—“

“I won’t.” His eyes lock onto yours with such intensity you can barely breathe.

“You might want to.”

His hand suddenly grips your wrist again. “I won’t.”

His certainty anchors you in the chaos. “Alright,” you breathe, fingers trembling as you soak the gauze with alcohol. “Ready?”

He nods once. You press it against the wound. His entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his knuckles turn white against the couch. Blood seeps through the gauze, staining your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper repeatedly, your face inches from his. His breath comes hot against your cheek, the scent of copper and sweat filling your lungs. You work methodically, your hands steady while your heart hammers violently against your ribs. Each time he flinches, something twists deeper inside you.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt,” you say, voice raw.

“I’m not pretending.” His words scrape out between clenched teeth.

“Andrew—“

“Fine. It hurts,” he cuts you off, eyes burning into yours, “like fucking fire.”

You freeze, caught in his gaze.

“But I’m fine.” The words vibrate with tension.

You shake your head, leaning closer. “Liar.”

His expression shifts—something dark and electric flashing behind his eyes. You don’t push him. Once the wound is clean, you reach for bandages, fingers trembling against his blood-slick skin. “This might need stitches,” you mutter, throat tight.

“I’ll be fine.” His words vibrate against your fingertips.

“You keep saying that.” Your voice cracks.

“Because it’s true.” His eyes burn into yours, daring you to look away.

You don’t. You stare back, taking in every detail—the pallor beneath his skin, the sweat beading his temples, the pulse hammering in his throat. “Yeah,” you breathe, barely audible. “You usually are.” The words hang between you like a confession.

Pope’s gaze locks onto yours, pupils dilating. “Usually?”

You tie off the bandage with shaking hands, knuckles brushing his ribs. “Even Cody’s have limits, Andrew,” you whisper. You lean closer until your breath mingles with his. “You don’t have to hit it alone.”

The air between you crackles, charged and dangerous. Pope’s fingers suddenly grip your hand, his touch burning. “You mean that?” His voice is raw, desperate.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “I do.”

He studies you with such intensity you can barely breathe, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face. Then, his thumb traces the back of your hand. “Okay.”

You finish securing the bandage, your hands lingering against his skin until he inhales sharply. You pull back like you’ve been burned. “There,” you say, voice unsteady. “Try not to rip that open again.”

“I’ll try.”

You shake your head, the motion gentle and unhurried. There’s no real frustration there—only a slow, quiet acceptance that settles in your chest. You push yourself upward, but before you can rise fully, his hand drifts to you and curls around your hip, a steady, warm weight that pins you in place. You freeze, eyes tracing the line of his fingers, solid and grounding against your skin. A low pulse of heat blooms where they rest.

“Sit with me for a second,” he says, his voice hushed and rough at the edges. It’s not a command, but a plea.

You swallow. Logically, you tell yourself you should brush his hand away, reassert the distance you’re accustomed to. But instead your voice slips out: “Just until you stop looking like you might pass out.”

His grip tightens, just enough to communicate relief without causing pain. He exhales.

“Okay.” You lower yourself back onto the couch, settling beside him, closer than necessary. Neither of you moves away. After a minute, he shifts with a careful movement so as not to undue all the work you just did.

His shoulder presses against yours, light yet unmistakable. You stay still, heart thudding softly against your ribs. He leans his head toward you, close enough that you feel its weight humming next to your arm.

“Hurts,” he murmurs after a few seconds, voice nearly lost in the hush of the room.

You glance at him. In the soft lamp light, you see his jaw set, eyes shadowed with fatigue. “I know.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Silence follows, thick and warm. “Thank you.”

You blink, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. “Don’t make it weird,” you say automatically, though your voice is softer than you intend.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

You let out a soft laugh from the back of your throat. “You’re really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Being taken care of.”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Smurf’s the only one who’s ever taken care of me. So, yeah—you’re probably right.”

Your chest constricts, lips pressing together. “Good thing I’m nothing like her then,” you murmur.

He turns his head just enough to catch your face. “Yeah,” he says quietly. A few more minutes pass in easy silence. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You swallow hard, catching the glint of something wet in his gaze. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth before debating your options. You finally decide to answer honestly. “Because I know what it’s like.” You offer him a sad smile, the corners of your mouth tugging down. “My brother… he took the same meds as you.”

His eyebrows knit together, confusion and concern mingling in his expression.

“I saw the prescription bottle on the kitchen counter one day. Smurf asked me to grab something for her, and I—” you cut off, shaking your head.

He reaches up, fingers brushing your arm. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

You let a shaky sigh escape. “I was close with my brother before he died - car accident,” you offer before he has a chance to assume. “I never felt afraid of him, so…I guess that’s why I’m not scared of you. And you,” you add after a pause, “you’ve never given me any reason to be.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “Sometimes I wonder,” he murmurs, voice low, “if my dad hadn’t left, if Smurf wasn’t… who she was, maybe I could’ve been—normal.”

Something like ice settles in your gut at his confession. You shift until you hold him gently into your arms. You’re careful around the bandage on his side, mindful of every movement.

He responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his head into the hollow of your shoulder. You don’t need words; the embrace says it all: comfort, solidarity, the silent promise that someone will always be here.

You don’t cross the line all at once. You step a toe over, sitting poolside on a Saturday, the concrete hot against your bare thighs, the air smelling of chlorine.

“You’re staring again,” you say, sunglasses pushed up into your damp hair.

Pope doesn’t look away, his eyes intense and unblinking. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to.” Your fingers trace condensation down the side of your glass.

“Does it bother you?”

You shake your head, feeling droplets of water slide from your hair down your neck. “No. Just makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“What you’re thinking about.”

A pause. His jaw works slightly, that muscle twitching the way it does when he’s deciding whether to speak. “You.”

You huff out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s true.” His voice is rough, honest in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“Okay,” you push lightly, leaning forward so your shadow falls across his chest, “what about me?”

His gaze drifts over your face, like he’s memorizing the curve of your cheekbones, the shape of your mouth. “You say one thing,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “but you mean something else.”

Your stomach tightens into a hard knot. “Like what?”

“You say you love J,” he continues, sunlight catching the flecks of amber in his eyes, “but you don’t sound like it when you talk about him.”

“That’s not—“ Your protest dies as his fingers brush against yours on the hot concrete.

“You don’t look at him the way you look at me.”

That shuts you up. The pool filter hums in the silence between you. “Andrew—” His name tastes different on your tongue now.

“I’m not wrong.” There’s no triumph in his voice, just quiet certainty.

“No,” you admit, quieter now, watching a bead of sweat trace his collarbone. “You’re not wrong.”

The air shifts, heavy with something electric that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

“Why are you still with him then?” he asks, the question hanging between you like smoke.

You swallow, throat clicking dry. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his skin—chlorine and sweat, and something musky. “Yeah, you do.”

Your voice drops to barely above a whisper, the words scraping your throat. “It’s not that simple, okay? You’re J’s uncle. And you’re older—”

“Is that bad?” His question cuts through pretense, eyes searching yours with that unnerving directness.

You let out a breath and meet his eyes, noting how his pupils have expanded, leaving only a thin ring of color. “No,” you say, feeling something inside you surrender. “That’s the problem.”

That night, he knocks on your apartment door, three sharp raps that echo through your empty living room. When you open it, the hallway light catches on the angles of his face, shadowing the hollow beneath his cheekbones.

“You shouldn’t be here, Andrew.” Your voice sounds thin even to your own ears.

His jaw tightens, that familiar muscle jumping beneath the stubble on his chin. “You want me to go.” It’s not a question.

His flat tone catches you off guard. “That’s not what I said.” The door frame digs into your palm as you grip it tighter.

“Semantics.”

You shake your head, hair brushing against your cheek. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He shifts his weight, boots scuffing against the worn linoleum in the hallway.

“Make it that simple.” The air between you feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

He steps closer then, leaning his body towards you. “It is simple.”

“For you.” Your voice drops to a whisper.

“For us.” The word hangs in the narrow space between your bodies.

Your chest tightens, lungs constricting. “There is no ‘us.’”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, gaze traveling over every inch of your face. “Say that again,” he says, the words barely disturbing the air.

You hesitate, mouth dry as sand.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile.

You hate how easily he reads you, how he peels back your layers with surgical precision.

“Andrew—”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says suddenly, hands hanging loose at his sides, knuckles scarred from fights you’ve never asked about.

You blink, heat rising to your face. “That’s... not true.”

“It is.” His voice is steady. Certain. “I’m not asking you to leave him. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t already give.” He steps into your space, close enough that your breath stutters, that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

And you know he’s right. Some part of you has wanted him since he helped you with the dishes that first night you stayed over at Smurf’s, his forearms slick with soap suds, veins prominent under tanned skin. You’d stopped trying to hide it—looking at him just as intensely as he looks at you, never breaking eye contact with him when J kisses you, your gaze locked on Pope’s over his nephew’s shoulder.

You’re lost in your thoughts until Pope grabs your chin, his thumb rough against your skin, bringing your eyes up to meet his. The contact sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

“Do you want me to go?” His breath fans across your face, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey.

It’s a question this time.

And you answer the only way you know how—crashing your lips onto his, clutching the collar of his button-down, pulling him over the threshold. You don’t give him a chance to ask the question again, deepening the kiss, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him until his chest is flush against yours. The door slams shut behind him.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, a stiffening of his shoulders that betrays the war between his better judgement and his desire. But then his hands are on you, large and warm, settling on your waist. He holds you like a porcelain doll, like something fragile that might break if he squeezes too hard. It’s infuriating. It’s exactly what you’re trying to escape with J.

You pull back just enough to look at him, admiring the lines of experience etched around his mouth and eyes. Standing here in your entryway, he’s holding himself back with a trembling control.

“Take me to the bedroom,” you whisper against his lips.

He nods, a short, jerky motion, and lets you lead him down the hall. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sit, pulling him down with you. He settles his weight over you with agonizing slowness. His lips find yours again, softer this time, exploring. 

His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is feather-light, a ghost of the pressure you’re seeking. You arch your back, trying to force more contact, trying to tell him without words that you don’t need to be handled with care. 

His fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air inch by inch. He presses open-mouthes kisses to your stomach, his tongue flicking out against your skin with a delicate, wet touch. 

“Andrew,” you breathe, your voice coming out harsher than you intend.

He looks up, his eyes dark, his hair messy from your fingers. “What is it? Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you say, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you to stop being so gentle. You’ve been burning holes in me with those eyes for months. Show me how much you want me.”

His gaze hardens, his soft eyes sharpening into something predatory. He understands. The shift in the air is instantaneous. “You want rough?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your ribs.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” you challenge. 

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and his veneer shatters. He doesn’t ease into it - he snaps. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that steals the air from your lungs. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

His hands are no longer tentative. He rips your shirt off, no longer bothering with the slow, seductive removal of fabric. The sound of tearing seams fills the room, but you don’t care.

He breaks the kiss only to shrug off his own shirt, revealing a chest lightly dusted with hair and defined by hard muscle.

Then he’s back on you, kissing you, devouring you, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests his fingers there, a heavy, possessive weight that makes your pulse flutter beneath his palm.

“Is this better?” he mutters against your mouth.

“More,” you gasp, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck to him.

He bites down on the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, urging him on. He grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. He’s not holding back now. The friction from the denim is rough against your bare thighs.

He reaches between you, pressing the heel of his hand against the apex of your thighs, rubbing you through your pajama shorts. The pressure is firm and unrelenting, forcing a rhythm on you that you can’t escape. You buck your hips up to meet him, desperate for more.

“Look at you,” he groans, pulling back to watch your face. “So fucking hungry for it. Does he touch you like this? Does he make you this wet?”

“No,” you whimper, shamelessly grinding against his hand. “Never.”

“Good,” he says, suddenly flipping you over.

The movement is effortless, a display of strength that makes your head spin. You land on your stomach, face pressed into the pillows, before you can even process the change in position. He grabs the waistband of your shorts and yanks them down to your knees in one rough tug. The air hits your exposed ass, making you shiver, but before you can adjust, his hand comes down in a sharp slap.

The sound cracks through the room like a whip. A stinging heat blooms across your right cheek, radiating outward. You gasp into the pillow, your back arching instinctively. It hurts, but the pain is grounding, clearing away the fog of longing and need that’s been clouding your mind for months.

“Andrew!” you cry out, the volume muffled by the pillow.

“Tell me you like it,” he demands, his hand coming down on the other cheek, harder this time. The impact sends a shockwave through your body, making your pussy clench around nothing.

“I love it,” you moan, pushing your ass back up. “Don’t stop.”

He spanks you again, developing a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning and your nerve endings on fire. Between slaps, he kneads the flesh, fingers gripping tight. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly powerful.

“You’re soaking,” he observes, his voice thick with lust. “I think you were waiting for this. Waiting for someone to treat you like the dirty girl you are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, rocking back against his hand. “Please.”

“Please what?” He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot in your ear. “Please fuck you? Please ruin you for every other man?”

“Fuck me,” you beg, your voice breaking. “Ruin me, please.”

You hear the rustle of fabric as he finally frees himself from his jeans. A moment later, the hot, heavy weight of his cock rests against the crease of your ass. He feels bigger than you imagined, thick and throbbing with need.

He lines himself up with your entrance, not teasing, not waiting for you to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and slams into you in one thrust.

You scream into the pillow, your body stretching to accommodate him, the sudden fullness bordering on too much. He doesn’t pause to let you catch your breath. He immediately sets a punishing, pulling out almost entirely before driving back in deep, his hips slapping against your ass with every thrust. The bed frame slams against the wall, a testament to the strength of his movements.

This isn’t making love. It’s raw and primal and exactly what you asked for. He reaches around, finding your clit with his fingers, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, forcing you toward the edge whether you’re ready or not.

“Take it,” he grunts, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back. “Every inch.”

You do. You meet him thrust for thrust, your body reveling in the sheer intensity of him.

After, you both lie on your backs, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath. 

“Why me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, hanging in the darkness between you.

Pope turns his head slightly on the pillow, the sheets rustling beneath him. His eyes catch what little moonlight filters through your blinds, making them shine. “What?”

“Out of all the women who are always hanging around,” you say, running your finger across his collarbone. “The ones always hanging around your brothers. The blonde at the bar last week. Why me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The ceiling fan clicks softly overhead, stirring the humid air. When he does speak, his voice is soft but certain, like the low rumble before an avalanche.

“Because you see me,” he says simply, knuckles brushing against your bare hip.

You swallow, feeling your throat click in the silence. “That’s not a good reason.”

“It is for me.” The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. He scoots you closer, cradling your head against his chest, and pulling your leg up to rest across his hips, rubbing soothing circles against your outer thigh.

Your chest tightens, heart drumming against your ribs. “Will you please stay tonight?”

He laces his fingers through yours, grip firm as iron. His eyes never leave yours, pupils dilated in the darkness. “As long as you want, Baby.”

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.

Robby didn’t calm down. "Jack, come on. Amy? Seriously? After what she did to you?"

If there was anyone on earth who couldn’t stand Amy, it was Robby. Even when Jack and Amy were still together, Robby had never liked her. And when she broke up with Jack, when she walked away right when he needed someone the most, Robby’s dislike hardened into something closer to hatred.

Jack could still remember the look on Robby’s face the first time he saw him right after the injury—back when Jack returned to Boston, still trying to figure out how to exist in a body that didn’t feel like his. Robby had flown out on one of his only free weekends. Robby had known Jack before the deployment, before the blast, before the prosthetic. They’d met years earlier, when Jack was in his last year of medical school, and Robby was already an R3: older, more experienced, the kind of resident everyone respected and feared in equal measure. Jack had been assigned to a rotation with Robby, and somehow, between the long nights, the impossible cases, and the shared dark humor that only medicine could produce, they’d become friends. Best friends. The kind who stuck even though they didn’t live in the same city after Jack moved to Boston for his residency.

"Why are you shocked your girl is pissed off at you?" Robby snapped. "I could fucking kill you right now."

"W-what?" Jack stuttered.

"You heard me," Robby said, not letting up. "You have this gorgeous wife who is genuinely the nicest person I’ve ever fucking met, hilarious, grounded, and she gave you these awesome kids. Even if you randomly bumped into Amy, I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’d even entertain it."

"I wasn’t fucking entertaining anything," Jack growled. If it wasn’t obvious… Robby adored you. The first time you met, the two of you clicked instantly and became fast friends. Robby barreled on. "And let me remind you…she moved to Pittsburgh for you. For your job. You got that attending position at PTMC because I pitched you, and she uprooted her life. She had to find a new clinic, new coworkers, new patients, and new friends. She had to adjust everything. For you."

It had only been a few months since the move. Everything still felt new with the new house, new routines, new city. And through all of it, you’d been nothing but supportive. You never complained, not once. You kept telling him it was the right move, that it was good for your family, that you were excited about this career opportunity for him. But Jack knew, deep down, that moving farther from your own immediate family had been harder than you let on.

He knew all of that. He’d been thinking about it nonstop since you agreed to move. How lucky he was to have such a supportive partner like you. But the way Robby was talking…like Jack had done something malicious on purpose made something in him snap.

"Brother. You’re acting like I went looking for Amy. You know me better than that. You’re acting like I planned this. It was just as surprising for me to bump into her as it would’ve been for anyone else!"

"I’m not saying you planned it!"

"Then stop acting like I fucking did!"

"I’m not," Robby insisted. "But, I’m your best friend, and I’m just telling you how it looks. That’s it."

Jack blew out a breath, staring at his reflection (his bowtie still crooked), expression worse. "It wasn’t a big deal," he tried, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"How would you feel if your wife had lunch with her ex?"

He would hate it. He didn’t even have to think about it. He hated your fucking ex.

His mind drifted back to the night you finally shared the full story with him. It was a few months into your relationship when things began to feel real, and you sat him down to explain everything. Jack had known the high-level basics…that your previous relationship had ended because your ex had been a jerk…but he hadn’t realized just how bad it truly was.

You had told him how you’d met this man towards the end of DPT school, how he’d seemed charming and normal. You’d bumped into him at a coffee shop, exchanged numbers, and soon started dating. Six months in, you were all in, thinking he was the kind of person you could see building a future with.

And then, out of nowhere, his wife showed up. You had no idea the asshole he was married.

She didn’t yell or cause a scene; instead, she quietly cornered you, calm and composed, with a kind of certainty that made your stomach drop before she even spoke. In that moment, it became clear that she already knew about you. Somehow, she had figured it all out, following the clues and coming straight to you with the truth he never had the decency to give. Jack remembered the way your voice shook when you told him, and how you tried to laugh it off like it was ancient history, even though he could still see the hurt lurking beneath your words. Since then, you’d only engaged in casual relationships…nothing really serious, and nothing that required trust. Jack was the first person you’d allowed yourself to open up to again.

He also knew how he’d feel if you ever had lunch with that fucking piece of shit. The thought alone made his face color at the possibilities, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that some unspoken jealousy was already taking hold. Fuck, why had he been so slow to put himself in your shoes?

Robby’s voice cut back in. "Yeah," he said, hearing Jack’s silence. "That’s what I thought."

"I really messed up, huh?"

"Yeah, man. You did. But it’s not unfixable."

"Fuck."

"I know you didn’t mean to fuck up. But intent doesn’t erase impact. And you’re at a wedding, for fucks’s sake. It’s literally the easiest place on earth to do something romantic and make up. Make it count." Jack nodded, even though Robby couldn’t see it. "And you still haven’t answered the question."

"What question?"

"Why you went to lunch with Amy?" Robby asked. "You told me it wasn’t planned. Fine. But you haven’t told me why you said yes."

Jack’s stared at his reflection for a brief moment, and then he finally answered.

Robby was silent for a moment, taking in what Jack had finally told him. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all of its edge. "Okay," he said slowly. "Yeah. That… actually makes sense. That’s a completely legitimate and valid reason. I guess I won’t kill you."

Jack let out a long breath, relief and dread mixing in equal measure. He glanced down at his watch. Shit. He was supposed to be downstairs five minutes ago. As if on cue, he heard his brother calling his name from the hallway outside the locker room.

"I gotta go," he said into the phone, already straightening his jacket.

"Yeah, yeah," Robby said. "Tell Tom congrats again for me."

"I will," Jack said, hand already on the door.

"And Jack?" Robby added.

“Yeah?”

"Make sure you tell your wife the truth."

Jack’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing under the table. It wasn’t subtle either…his knee was going like a jackhammer, the kind of nervous tic he only got when he was seconds away from doing something he absolutely hated. You tried not to stare at him, but the movement was impossible to ignore. So, you glanced down at your phone instead, letting the screen give you something else to focus on.

A new photo from your sister lit up the display. She was in Spain…clearly drunk, clearly 22 (oh to be fucking young again), and clearly having the time of her life. She had a plastic cup of sangria, a hostel bunk bed behind her, and that wild, carefree smile she’d perfected the moment she graduated college. She and her friends were backpacking across Europe all summer before she came back in the fall to start medical school at Duke, and no longer have a life. When she’d told everyone last year, she was taking the MCATs, Jack had been the loudest supporter. Your father and stepmother weren’t exactly thrilled about her moving so far away from New York, but they couldn’t have been more proud of what she’d achieved.

You snapped your phone shut and looked back up, noticing that Jack’s knee was still bouncing with nervous energy. The maid of honor was wrapping up her speech at the front of the reception hall, her voice warm and emotional as she thanked Elena for twenty years of friendship. But Jack probably wasn’t hearing any of it. He kept glancing at the folded notecard in front of him like it might bite him. His fingers tapped against it, then stopped, then tapped again. He had a faint scowl on his face.

You knew that look.

Jack hated public speaking. Always had. It didn’t matter that he’d been through deployments, surgeries, his own fucking trauma, or that he could handle a crisis without any panic. Put him in front of a microphone with a hundred people staring at him, and he unraveled. And right now, he was unraveling, because he was about to go next. You watched his leg shake harder as the maid of honor lifted her glass for the final toast. He swallowed, straightened his bowtie (still crooked), and his eyes flickered back and forth between yours, before he looked abruptly away.

Seeing him so bent out of shape, and so anxious he couldn’t sit still, pulled at something in you that you couldn’t shut off. Because no matter how angry you were, you loved him. And you hated seeing him suffer, even in the smallest of ways. You gently rested your hand on his knee, and leaned in just enough that your voice reached him over the applause starting to rise around the room. His leg stopped bouncing instantly.

"You’re going to crush it," you said softly, caressing his face. He leaned into your touch, allowing himself to soak in your reassurance, but Jack’s head also snapped toward you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. His eyes widened because the two of you had barely spoken since the ceremony and family pictures. You’d only really seen each other for the first time today when he walked down the aisle with the maid of honor, and even then, it was a fleeting moment. You’d been too focused on snapping pictures on your cell of your daughter tossing petals with chaotic enthusiasm, and your son, marching down the aisle as the ring bearer in his tiny bowtie, taking his job way too seriously. Jack had caught your eye then, just for a second, and you’d smiled at the kids. Not at him. Even though he looked insanely hot in that fucking suit. You were still so physically affected by him after all these years.

Damn him.

"You’ve done harder things than this," you said, as if reading his thoughts. "Just look at Tom and Elena. You’re just talking to them."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, you’re right," he replied, the hint of a smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you." his gaze was serious, and it stirred a warmth in you that spread from your fingertips to your heart.

"Just doing my job," you teased lightly, withdrawing your hand but not before giving his knee another reassuring squeeze. The DJ tapped the mic, announcing it was time for the best man’s speech.

With that, you pulled back, allowing him a moment to collect himself. Jack stood when his name was called, smoothing his jacket with a shaky exhale. You watched him walk toward the mic, and he tapped the mic once, winced at the feedback, then cleared his throat.

"Alright," he began, "I’m Jack Abbot. For those who don’t know me. I’m Tom’s older brother. I’ve had a front‑row seat to his entire life, and I can honestly say this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him." A soft wave of 'awwws' rippled through the room, people smiling at Tom and Elena. "Which is great, because I was running out of excuses for why he was still single before he met Elena."

The room laughed, and you felt some of the tension in his shoulders melt. He found his footing quickly, slipping into that perfect balance of teasing and heartfelt. You didn’t hear every word since your attention drifted between watching him and watching the crowd react, but you caught flashes:

"…Tom texts like our dad. Random capital letters, no punctuation, and he signs his name at the end. We know it’s you, man."

"…I’ve seen this guy cry exactly three times in my entire life: when he realized his favorite pizza place was closing down, when the Patriots lost the Super Bowl in 2012 to the New York Giants, and today when Elena said 'I do'."

"…Elena, on behalf of our entire family, thank you. You’ve done what decades of parenting, coaching, and bribery could not."

People were wiping tears from their eyes—some from laughing, some from the sweetness. Jack was killing it. Better than any of the practice runs you’d heard over the last few weeks. He was loose, charming, and confident. And then he reached the end of his speech. You recognized the setup because this was where he was supposed to say the line he’d practiced with you a dozen times. The one about 'marriage being a partnership' or whatever.

Instead, he paused, looked down at his notecard, and then set it aside.

"I guess this is the part of the speech where I’m supposed to impart wisdom or something about marriage," he said, earning another ripple of laughter. Then his voice softened, and he said something you didn’t recognize at all…something new, something he hadn’t rehearsed with you. As he looked at Tom and Elena, his eyes briefly flicked over to you, and you felt it deep in your chest.

"Marriage isn’t about being perfect," Jack said. "It’s about choosing each other. It’s about knowing when to put your ego down. When to admit you screwed up. When to say you’re sorry, and actually mean it." A few people murmured in agreement, nodding. "Sometimes you realize you didn’t handle a moment as well as you could’ve. Little choices you wish you’d thought through better. My advice is to notice that, learn from it, and show up better next time." Jack swallowed, eyes flicking to you again. "It’s about choosing your relationship over being right. Choosing the person you love over your own pride."

He let the words settle just long enough for you to feel their weight, then drew in a quiet breath and turned back toward Tom and Elena. Jack lifted his glass, "To Tom and Elena…may you keep choosing each other, even on the days it takes a little extra effort. Congratulations, you two."

The room erupted in cheers and clinking glasses.

But Jack’s eyes found yours one last time, soft and unmistakably apologetic, before he finally took a sip.

Your mother-in-law was surprisingly kind of hammered, but not sloppy or messy. She was just delightfully, unapologetically happy, practically making out with your father-in-law on the dance floor. It was honestly quite sweet to see two people their age still very much into each other, even though you could see Jack and Tom gagging at the sight. Eventually, your father-in-law gently pulled himself away and announced that it was time to head home with her and your kids.

With a laugh, he said, "We’re too old to make it to the afterparty. You two have fun," as he half-carried his wife toward the exit. You and Jack followed them outside, the cool night air a welcome relief after the heat of the reception. The kids were draped over their grandparents like sleepy little koalas, barely conscious as you helped guide them into the backseat. Your son mumbled something incoherent before immediately falling asleep against your father-in-law’s shoulder. You tucked a blanket around them, smoothing hair back from their foreheads and giving each of them a quick goodnight kiss. Jack leaned in too, softly murmuring something to the twins in his warm, gentle voice. The car door closed with a quiet thud, and your father-in-law gave you both a tired but happy wave before pulling away into the night.

You headed back toward the venue first, the music growing louder with each step. It was unintentional, but as you moved inside, you brushed past Jack without meaning to. It was just the natural momentum of going inside, of continuing with the night. To him, however, it felt like a door quietly closing in his face. He followed a few steps behind, watching you slip through the entrance without once looking back. Jack stopped just inside the doorway, the anxious flutter in his gut turning to a cold lump of lead as he watched you weave into the crowd. You weren’t being cold. But you were… distant. Warm one moment, gone the next. Reaching for him, then pulling away. Laughing with him, then shutting down.

He could handle you being angry that first night. Last night had been even worse, with the tension and the way every word felt like stepping on glass. But tonight? Tonight, he refused to be stuck in the same fight.

When he saw you during the ceremony, he couldn't help but stare. You looked stunning, the kind of beauty that made time stand still. You were wearing a soft baby‑blue dress, the slit running high enough to make your legs look impossibly long. The silk hugged your figure with effortless elegance, and the moment Jack’s eyes fell on you, his heart skipped a beat, making it incredibly difficult to focus on anything but you. Then he noticed the other thing…your left hand, fucking bare. It wasn’t entirely unusual; both of you had jobs that made wearing your rings impractical or sometimes even unsafe. You’d taken them off countless times for work, but outside of those moments, you both always wore them. It was a quiet, shared habit that didn’t need to be spoken about, something you both just knew and did.

So when he saw your hand without the ring, he felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. He tried not to panic, tried not to overthink it. He told himself it didn’t mean anything…maybe you forgot it, or took it off while getting ready, or perhaps it was sitting on the nightstand.

But the truth was, it frustrated him. Not because of the ring itself, but because you two were usually so good at communicating. You didn’t leave each other guessing or do silent signals or unspoken messages—that wasn’t how you operated.

And now, with everything already tense between you, the missing ring felt like one more thing he didn’t understand, one more thing he wasn’t sure how to talk about without making it worse. He tried to focus on the ceremony, on Tom, on the vows, on anything else. But his eyes had kept drifting back to your hand.

Jack finally made his way back into the venue, still feeling the tight knot in his chest from earlier. Almost immediately, his eyes found you, standing near the bar and engaged in conversation with one of Tom’s groomsmen. The man was clearly a little too drunk and a little too obvious in the way he was looking at you. You weren’t doing anything wrong. There was no flirting, no encouragement, no awareness on your part. You never noticed these things, and Jack had long since accepted that people couldn’t help but look at you that way. You were fucking beautiful, plain and simple, and Jack was proud of you and proud to be with you. He was always grateful that, out of everyone who noticed you, you’d chosen him.

But right now, that usual confidence, that calm he usually carried, was gone. Instead, something sharp and irrational twisted in his stomach. He watched the groomsman lean in a little too close, saw your polite smile at whatever he said, and then caught the way the man’s eyes drifted where they shouldn’t have.

And all Jack could see was your hand.

Your bare fucking hand.

He didn’t think; he just moved. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, the nervous energy within him manifesting into irritation.

"We need to talk," he said, once he reached you. His eyes were focused on only you, not wanting to acknowledge the fucking pest that was next to you.

You barely had a chance to respond before he reached out and took your hand firmly and gently guided you away from the groomsman, away from the bar, away from the noise. His steps were quick, his breathing a little strained, and the frustration seemed to radiate off him in waves.

"Jack, what are you doing?" you hissed, and Jack continued to pull you behind him, not trusting himself to say anything. You tried half-heartedly to pull your hand free, but he didn’t release it. He pushed open the door to one of the empty banquet halls and quietly ushered you inside.  Inside, he spun around, causing you to stumble against the wall that he had trapped you against, his hand still lingering on your waist for a moment before settling there.

"What the fuck is this?" Jack demanded, voice low and shaking with anger he was trying to control. His hand moved from your waist to your cheek, lightly brushing your jawline as he looked into your eyes, searching for answers.

It took you a second to understand what he meant.

Then he pointed. At your left hand.

"I know you’re pissed at me," he said, hating that his voice sounded whiny, but the words came out of his mouth that way. "But are you trying to tell me something? Because if you are, I need you to say it. Not… this."

Your stomach suddenly dropped, a hollow feeling sinking in when you looked down at your bare finger. Today had been insane. Tom and the groomsmen, Jack included, had that ridiculous 7 a.m. tee time because Tom was a golf addict and insisted it was 'tradition.' Which meant Jack was gone before the kids were even awake. And after that? You didn’t see him again. The guys went straight from the golf course to the venue to get ready together, which meant you were on your own to handle the entire morning and early afternoon solo. Getting the kids dressed, fixing their hair, wiping faces, hunting for shoes that magically disappeared every five minutes.

And as if that wasn’t enough, your mom called. She found out that her boyfriend (a completely normal, shockingly stable man you actually adored) of five years was planning to propose. She discovered the ring in their shared bedroom, tucked inside his underwear drawer. And she was doing her usual spiral, convinced she didn’t deserve something good. So… you’d spent twenty minutes giving her a pep talk, telling her she did deserve a relationship with a good man, that she wasn’t doomed to assholes forever, and that she needed to stop running from happiness. Then, just when you finally had everyone ready and out the door, your original dress ripped straight down the side as you bent to buckle your daughter’s sandal. You’d scrambled to find something else to wear, changed in record time, grabbed your clutch, called a taxi because you were already late, and bolted out the door.

And in the middle of all that, in the back of the cab, digging through your clutch for lip stick, you’d looked down and realized your ring wasn’t on your finger. You felt naked without it, exposed, like something essential was missing, and even cursed under your breath, annoyed at yourself for forgetting it in the rush to get out the door. The twins called you out by screaming, "Swear jar!"

But you hadn’t realized Jack had noticed. And now, he was standing there, hurt, furious, and scared all at once. You hadn’t realized it mattered this much to him. In fairness, you would probably be feeling some type of way if he wasn’t wearing his.

"Jack," you whispered, staring at your empty finger, "I… just forgot it. It was just a crazy day."

His eyes narrowed, and his hand moved from your cheek to softly rub your arm, as if trying to soothe both of you. "You sure?"

"Jack," you said, your voice tight with hurt, "Babe… I would never take it off just because I’m mad at you. That’s cruel." You reached out, your fingers brushing gently against his wrist, grounding yourself in his touch.

His expression flickered, but you kept going, the sting of his accusation pushing the words out of you.

"I forgot it. That’s all. I’m not trying to send you some hidden message. I would never do that to you."

"I don’t like it when we fight," he murmured, rubbing his thumb along your forearm.

"I don’t either," you whispered back.

Jack exhaled, shoulders dropping as if he’d been holding himself rigid for hours.

"I’m sorry," he said, and this time he said it sincerely. "I shouldn’t have had lunch with Amy. I'm a fucking moron. I don’t really know why I’ve been so defensive about it. It’s probably because it really did mean nothing to me. Like… nothing. And the fact that it blew up into this thing between us? I think I pushed back so hard because I don’t want you to think it mattered. Or that she matters."

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words and the gentle pressure of his hand still on your arm. "I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have implied it was something more than lunch. I know it was a coincidence. But…" You hesitated, then reached out to gently brush your fingertips along his jawline, feeling the faint stubble. "I’m not going to apologize for how I feel—just for how it came out. I didn’t handle it well."

His eyes softened, and his hand moved from your arm to clasp your hand, linking your fingers together.  "Baby, of course," he said quietly, almost like he couldn’t believe you thought he didn’t get it. “I would be livid if you told me you bumped into Xavier and ate lunch with him.”

The name alone made your eyebrows lift. You hadn’t thought of him in years. The last you heard, he’d managed to get some college-aged girl pregnant… all while married to his second wife, who had taken him for nearly every cent he had. And rightly so. Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, and his other hand reached up to brush some hair away from your face, his fingers lingering briefly in the gentle caress.

"I know I haven’t really answered your question about why I said yes to lunch with Amy." The shift in his tone, the way he said it… it made your stomach drop with a nervous kind of anticipation, like he was about to open a door you didn’t even realize was there.

"A couple of years before I deployed, I picked up rock climbing at this local gym," he said, lifting your chin. "When I bumped into Amy, she mentioned that she heard from a friend that the climbing gym owner had recently passed away," Jack cocked his head to the side with a small, sad laugh. "He used to say climbing was 'good medicine' for people who lived too much in their heads. And he wasn’t wrong. I guess… it was nice remembering that there was a phase in my life when rock climbing was my thing. It was this hobby that kept me sane. When I could just go, clear my head, and feel strong in my body. The owner was such a nice guy…I’d show up after these brutal shifts, half-dead on my feet, and he’d stay late just so I could get a few routes in."

A small ache bloomed in your chest. It was mix of sadness for him and a sharp, unwelcome thought that maybe he missed doing it with her.

"Did you and Amy… stick to just climbing? Or did you guys ever boulder together?" you asked, because you had never climbed a day in your life. You were so uncoordinated you’d probably fall off the mat before touching a hold.

Jack scoffed.

"No," he said firmly. "She never came with me. Not once. Like I said, climbing was my thing. Something I did alone or with my buddies."

"Oh," you mumbled, biting your bottom lip.

"Hearing the owner was gone… it hit me harder than I expected. One minute I was making small talk, the next I was standing there feeling 26 again, chalk on my hands, sweat on my back, like I could take on anything." Jack couldn’t help but feel the weight of your fight still tugging at him. "It’s possible to do it as a below‑the‑knee amputee. People do. But it’s… so much harder. Everything takes twice the strength, twice the balance, twice the planning. And I’ve looked into it again recently—the adaptive gear, the training, all of it… but it’s complicated." His gaze travelled over your face, seeming to drink in the sight of you as if you were going to disappear. "I would love to be able to do that with you. Or with the kids. And I can’t… " he swallowed, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were raw in a way that made your chest ache. "I guess I miss climbing… a lot. A lot more than I realized."

You suddenly felt like the biggest bitch in the world. At the end of the day, you could empathize with Jack’s situation, but you would never truly understand what it felt like to live in his body, to carry his history.

"I’m sorry," you gasped on a sob, instantly planting your face against his chest, your fingers digging into his back in an attempt to bring him to you. "I’m so fucking sorry."

"Don’t be," he hummed and raised your face to nuzzle against your cheek. "I tend to block out everything from before the explosion," he admitted, cupping your face in his palm. "Because I don’t want to get sad. I don’t want to feel like I’m missing something. But I’m realizing… it’s okay to remember the cool stuff I did before, even if I can’t do it now." He paused then, imploring you with his eyes to trust him, to believe him, and to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," you told him, raining kisses over his scruffy jaw. "Let’s get you climbing again," you said, conviction threading through your voice. "There are adaptive routes, and ways to shift your weight so your prosthetic isn’t doing all the work, and I’ve seen people adjust their balance to make climbing easier, and—"

You were already slipping into full physical therapist mode, your brain firing off possibilities, training adaptations, a dozen ways to make it work. You could feel yourself ramping up, talking faster, hands gesturing as you started listing facts, strategies, and research—

And Jack just smiled, that smile that melted hearts and had certainly always melted yours, before leaning in and cutting you off with a kiss that was so impossibly sweet. Even after all this time together, you felt your head spinning in a way that made you feel light and breathless and delightfully dizzy. You loved kissing Jack.

"Also, when I went to lunch, I was just taking some hot girl's advice," he murmured against your mouth before he pulled away to press his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

"What?" you asked, trying to blink the confusion out of your eyes.

"This really sexy PT once told me that the best revenge I could ever have was to get to the finish line. She told me the best thing I could do was live the life I worked my ass off for."

"Oh, really?" A surprised laugh bubbled out of you, soft and breathless. "You know, I do remember telling some guy that."

"Maybe it’s immature," he admitted, eyes warm as they traced your face, "but it felt really fucking good having her see that I made it to the finish line." He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "And then it felt even better when I got to tell her I was married to this incredibly perfect woman who gave me the most wonderful family."

Your eyes stung, and you let out a shaky little laugh as tears gathered. You reached for him without thinking, fingers curling into the lapels of his suit jacket and giving a small, helpless tug.

"Is it weird," you whispered, smiling like a lovesick fool, "that I’m… kind of severely turned on that you’re secretly petty?"

Jack’s answering grin was slow and smug. His hands gripped your wrists tightly, flinging your arms above your head with an echoing bang against the wall, and a desperate sound came from his throat as his lips assaulted yours. He kissed you deeply, sliding his tongue into your mouth right away, and you responded by licking at his with your own.

He had missed you. Then it hit him like a wave: When was the last time you two had sex?

Work had been busy…relentless, really. Your schedule with your clients was packed, and every day seemed to spill into the next. Jack wasn’t faring much better; he’d been pulling doubles more often than either of you liked, coming home exhausted and leaving before the sun was fully up again.

And the kids’ activities weren’t slowing down either. They were little whirlwinds who needed rides and snacks and reminders and attention every second they were awake. Between school events, practices, playdates, the two of you were always moving… just never in the same direction at the same time.

He couldn’t even remember the last time the two of you had been on an actual date with just the two of you, no kids, no rushing, and no collapsing into bed already half-asleep.

A pang of longing surged through him, sharper than he expected. It was the way your tits looked in that dress that consumed his thoughts. The way the fabric hugged your ass made it difficult for him to think straight. His breath mingled with yours as he looked down at you, his gaze flickering to your lips. "You look breathtaking tonight, you know that?"

"Me? You look incredible. I still can’t believe I get to go home with you. You look like James Bond."

"I’ve missed you," he confessed, stepping closer and the space between you shrinking to nothing. "I miss your pussy, baby. God, it's been so long." The truth spilled out before he could censor himself.

Your cheeks warmed at his words. You could feel his desire radiating off him, and it stirred something within you as well. It had been almost 3 weeks. The longest you two had gone without having sex in your entire relationship. Before kids, you two basically had sex every day. After kids, you two had still been pretty religious about doing it at least 2 or 3 times a week. But life had just gotten so fucking insane recently.

"I miss you too," you started, but there was a part of your brain where warning bells were going off in the background. You knew you needed to stop, but it felt too damn good to be surrounded by him again. With urgency laced in your voice, you reminded him where you both were. That an entire wedding reception was just outside the door he had just locked. And he just kept telling you. "I don’t care."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips. "I’ve been neglecting my pretty wife," he murmured, his mouth dropping to your shoulder and his teeth sinking into your skin. "Is that why you’ve been so pissed off?"

"Maybe," you admitted, wetness seeping into your panties. "I've missed us having alone time together." Maybe you hadn’t really been that mad about his lunch with Amy (no, you had definitely been pissed off), but maybe you just also missed your husband's cock. The locked door behind you felt like a flimsy barrier against the muffled sounds of laughter and music from the wedding reception.

"It's my job to take care of you. I haven't been taking good care of you, baby."

It wasn’t fair for him to blame himself. You worked more predictable hours, and your weekends were mostly free. His world was nothing like that. He was an ER attending; his schedule lived and died by whatever emergencies came crashing through those doors. Some days, he’d be packing up to leave, ready to come home to you and the kids, and then a trauma would roll in and pull him right back.

You knew he wasn’t neglecting you on purpose. He was saving people.

"I guess, I am feeling…a little needy," you whispered, your voice breathy with longing.

"Go on, baby. Tell me how bad you’ve been wanting it," he groaned, bringing one of his hands down against the slit of your dress, and you watched as Jack's fingers went underneath the slit to trace the edge of your panties, sending sparks straight to your core. His face twisted into a smug, heated smirk, eyes half-lidded as he watched your reaction—your mouth parting in a silent gasp.

"I feel empty," you confessed, voice breaking with raw honesty, and your face crumpling in vulnerability. You definitely had been masturbating way more often than usual. "It’s been torture. I’ve been aching for you every day," your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, brows furrowing in a desperate plea. You wanted to feel embarrassed, but you were just telling him the truth.

The scent of your arousal mixed with the floral lotion you used on your legs was a heady combination for him.

"Let me make it better, baby," he answered simply, leaning down to kiss you. His lips were hot and needy, pressed against yours, tongue slipping in to claim your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You knew that your husband would apologize with his body. You could forgive with yours, too.

You broke away first, eyes filled with lust. "Fuck me, now."

"So goddamn impatient," Jack's grin turned wicked.  

He spun you around without warning, his broad body crowding you from behind as he pinned your palms against the wall, hard cock grinding against your ass through his pants. He didn’t bother dragging your panties down, he just nudged them to the side. He shoved your dress up over your hips, exposing your cunt to the air, the fabric bunching roughly, and you bit your lip, stifling a whimper.

His fingers delved between your thighs, sliding through your drenched pussy. "Fuck baby. Hardly even touched you, and you’re dripping for me." A moan escaped you when he finally dipped two fingers from behind, and your back instantly arched. The stretch was teasing, but not enough. You pushed back against his hand, completely needy, your face contorting with frustration and want, brows knitting together.

He chuckled low, withdrawing and leaving you feeling like you could die from not feeling his touch. "Good girls say please."

"Please," you begged, voice cracking. "Please, please, I need you."

So polite, he thought. It was such a sweet sound coming from your mouth. You heard him undo his zipper, the sound echoing in the tight space. Then you felt it, Jack’s cock, thick and hard, slapping against your ass before he lined up and guided himself into your tight hole.

"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick with desire, waiting in anticipation.

"Who’s gonna make you feel good?" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, with a possessive bite, and his face pressed close.

"You," you gasped, your pulse pounding in your ears, turning your head slightly to meet his intense gaze.

"Yeah?" he pressed, his expression fierce, lips curling into a satisfied snarl. "Who’s gonna make you come?"

"You," you repeated, voice trembling with need.

Then with one forceful thrust, he buried himself deep. You slumped into the wall as he split you in two, a sharp cry tearing from your throat at the sudden fullness.

"Fuck," he whined, high-pitched and needy, hips snapping forward again. "Look at you. So beautiful, and all mine."

"Jack," you cried out, already overstimulated by his thick head dragging against your walls before plunging back in, filling the ache that had been building over almost 3 weeks. Your expression twisted into overwhelming pleasure, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you gripped the wall. He was so fucking big, it still sometimes surprised you. He set a brutal pace, pounding into you against the wall, licking his lips at how delectable your ass looked. He smacked it hard, the sting blooming into heat, and you let out a high-pitched yelp, fucking yourself back against his cock.

"A-again," you requested, and he couldn’t help but notice that so much of your wetness was soaking the hairs at the base of his cock.

"Feel that?" he slurred with another harsh slap on your ass, the sound echoing in the room. "You feel how fucking wet she is for me?" The sharp pain mixed with pleasure had you screaming his name, and Jack responded with an onslaught of forceful thrusts. Jack was past caring, sweat beading on his forehead, caught up in his own high. He didn’t give a shit if people heard. He was fucking his wife, and goddammit, it felt good. His dominance took over, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back slightly, the other spanking your ass a third time in rhythm with his hips. "This what you needed? Needed to get fucked?"

"Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, yes, that feels so good—"

"You drive me crazy. Fuck—I love you," he growled, voice rough, eyes locked on where you both were joined. "I love you so fucking much."

"I love you too," you whined and tilted your head to the side, searching for lips. He captured your perfect mouth into a desperate kiss, and your fingers found their way into his hair when you reached back with your hand, tugging gently, and he moaned softly as the kiss deepened. He pulled away to dip his forehead into your shoulder blade, his breath ragged and hot against your skin. His eyes screwed shut as he leaned forward, resting his head on your shoulder, his thrusts turning erratic.

Jack had currently gone nonverbal, devoting all his body and mind to worshipping your body. He was operating on pure instinct and muscle memory, completely possessed by the need to drag you over the edge with him. And, after 10 years together, Jack knew every part of your body like the back of his hand. He knew exactly what you needed and what you wanted. So, he adjusted his stance, tilted his hips, changing the trajectory of his strokes to hit deeper, rubbing that specific spot inside you that he knew so well. When Jack hit it, he heard you gasp, and then he locked on it, stroking it with relentless, focused pressure.

"There?" he rasped, the sound barely more than a vibration against your shoulder. It wasn’t really a question; he knew the answer by the way your body seized.

"Jack, I'm—fuck!" Your orgasm crashed over you, pussy clamping down around him, your face scrunching in ecstasy, mouth wide, and eyes rolling back as a strangled scream built in your chest.

That set him off. His voice croaked out some garbled gibberish as he emptied himself in you, and hot spurts of his spend flooded your perfect cunt. He stilled, buried to the hilt, both of you panting against the wall with his face still buried in your shoulder. You were both a mess, and his chest was sweaty and heaving underneath his dress shirt. After a moment, he pulled out slowly, his spend trickling down your thigh with a sticky warmth. He quickly walked to one of the tables, grabbed a linen napkin, and came back to clean you up while you sighed. He spun you around gently, kissing your forehead, his expression softening into tender affection "You okay?" he murmured. "I wasn’t too rough?"

"You were perfect," you smiled, legs still trembling, your face glowing with aftershocks. He started straightening your dress back into place with shaky hands. You took a slow breath, then crossed the room toward a mirror you saw. Your reflection looked a little wild, hair slightly mussed from the fuck you’d just shared. With quick, practiced motions, you coaxed it back into something presentable.

As you worked, Jack stepped up behind you and lowered his chin to your shoulder. His breath brushed your skin as he watched you in the mirror, his expression equal parts awe and affection. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

"You’re always trying to get into my pants at weddings," you teased, even though your heart was beating unevenly. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. You hoped it wouldn’t be the last. He had fucked you at your cousin's wedding a few years ago in the bathroom.

"I don’t have to try very hard," he answered simply, kissing your shoulder.

You giggled, as you fixed the last strand of hair. Then he slid his hands down your arms and gently turned you around to face him. Your hands instinctively looped behind his neck, fingers brushing the soft, silvery hair at his nape.

"That was hot," he said, smirk plastered across his insanely handsome face.

"I agree," you laughed softly, leaning into him.

“I know we’re busy with two kids. And it’s not like we have jobs that make it easier. But we need more alone time. We need a real date every week. No excuses."

You nodded immediately. "You’re right. I’ve been feeling it too. I miss getting dressed up and going out with you."

"And, we haven’t had a vacation…just you and me in a long while."

That was true too. And you missed that part of your life with him…the part where you weren’t just parents, but also husband and wife.

"What if I told you," he began slowly, "that I asked your mom and her boyfriend to come to Pittsburgh to stay with the kids… because I booked us a trip to Prague the last week of August."

Your eyes widened. "Shut up. No you didn’t. What about—"

"And before you start worrying about work," he added, "I already talked to your boss like a month ago. That week is cleared. You’re officially off."

Your heart swelled, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the magnitude of his gesture washed over you. A single tear slipped down your cheek as the sweetness of it all overwhelmed you. "You’re incredible," you breathed, barely able to hold back a sob. "I can’t believe you did all of this."

Jack smiled, his heart visibly swelling at your reaction. "I’d do anything for you," he said softly, brushing the tear from your cheek with his thumb. He knew how long you’d dreamed of seeing Prague, you’d always been fascinated by architecture, and Prague had been at the top of your travel list for years because of that reason.

"Okay," you said finally, a smile breaking through your surprise. "Let’s do it," you whispered, a giggle escaping your lips

"Yeah?" Jack’s eyes sparkled with joy, and you couldn’t help but mirror his smile.

"Yes! Let’s fucking go to Prague," you threw your arms around him, laughter intertwining as he lifted you off the ground momentarily while you buried your face in his neck and planted it with kisses.

As he set you back down, Jack’s pulse was racing, and he couldn’t contain his happiness. "I love you."

"I love you, too, handsome. And…as much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, we should probably head back before Tom and Elena notice."

Jack chuckled as he leaned in, brushing his lips against your ear. "I guess we should get back to reality," he then grinned down at you before pulling you for a searing kiss.

You both eye fucked each other the rest of the night.

2026 – Pittsburgh

It was one of those mornings where you and Jack woke up naked and immediately started making out like teenagers. Last night, you could tell Jack had a long shift the moment he walked through the door. He tried to be animated with the twins at dinner, but you could tell he was tired. When he finally stepped into the shower to unwind, you followed him in.

You guided him to sit on the bench, and you worked shampoo through his hair with slow motions, the kind that always grounded him even if he’d never admit it out loud. Even after all this time, he was still terrible at letting anyone take care of him. Especially you. He closed his eyes, letting the water run over him while you rinsed the suds away. Then you took your loofah and gently ran it over his arms and back, and then the rest of his body, making sure to pay extra attention to his residual limb. He didn’t say much, just let out a quiet sigh, the kind that told you he was finally relaxing.

After your shower, you both didn’t bother to get dressed once you climbed into bed. He let you rest your head on his chest, let your hand settle over his heartbeat, let the silence wrap around both of you.

You murmured goodnight, and he pressed a slow kiss to your hairline.

"I love you," he said, voice low and tired.

"I love you more," you whispered, and the two of you drifted toward sleep.

Right now, it was all slow kisses and sleepy smiles and wandering hands. Time didn’t seem to exist… until your gaze drifted toward the clock on the nightstand.

You pushed at his chest, breathless and laughing. "Jack, I need to get ready for work."

He didn’t budge. Not even an inch. If anything, his arms tightened around you like he was made of Velcro.

"Take the day off," he mumbled into your neck, voice gravelly with sleep. He was off today, which made him even more impossible.

"I can’t," you said, trying to peel him off and failing miserably. "I have so many appointments today. And I especially need to see Javier today."

Jack huffed (an actual, dramatic huff) and still didn’t let go.

"Leaving me for another man," he growled, pure theatrics.

"He’s like significantly older than me," you snorted. "He’s older than my Dad."

"He’s still a man with fucking eyes," Jack insisted, tightening his hold like you might escape again.

You rolled your eyes. "He had rotator cuff surgery after taking a direct hit to the shoulder. He’s been so down about it. He finally got his pilot’s license after retiring, and he’s desperate to get back to flying."

"Oh yes. Must be so difficult for him," Jack said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Forced to spend an hour a week with a gorgeous and brilliant PT. Must be torture."

The truth was, Jack did still get insecure once in a while. Your job meant you spent your days helping people through hands‑on work, and he knew you got attention because of it. Hell, he fucking fell for you while he was your patient. You were only getting more beautiful every year. And the craziest part was that you had absolutely no idea. You thought that because you were getting older, you were somehow becoming more invisible. Meanwhile, Jack saw it constantly: the double takes, the too‑long smiles, the way people lit up when you walked into a room.

Therefore… every now and then, that old flicker of possessiveness showed up.

"Be honest with me," he said. "Is he attractive?"

You blinked at him, then let a slow, mischievous smile spread across your face.

"I mean…" you said thoughtfully, "he’s not unattractive."

Javier was 67, and it was obvious he’d never had trouble attracting attention when he was younger. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was still getting laid. He was single, flirtatious, and he had that easy, confident charm some men just never lose—the kind that didn’t fade with age so much as settle in.

Jack dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thud.

"What can I say? A man who owns a plane is hot," you teased, as if you were contemplating it.

Jack’s head snapped back up, and before you could finish laughing, he lunged, fingers finding your ribs so that you crumpled in gasps and giggles.

"Take it back," he demanded, grinning as you writhed.

"Jack—stop—!" you gasped between laughs.

"Never," he declared, still tickling. "Not until you admit you prefer boring, safe, FAA‑approved travel over sexy little private planes."

"Alright, alright!" you gasped between giggles. "I’ll stick to commercial flights and middle seats for the rest of my life!" You finally managed to grab his wrists, breathless and smiling.

"Good girl," he murmured, before leaning down to kiss your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you mumbled against his lips.

He kissed his way down your neck, savoring the delicate curve of your collarbone, and you found yourself sinking deeper into the plush sheets as his lips continued their exploration. His hands were gentle but firm as they glided over your waist, and his kisses grew more insistent as he traveled lower, trailing soft kisses down the slope of your breast, whispering sweet words against your skin that made your heart race.

"J-Jack," you breathed.

You could barely say his name as he hovered over the soft skin of your inner thigh, his kisses trailing dangerously close to the heat pooling between your legs.

He chuckled warmly against your skin, the sound reverberating through you.

"Yes, baby?" As his lips kissed their way to your knee, he paused, trailing soft kisses along the way and looking back up at you with a teasing glint in his eye.

Your laughter mingled with a soft moan as his lips pressed against the tender skin of your thigh once more. His lips finally found their way closer, and he nipped gently at your thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips.

"Jack, please," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper as you looked down at him, your eyes filled with longing. That one word, uttered in desperation. He paused, his gaze locking onto yours.  

"I thought you had to get to work," he teased.

"Don’t be mean," you begged, a desperate plea.

The corners of his mouth lifted into a sly smile as he moved back up your body, tracing soft kisses along your abdomen, taking his time, savoring every inch of you, every sigh you released. You could feel your resolve slipping away, your body arching toward him when he positioned his mouth closer to your wet, soaking pussy.

"Please," you breathed, your hands moving to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. "Jack," you called out again, your voice thick with need.

He finally gave in to your pleas, his tongue dragged slowly against your most sensitive spot, the tip of his nose also making contact. His tongue glided over once, then again, before picking up speed and savoring your slickness. You gasped sharply, your back arching in response while he groaned at your taste, his strong shoulders widening your legs further apart. When his tongue finally exploded you deeply, a cry escaped your lips. One of your hands gripped the sheets, while the other had your fingers tightening in his hair, coaxing him onward, deeper.

"Fuck," he mumbled, the sound vibrating against you.

You lifted your hips and shamelessly started grinding them against his face, and he increased his pace, teasing you with long, languid strokes, then flicking and swirling against your clit. You squeezed your eyes shut and let him hear how good it felt with the loud wail that erupted from your throat. Thank God the kids were grabbing breakfast with Robby this morning before his shift and before they had to go to school.

He was so good at this. Jack was the first man that had ever been able to make you come from his tongue alone. The way he worshipped you was always so intoxicating, and you felt cherished and adored. He always went down on you like this was getting him off just as much as you, just completely lost in your pussy.

You could feel your core tightening, the familiar sensation building deep within you, your fingers tightened in his hair as you urged him closer, your hips instinctively arching to meet his mouth. "Fuck," you breathed, "don’t stop. Just like that." Jack was muttering unintelligible words into your cunt and lapping at you. He relished the way he was able to bring you pleasure, and the sound of your gasps was music to his ears. Jack had always liked eating pussy. Even before you, he liked making his partners feel good. But… there was something about your pussy that drove him wild. He always desperately wanted to eat your pussy until you were sobbing and weak from the pleasure. Jack thought you were the sweetest fucking thing he had ever tasted. Just when you thought you were nearing the edge, he slowed his pace, drawing the pleasure out, making the anticipation almost unbearable.

Then, without warning, he surged forward, his tongue flicking expertly over your clit in a rhythm that drove you wild. He increased his efforts, his tongue working with renewed vigor, switching from long, languid strokes to sinfully quick flicks.

"Oh—my fuck—" you whimpered, clutching the sheets, your manicured nails digging into the fabric, feeling so close to the edge.

Jack detached himself from your pussy, his mouth and chin smeared with your slick, watching your beautiful face as he shoved two fingers inside of you, knuckles deep, with no resistance.

"Come for me right now," he growled, low and dark. Then his mouth returned to your cunt, and with a final flick of his tongue and a gentle suck, you cried out, the sound raw and primal echoing in the room as the pressure finally released, and you were falling, lost in pure ecstasy. Your world shattered into a zillion starbursts of perfection, and you felt him smile against your cunt as he continued to work you through it with his mouth and fingers. He savored the moment…the way your body glistened and the taste that flooded his tongue.

In a haze of bliss, you collapsed back onto the sheets, panting as he finally pulled his fingers out, a satisfied smirk gracing him as he licked at his lips to savor the taste of your slick some more. He kissed his way back up your body, his warm hands cradling your face as he met your gaze.

"Good morning," he smirked, and you could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh.

You nodded breathlessly, a soft smile creeping onto your lips. "Good morning," you murmured, your heart still racing from your orgasm.

"Can’t live without your fucking pussy," he said, before molding his lips to yours in a kiss that tasted of you.

"Jack!" you shrieked at his vulgar words and playfully slapped his chest.

He laughed, grabbing his prosthetic by the bed before standing and stretching. The movement pulled his shoulders back, giving you a perfect view of his toned body—a not-so-subtle reminder of why you often found yourself desperate and horny for him all the time. He hissed as he slipped on some boxers over his hard cock.

"Come on," he said, offering you a hand. "If you’re abandoning me for another man, the least you can do is let me make you breakfast first."

He kissed your mouth softly, and then he felt your hand trail back down towards his painfully hard erection. He grasped your hand in his, stopping your descent.

"No worries, baby. I don’t want us to feel rushed. We’ll have fun later tonight during our date," he whispered against your lips.

"Ugh, fine," you pouted.

You both got dressed before heading downstairs. Since Jack was staying home, he didn’t bother with anything fancy. You pulled on a pair of leggings and zipped up your favorite Nike jacket, which was the one that had basically become your unofficial work uniform ever since you’d traded scrubs for athleisure.

Jack gave you an appreciative once‑over as he tugged his shirt into place.

"Yeah," he said with a teasing sigh, "Javier’s definitely suffering."

You nudged him with your shoulder as you both headed toward the kitchen. But before either of you reached the kitchen, the quiet house suddenly wasn’t quiet anymore. It was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps.

"There it is," your daughter said with relief, grabbing her laptop off the dining room table. "I knew I left it here."

Your son followed behind her, holding the car keys to their shared Honda Civic, yawning dramatically. "Uncle Robby made us pancakes the size of our faces," he announced, dropping onto a barstool. "I’m still full. I might never eat again."

Good thing the twins hadn’t been here 10 minutes ago…

Jack snorted as he cracked eggs into a pan. "That man has no concept of portion control."

Your daughter slung her backpack over her shoulder. "What are you gonna do today, Dad?"

"Well, I was trying to get your mother to play hooky with me," he said, shooting you a pointed look over his shoulder. "But she refused to be corrupted." He slid the eggs around the pan, then added casually, "I’ll probably go rock climbing later."

Your daughter perked up instantly, her whole face lighting. "Really? Which route?"

"Thinking about trying that new one they set last week. The overhang with the red holds."

"No way! Can we go this weekend? Please?"

"Yeah, we can make that happen, honey," Jack nodded.

"Mom shouldn’t come. She’s terrible at rock climbing," your son said, still half‑asleep, and lifted his head just enough to smirk.

"Dude, I know," you sighed. The truth was, you wished you were better at it. Especially after 10 fucking years. But…climbing had never clicked for you the way it did for Jack and the kids. Where they saw puzzles and adrenaline and fun, you mostly saw sore forearms and a very real possibility of falling on your fucking face.

But you were grateful, honestly, that Jack had the twins to share that world with after he had missed it for so long. Watching them climb together always made you feel like you were witnessing something special, something that belonged to them. And you were happy to cheer from the ground.

You’d always been a New Yorker at heart. A city girl through and through. Your hobbies were like every other lifelong New Yorker’s: long walks through crowded streets, weekend museum trips, book stores, soul cycle squeezed between errands, the occasional yoga membership you swore you’d actually use this time… and, of course, a whole lot of dining out. New restaurants, tiny hole‑in‑the‑wall spots, cute coffee shops, rooftop cocktail bars with overpriced drinks. Now that was your comfort zone. Anything that involved good food, good company, and a great martini counted as a hobby in your book. If you were honest, Jack loved it just as much as you did. He loved watching you light up over a new exhibit or a new speakeasy, and even after all this time, your husband still made sure to spoil you. Signing the check always (as if you weren’t married), pulling out your chair, and planning reservations weeks in advance.

But being with Jack over the years also had nudged you into becoming more active (and more outdoorsy) than you ever expected. Things you never imagined yourself doing when you were younger. The kids inherited that side of him completely; they were born ready for adventure.

"Hey," Jack said, pointing the spatula at your son, "don’t be rude to your mother."

"I’m just saying—"

"She crushes all of us at tennis," Jack finished, giving you a proud little nod. "Watch your mouth."

"I’m sorry, Mama," your son said immediately. He only called you Mama when he was trying to get back on your good side. You couldn’t help smiling. You reached over, ruffled his messy hair, and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. He tolerated it with the long‑suffering patience of a teenage boy.

When you turned forty almost 7 years ago, you’d had a full‑blown panic attack. The kind that left you sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at your reflection and reevaluating your entire life. Aging fucking sucked as a woman.

You decided to pick up tennis. At first, you did it quietly, on your own. You’d found a community center near your job that offered adult lessons, and it felt like the perfect low‑pressure way to try something new. You’d sneak out between patients, and spend an hour hitting balls and pretending you weren’t winded after ten minutes. Honestly… You were a little embarrassed. Jack was out there doing his daily three‑mile runs like it was nothing, and you were… very much not that person.

When Jack eventually found out, he’d been offended.

"Why didn’t you ask me to play with you?" he’d asked, genuinely hurt. "You always show up for the things the kids or I love. Why wouldn’t you think I’d want to show up for you too?" he continued, hand on his hip. "You think I wouldn’t pick up a racket for you?"

And he wasn’t wrong. You had hiked, camped, kayaked, skied, climbed which were all things that were very much his and the kids world. You’d done them because you loved your family, and because being with them made even the uncomfortable parts worth it.

Jack started joining you. And somehow, you got surprisingly good at tennis. Extremely good…that you were way better than him (which actually just turned him on a lot). Jack and you sometimes played doubles with Dana and her husband. It became your thing, the one hobby that started with you, grew with him, and settled into something that belonged to both of you.

Jack also really loved you in your little tennis outfits.

You took a seat at the island, glancing at your watch. "Alright, guys," you said, tapping the face of it, "you need to get going or you’re going to be late."

Your daughter groaned but accepted her fate. Your son slid off the barstool muttering something about how mornings were 'a violation of human rights.'

Jack turned off the stove and dumped a generous scoop of eggs onto a plate in front of you with a cup of coffee. "Eat," he said, nudging it closer. "You’re about to go deal with Javier. You need strength."

"Thank you, handsome."

Your daughter paused mid‑stride. "Who’s Javier?"

"Your new stepfather," Jack said.

"I’m sorry—what?" your son asked.

“Javier is my patient," you took a sip of coffee. "He’s retired. Great pension. Amazing dental."

Jack put a hand to his chest. "Dental? That’s what’s doing it for you?"

"He gets senior discounts everywhere. Think of the savings," you lifted your fork, and said dryly, "And, not only does he have a plane, but he also drives a vintage convertible. I’m shallow. I have needs."

"Mom, you’re not allowed to get a new husband," your daughter pointed at you. "You can barely handle the one you have."

"Unbelievable," Jack gasped dramatically. "The disrespect in this house."

You shook your head, laughing as you took a bite of eggs. "Time to move. I do not want to hear your teachers calling me about tardiness again," you said, waving the twins toward the door.

They both groaned, but they shuffled toward the door anyway.

"Love you!" your daughter called.

"See you later!" your son added.

On her way out, your daughter detoured just long enough to wrap her arms around Jack’s waist in a quick hug. Your son lifted his hand for a high‑five, which Jack returned with an exaggerated smack. Then they both turned and waved at you from the doorway. You waved back, heart doing that soft little squeeze it always did when they left the house together like that. They scrambled out, and Jack leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"For what?" you asked, confused.

He crouched a little so he was eye‑level with you, that familiar soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he pressed a slow kiss to your lips.

"For taking me as your patient twenty years ago," he said quietly. "After I was a complete asshole to you the first time we met."

"Please don't remind me how old we are," you said tartly. "And, you weren’t actually an asshole. That takes actual commitment and follow-through. You were a dick. Impulsive and rude in the moment," you corrected, tilting your head.

It was so like you to pull out technicalities and to reclassify his worst moment. You had a gift for making him feel better without ever pretending he was perfect.

"I was." He chuckled. And he had told the kids. Jack never sugar-coated the story of how you two met. He once sat them down at the dinner table, arms crossed, shaking his head dramatically as he told them how rude he’d been, how patient you were, how you should’ve kicked him out on the spot.

He looked your son dead in the eye and said, "If you ever talk to someone the way I talked to your mom that day, I’ll disown you. Your mother should have never taken me as a patient." Then he turned to your daughter and added, "And you? Don’t you ever give some boy a second chance if he acts like that. Your mom only did because she’s a saint. You do not need to be a saint."

The kids had laughed, but Jack had meant every word.

"If you hadn’t accepted my apology…I wouldn’t have this life with you. I wouldn’t have them." His eyes flicked toward the door where the twins had disappeared. "Those beautiful kids? They exist because of you."

"They exist because of you, too. It takes two to tango," you winked.

"Yes, but you carried them for nine months." Jack’s lips made lazy patterns across your neck and along your jawline until he reached your chin. "You delivered them. You fed them with your body. You went through postpartum. You dealt with the hormones, the exhaustion, the cesarian recovery.... all of it. And, you raised some pretty incredible people, sweetheart."

He watched your face as he said it, the way you tried to brush off the compliment like you always did, as he placed small kisses on and around your mouth. He still couldn’t believe you chose him. That you built this life with him.

And the older the kids got, the more he saw you in them.

Jack once walked past your daughter’s room on his way down the hall and saw her sitting on the floor with a friend who’d come over after school. The girl was crying, shoulders shaking, apologizing over and over for 'being a mess.' Your daughter didn’t let her talk badly about herself… she just stayed beside her, legs crossed, handing her tissues and telling her it was okay to feel whatever she was feeling.

And Jack saw you in every bit of it.

Your son was the captain now for his high school soccer team, and instead of barking orders or showing off, he’d pull teammates aside and quietly walk them through plays, showing them how to get better without making them feel small. He’d stay after practice to help the kid who struggled with footwork, or run drills with the goalie who kept losing confidence.

That was all you.

Your kindness. Your empathy. Your patience. Your amazing way of loving people, even when they didn’t make it easy. He saw it every day, in a hundred tiny moments. And every time, it hit him all over again how lucky he was. God, he fucking loved you.

"They are pretty great," you said, nodding.

"Because of you."

"Because of you, my love," you said, bringing his hand up to your face to kiss his palm tenderly. And the way you said it, without hesitation, looking at him like he was the most precious person you had ever seen, was overwhelming. You always told him he was a good husband, a good father, a good man, and you always said it like it was a fact, not something he had to earn or prove. You loved him in a way that still surprised him sometimes.

He beamed at you before his lips pressed against yours.

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part

Thank you for the peeps that joined me on this journey! I'm gonna miss these two lovebirds. If you want more 2026, a reminder that this mini-series is actually a prequel to the following one-shot.

You grew up during one of the most chaotic, colorful, and culture defining periods. It was objectively the best of times. You remember MTV when it actually played music videos, not just endless reality shows. You lived through the TRL era, counting down the top hits and feeling like you knew every artist personally. Bad fashion was a big part of your life too… wearing glitter gel, butterfly clips, chokers, tube tops, and low-rise jeans without shame. You watched Titanic in theaters when it was a phenomenon (not a meme), and you absolutely remember sitting there thinking, Seriously, Rose? You could’ve scooted over an inch. Jack could’ve fit on that damn dresser.  

You remember the boy bands fighting for space on every radio station and lived through the full pop‑princess explosion. You were there for the golden age of R&B and hip‑hop, with artists like Aaliyah, and Tupac defining the scene and pushing boundaries. You watched teen TV explode with Buffy saving the world, and you laughed every single time Jazz got thrown out of the house on Fresh Prince. You cried real tears when Ross messed up in the worst way. Sure, he and Rachel were 'on a break,' but it was still complete bullshit.

You lived through the rise of the internet from scratchy dial‑up tones to full‑blown Wi‑Fi, watched Google go from 'a weird new search thing' to the center of the universe, survived AOL chat rooms, MySpace, and watched Facebook launch. Your childhood included witnessing historic moments like the fall of the Berlin Wall, the O.J. trial as a middle‑schooler, Columbine as a teen, and the Y2K panic as a young adult—when everyone thought computers might explode at midnight. And as you grew into adulthood, the world shifted…more dramatically when 9/11 happened. You were old enough then to understand the weight of what was happening and to feel everything change in real time.

You and Jack had lived enough life for your twins to swear you were ancient, yet ironically they thought you were super cool for still having all your original game consoles. They and their friends definitely played with them every chance they got.

You didn’t feel your age at all, but your body loved to remind you every chance it got. Recently, you had really been noticing the fine lines and wrinkles around your eyes and mouth. The laugh lines that once brought you joy now seemed like a sign of aging you couldn't escape. You thought about the cuts and bruises that seemed to take longer to heal now, the grey hairs that stubbornly would appear despite your best efforts to mask them by dying your hair and getting highlights. You knew that you were at a different stage in your life, a stage that came with its own beauty and grace. However, seeing young girls with their flawless skin and toned bodies seemed to mock your own imperfections.

So when Dana drifted over, plate in hand, and nodded toward Jack’s brother and his new girlfriend, you knew exactly where this was going. Dana never tiptoed around anything—years in the ER had carved her into a straight‑shooter with a dry wit sharp enough to cut through steel. You’d known Dana for about ten years now, since you, Jack, and the kids left Boston after he got the job offer at PTMC.  

"Let me guess," she muttered, eyes narrowing just slightly. "He’s in love."

You tried not to say much. Who were you to judge their relationship? Sometimes age gap relationships worked, sometimes they didn’t, and it wasn’t your place to weigh in—especially not here, where your kids were not so far away, and had no business overhearing adult commentary about their uncle’s love life.

Dana watched your careful silence and huffed a small, knowing breath. "Relax. I’m not asking you to spill family secrets. I’m just saying…it’s predictable." Her tone was blunt, but not rude. Just Dana being Dana…and very allergic to sugarcoating.

You shrugged, keeping your voice neutral. "They met at work."

Dana rolled her eyes. "Of course they did. They always do."

"What do you mean?" you asked, since you knew that Dana didn’t gossip, but she also didn’t pretend not to see what was right in front of her. Then she leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. "Robby’s dating a resident."

You nearly choked. "What? Who?" Dana didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her chin toward the cluster of residents gathering near the grill. "Her." Your eyes followed her gesture, landing on a young woman laughing with a group of interns.

"He’s in love," Dana said, repeating her earlier line with thick sarcasm. "That’s all I’m saying." Then she made a zipping motion across her lips. "Secret."

"Does Jack know?"

"Yeah. Probably," Dana said with a shrug.

Why hadn’t he told you?

More residents started drifting into the yard, conversations rising and overlapping as the cookout filled out. You tried to stay focused on Dana, but your attention kept snagging on one person in particular.

Dr. Mohan.

You hated that you’d been aware of her presence for weeks. She was in her late twenties and beautiful in that effortless, unfair way that youth seemed to just fucking provide. She was sharp, confident, and competent, which were all qualities that made her stand out. She was also a doctor who worked with your husband every single day, spending hours with him during long shifts and late-night consults. But more than anything, she was the resident he talked about the most because he admired her work ethic.

You knew she viewed him as a mentor, and you genuinely believed that. But sometimes, in the quiet corners of your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder if she also appreciated what your husband looked like. You weren’t fucking blind…your husband was fine as hell, and he’d aged like the kind of man who only got better with time. Part of it was genetics, but a lot of it was the way he lived. He was ex‑military, disciplined to his core, the kind of man who still woke up early without an alarm and actually liked going to the gym. He took care of himself, stayed strong, stayed sharp, and it showed in every line of his body and every bit of that handsome face. You remembered when he’d been self‑conscious years ago about the grey coming in, and you’d had absolutely no problem showing him just how much it drove you wild. It was honestly unfair how good he looked for a man that was the big 5-0.

And the world noticed. The patients at the hospital definitely noticed. Sometimes, the moms at school would look at him with 'fuck me' eyes that it seemed like their pussy’s were practically melting. And as for younger women? They didn’t even bother being subtle. More than once, you’d overheard someone blatantly call him a DILF, much to your daughter’s absolute horror. She’d practically melted into the floor the first time it happened.

So when Dr. Mohan spotted Jack across the yard and lit up with a bright smile, your stomach tightened. Her skin seemed to glow without trying. No dark circles. No exhaustion etched into the corners of her eyes. She walked straight over to him, greeting him warmly, and the two of them slipped into easy conversation. You didn’t want to be the wife who started side‑eyeing every young, pretty coworker… but here you were, margarita in hand, downing the entire thing in one go.

"You trying to get a hangover?" Dana’s eyes tracked the empty glass as you set it down a little too firmly.

"Hydration is overrated," you muttered, reaching for the salt rim with your thumb like you could somehow lick your dignity back into place.

"Yeah, well, so is vomiting in public."

 "I’m not drunk."

"Yet..." she said, folding her arms.

"Ha-ha."

"You only drink like that when something’s chewing on you."

"It’s a cookout," you said, shrugging. "I’m just… relaxing."

"Rough week at work?"

"Long week." It was honest, maybe more than you intended it to be, and it felt heavier than you expected. Working as a PT meant putting in long hours every day. There were always stories to listen to and lists of people who needed your patience and positivity, even when you were running on empty. This week, all of that had finally caught up with you, leaving you completely drained.

"What do you think it is?" you asked, eyes locked on Robby and his new companion.

Dana followed your stare, then looked back at you. "What?"

"Why men," you said, lowering your voice but not your irritation, "…when they hit a certain age, suddenly decide a woman twenty or twenty-five years younger than them is their soulmate."

"Could be a dozen things," Dana said. "Ego boost. Panic about aging. Wanting to feel relevant. Sometimes it’s about control. Sometimes it’s about novelty. Sometimes it’s just plain old insecurity dressed up as chemistry." She took a sip of her drink, eyes still on you. "Or," she added, "maybe they just like being admired again. And having something shiny."

"Hmm."

"And… sometimes it is the real deal." She shrugged, thoughtful. "Robby’s 54. I hope he finds his person soon, honestly. I really do." Her voice wasn’t judgmental…just tired, and maybe a little protective. You looked back at Jack and Dr. Mohan again, the two of them still talking, and you must’ve been staring harder than you realized, because then Dana’s voice cut in.

"Just because some men chase shiny things doesn’t mean they all do," Dana gently bumped your arm gently, as if to offer some silent reassurance.

Jack drove with one hand gripping the steering wheel, while his other rested warmly and solidly on your thigh. Every so often he’d reach over, catch your hand in his, and lift it to his lips to press a soft kiss to the back of it. He and your son were caught up in a lively sports debate, voices bouncing back and forth with a kind of enthusiasm that only they could sustain after a long day. They discussed stats, players, predictions, and they were so engrossed that you lost the thread about thirty seconds in. Still, the sound of their voices was familiar and soothing.

Meanwhile, your daughter was curled up in the backseat, completely absorbed in her book. You had no idea how she managed to stay so focused. You’d always admired that about her because you couldn’t even glance at a text message while the car was moving without feeling nauseous.

Suddenly, your son’s phone vibrated, cutting through his conversation with Jack. He glanced down, grinned, and immediately twisted in his seat to show the screen to your daughter, who immediately abandoned her book to lean in.  Whatever teenage drama he had pulled up made her snort with laughter and shove his shoulder playfully. The two of them then slipped into their own little world.

 "Hey," Jack said quietly, just for you. "You’re awfully quiet over there."

You turned towards him, pulled from your thoughts. "I’m just tired."

"Yeah?" he murmured with quiet concern. His hand slipped from your thigh and came up to the back of your neck, his fingers warm as they rubbed gently at the tense muscles there.

"Dad," your son said, still scrolling, "Manuel’s having a bunch of guys from the team over tonight to celebrate the end of the year, so I’m probably just gonna spend the night. Can you guys just drop me off?"

The school year had just ended, and the twins had just finished their junior year. Time was flying, and this fall they would be applying to colleges, which felt surreal. Your son was a wonderful soccer player, so senior year would be critical for him, and he had a strong chance at receiving a soccer scholarship since he had already caught the eye of college scouts.

"Who’s going?" Jack asked, eyes flicking to the mirror.

"The usual," your son said.

"A bunch of the guys?" you repeated, lifting your hands to make air quotes around the phrase. "Are you sure it’s not a party?"

Your son groaned. "Okay, first of all, you’re using the air quotes wrong. You’re supposed to use them on one word, not the entire sentence." He shook his head dramatically. "Secondly, his parents will be there, so no, we will not be partaking in booze or drugs. At least not tonight," he added with a smirk.

Jack shot him a deadly look in the mirror. "Not funny," he grunted, in a way that shut down the joke instantly. Jack usually didn’t sweat the kids having a social life, never hovering, never butting in about who they hung out with or their late-night group chats. But because of the things he’d seen in the ER, the things he’d had to treat and sometimes couldn’t fix, he was also fiercely protective. Anything even faintly related to drugs or alcohol made him tense up. One minute, he was the relaxed, joking parent; the next, he was all sharp edges and quiet authority, the kind that came from years of watching preventable tragedies roll through trauma bays at 2 a.m.

"Oh yeah," you said, leaning back in your seat, "because high school 'gatherings'"—you exaggerated the single air‑quoted word—"are known for their sophisticated mocktail menus and engaging discussions on sobriety."

"Yeah, Mom, it’s gonna be super intense. We’re planning this deep philosophical debate on whether Gatorade counts as a performance enhancing drug," you son said, continuing his bit with you and playfully teasing back. He had definitely inherited your husband's sarcasm.

"Sure, bud, we’ll drop you off. Sounds like you boys will have fun," you confirmed.

Your daughter snorted, burying her face in her book again. Jack’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, softening instantly when they landed on her. "Hey, honey," he said, his voice shifting into that gentle tone he reserved only for her. Your daughter was his princess—always had been. She could do no wrong in his eyes, and honestly, you’d gotten lucky with her. She was responsible, thoughtful, and somehow managed to be a teenager without giving either of you ulcers.

"You still going to the movies with Sonia tonight?" he asked.

She looked up from her book, nodding. "Yeah. We’re gonna eat first and then head over." He hummed in acknowledgment, and she went right back to reading. Jack pulled into Manuel’s neighborhood about 10 minutes later, and Jack squeezed your thigh before slipping his hand away and stepping out of the car with your son. He always did the drop‑off properly, never just letting the kids tumble out and disappear. You watched Jack cross the short stretch of driveway, greeting Manuel’s parents who had just opened up the door.

Your son was already halfway inside, calling a quick "Bye!" over his shoulder, which earned him a pointed look from Jack that made him double back to wave properly. "Love you!" he called, this time directing it at you with a real smile before disappearing into the house, swallowed by the noise of teenage boys. Jack jogged lightly back to the car, slid in, and shut the door with a soft thud.  

Back home, your daughter hopped out almost before the car stopped, ponytail bouncing as she jogged up the steps. A second later she darted back out, sweater in hand—except it wasn’t hers. It was unmistakably yours, the expensive cashmere knit you had recently purchased. She tugged it over her head as she passed you, already halfway to the driveway again. "Thanks, Mom," she chirped in that sweet, practiced voice she used whenever she wanted to avoid being interrogated about borrowing your clothes.

You raised an eyebrow, but she was already walking towards the shared car she and her brother used. Jack had wanted to get each of them their own car the moment they turned 16. They were going to be 17 this fall. Honestly, you could have done it; financially, it wouldn’t have been a stretch. But you were trying to raise kids who didn’t expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter. It was a delicate balance. You’d grown up with so little that giving to your children felt almost like breathing. You and Jack loved spoiling them (well mostly Jack). You loved watching their faces light up when they received something special, and you cherished the opportunity to offer them the things you’d never had. Yet, at the same time, you wanted them to stay grounded. So, the compromise you arrived at was sharing one car. They had to alternate, negotiate, and learn to plan ahead, and in doing so, they grew a little more responsible every day.

She tossed her book into the passenger seat of her car, checked her phone, and called out, "Sonia’s already on her way—I’ll be back by eleven!"

Jack leaned out the window a little. "Seatbelt," he reminded, gentle but firm.

She rolled her eyes in that affectionate teenage way, then jogged back over to the driver’s side, leaned down and kissed Jack on the cheek, then crossed to your side and pressed a quick kiss to yours too.

"Love you both!" she said, hopping into her car and buckling up before pulling out of the driveway.

Jack locked the car while you followed him up the walkway, and as the door clicked shut behind him, the quiet of the house wrapped around you. Inside, Jack barely made it three steps into the house before veering straight toward the couch instead of the entryway bench. The shift in his gait was subtle, but you knew him well enough to recognize it instantly—his prosthetic was bothering him. Probably had been for a while, and he just hadn’t said anything with the kids in the car.

He lowered himself onto the cushions with a quiet exhale, already reaching to unclip the socket. You were moving before he even asked, crossing to the cabinet where you kept his extra balm. By the time he eased the prosthetic off and set it beside him, you were kneeling at his side with the jar in hand. You scooped a bit onto your fingers and gently worked it into the irritated skin, slow and careful, the way he liked it when the spot was tender. His shoulders softened almost immediately, the tension easing out of him as your touch soothed the pressure point.

When you finished, you grabbed his crutches from where they leaned against the wall and brought them over. He took them with one hand and reached for you with the other, pulling you in just enough to press a warm, grateful kiss to your lips.

"Thank you, baby," he murmured.

You brushed your fingers along his arm in response before heading for the stairs. Halfway up, you were already tugging your shirt over your head. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were shedding the rest and kicking off your jeans, unclasping your bra, letting everything fall into a small pile on the floor.

As you stepped into the bathroom, the overhead light flickered on automatically. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t that you didn’t recognize the woman staring back; rather, you suddenly saw her so clearly. You noticed the faint stretch marks at your hips and the way your stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be. Lower down, barely visible unless you looked closely, was the thin line of your cesarean scar, tucked beneath your pubic bone, yet tonight it somehow felt more noticeable.

Steam filled the bathroom as you stepped under the hot water, letting it beat against your shoulders until your muscles finally loosened. The shower was the one place you could hide for a minute—no kids, no noise, no mirrors. Just heat and the hope that it might wash off the heaviness clinging to you.

A few minutes later, you heard the bathroom door open, and Jack’s familiar footsteps and crutches moving closer.

"My love," Jack called over the sound of the water. "What do you want to do for dinner tonight?"

You pushed wet hair back from your face. "Honestly? I’ve got a headache. I’m not really hungry."

There was a brief pause, then the shower door cracked open just enough for him to peek inside. He wasn’t trying to invade your privacy, just checking in because that’s what he did. You startled at the sight of him, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest. You didn’t even know why since he had seen you naked like this a million times…but your reaction was immediate, almost panicked.

Jack froze, his eyes widening in a way that wasn’t harsh, but definitely hit with more force than you expected. If anything, there was a flicker of something almost like hurt there, quickly swallowed by concern. He didn’t step closer or push the door open any farther; he actually eased back half an inch, like he was trying to give you space without making a big deal of it.

"Sweetheart, look at me for a second. What’s going on?"

"Nothing," you replied quickly, lowering your arms. "I think I just had a little too much to drink at Robby’s. That’s all."

He studied you through the steam, his brow furrowing. "Are you sure?" 

"I’m fine," you insisted, forcing a small smile. "Just going to take some Tylenol and try to sleep early."

"Tylenol’s fine, but I want to know what you’re actually feeling. Is it just a headache? Or are you feeling any nausea? Any vision changes?"

Having a doctor for a husband meant concern was Jack’s default setting. He couldn’t not assess. He couldn’t not worry. He kept scanning your face for clues, and so to ease his concern, you leaned forward just enough to press a light kiss to his mouth. Warm droplets from your hair and eyelashes landed on his cheeks and nose. You reached up and brushed your thumb along the water on his cheek. "It’s just a headache, Dr. Abbot," you said, letting the teasing edge into your voice.

A small sense of relief washed over him, just a hint of it. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and the tension between his brows eased. You reached out and gently cupped his cheek, and he leaned into your touch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he tilted his head enough to press a slow kiss into the center of your hand.

"You know I worry. Especially when you don’t look like yourself.

Something in his phrasing hooked into you before you could stop it. You don’t look like yourself.

You knew what he meant. You knew. He meant tired. Off. Withdrawn. Not your usual energy. That seemed like the logical explanation. Yet, somehow, your mind twisted the meaning, distorting it into something else.

You don’t look like yourself. Meaning what? Older? Less put‑together? Less… attractive?

Fuck, you hadn’t been working out the way you used to. Between the kids, work, the house—your routine had slipped. And you’d told yourself it was fine, that you were fine, that Jack didn’t care about any of that. But the second his words brushed against that raw place inside you, your mind went spiraling somewhere else entirely.

Perhaps you really didn’t look quite like yourself lately. Maybe you did appear a little older, more tired, worn down in ways you hadn’t really noticed until now. Once that thought crept in, other doubts and ideas started to follow.

Maybe it was time to do something about it. Not necessarily for Jack (at least, that’s what you told yourself). A spa day sounded tempting…maybe a facial or some kind of treatment to help you feel refreshed again. Something simple, but effective. Or perhaps, in a way you’d never seriously considered before, maybe a little Botox wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Some of your friends were doing it, swearing it wasn’t about vanity but about feeling like the person they still believed they were inside.

You’d always brushed off the idea, but now, it seemed like maybe you could use a little boost. Just something to help you look a bit more awake, a little more like yourself. It was a small step, perhaps, but one that might make a difference. Though you drew the line at that filler bullshit because one mom at the kids school had her face so botched with it, she looked completely unrecognizable and fucking insane.

You didn’t even notice you’d fallen silent until his voice pulled you back.

"Baby? Where’d you just go?"

You blinked, suddenly brought back to the conversation, the warmth of his face just inches from yours. His voice was gentle, cautious—like the way he’d speak to patients who were dissociating or drifting away. And for some reason… it was pissing you off. It felt like he was 'handling' you instead of just fucking talking to you.

"Just—" you hurried to say, a bit too quickly. The word sounded sharper than intended, clipped and jagged at the edges, "let me just… finish up. I’m not dying, Jack."

You shut the shower door on him, just firm enough that it created a thin barrier between you and the look on his face. The glass fogged almost instantly, blurring him out, and somehow that made everything worse. You wanted to cry, and the pressure sat right behind your eyes, hot and insistent. But he was still right there, just a few feet away, so you refused to make a sound. You heard the faint shift of his weight and the soft scrape of his heel as he stepped back. He lingered for a heartbeat on the other side of the fogged glass, and you could tell he was caught between staying and giving you space. Then the bathroom door opened with a muted click, and his footsteps faded down the hall.

A few tears finally slipped free, and a small, broken sob escaped before you could stop it.

You were halfway through getting dressed when you finally checked your phone on the nightstand. A handful of missed notifications lit up the screen, but your attention went straight to the family group chat with the kids.

Your daughter had texted earlier:

im just gonna spend the night at sonia’s

Jack had already given his approval in the chat. You tapped a heart on the message, keeping the exchange simple. Scrolling down, you saw she’d sent you a separate message too—just to you, not the boys.

sonia found out her boyfriend’s been DMing some girl…like not okay stuff

she’s freaking out 🥺 why are boys horrible?

What the hell were these kids DMing each other? When you were their age, the most scandalous thing anyone sent was a winky face on their Nokia phones. You thought for a moment before responding.

Oh honey… Sonia can definitely do better. High school boys are basically half‑formed humans. Their brains won’t finish cooking until they’re like… twenty‑five. Tell her this is why we don’t take boys seriously until they can rent a car without an extra fee.

You could see the four messages pop up one after another at a rapid‑fire, which was usually how she texted.

lmao mom please 😭

"half‑formed humans" is sending me. im stealing that

tell dad I’m never dating until im 30

actually no, don’t tell him that, he’ll take it seriously and then cry when I bring someone home

You could almost hear her voice in the messages. She always tried to play it cool, but you knew when she appreciated you, and this was one of those moments. You quickly typed back a heart and felt a warm tug in your chest. Despite the chaos of raising teenagers and all the nights you lay awake worrying, you couldn’t help but feel grateful that your children still came to you with things like this. It made you realize just how lucky you were that you were all close, and that they trusted you and Jack enough to share the messy parts of their worlds.

You padded down the stairs, the house quiet except for the low hum of the microwave. The smell hit you before you even reached the kitchen; it was leftover chicken tikka masala warming up.

Jack stood in front of the microwave with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the counter. You could see that he had put on the prosthetic he typically wore at home. This one was gentler on his limb, lighter, and easier on the skin below his knee. But even so, you didn’t love seeing it on him after how much discomfort he’d been in earlier. You bit back the urge to tell him to take it off right then; you didn’t want to to be a nag. You’d give it thirty minutes, then you’d say something. Jack looked up the second you stepped inside the kitchen.

His eyes flicked over your face, then he smirked, just a little.

"I love you, but you have a very specific face you make when you’re mad at me and pretending you’re not."

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier," you apologized sincerely, "and I’m not mad at you."

"Okay, not mad at me," he said slowly, nodding once. "But…" He pointed at you with the hand not holding the microwave handle, "…you’ve got the eyebrow thing happening." He stepped closer, eyes narrowing in exaggerated analysis. "And the 'I’m fine but absolutely not fine' posture. Plus, you walked down the stairs like you were trying not to stomp but still kind of stomping." He lifted a brow, amused. "So, no, maybe you’re not mad at me. But you’re definitely mad about something. Or stressed. Or overthinking. Or all three, because you like to multitask."

The microwave beeped behind him, but he didn’t look away from you.

"Seriously," he asked, walking towards you, staring down at you, and rubbing soothing circles over your arm, "what’s up?"

"It’s not important," you said, trying to look away, but he gently guided your chin back toward him.

"Use your big girl words."

"Why didn’t you tell me that Robby is dating that R2?"

He looked at you with a mixture of surprise and something that almost resembled guilt, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he hesitated before answering. You could tell he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond, maybe caught off guard by the question or unsure if he should reveal what he knew. You crossed your arms, feeling a twinge of disappointment and hurt bubbling up inside you.

"I didn’t keep it from you on purpose. It’s just… recent. And they’re not exactly broadcasting it. It felt like it wasn’t my news to tell."

You let out a frustrated breath. "So basically your best friend and your brother—the two people you’re closest with—are both fucking hot young girls?" Jack blinked in surprise at your outburst, and his mouth parted slightly as if he’d just walked into the middle of a conversation he didn’t realize he was having.

"Whoa—okay," he said, hands lifting slightly in a slow down gesture. "I’m gonna need a map for how we got from point A to… whatever point this is." You kept going anyway, the words spilling out faster than he could catch them.

"And I swear," you continued, throwing a hand in the air, "every time I visit you at the hospital, the residents are just getting younger and younger and younger."

"O-okay?" he said, completely perplexed.

"I just… I feel old, Jack. I feel like I’m aging in fast forward. Menopause is around the corner, my body doesn’t look like it used to, and I don’t feel…" you hesitated, the word catching. "Pretty. I just don’t feel pretty anymore."

In an instant, Jack’s face changed instantly, as if the ground dropped out from under him. A look of genuine distress washed over his face, as if the very thought of you not feeling pretty pierced him deeply and caused him pain. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something comforting or to respond in some way, but before he could get the words out, you pressed on, the momentum of your words carrying you forward without pause.

"And you have these gorgeous young residents like Dr. Mohan that are fucking brilliant," you blurted, gesturing vaguely. "And I know it’s ridiculous, but some days I just feel invisible to the world. Like I’m just… fading into the background because I’m not in my twenties anymore. I miss 2005. I miss feeling like I am the young one in the room." Your head began to throb, so you pinched your nose and closed your eyes. "Fuck…I don’t recognize myself sometimes… so yeah, maybe I worry you could… I don’t know. Fall for someone like her."

"Okay, I gotta stop you right there," he lifted a hand, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing your skin. "Because I’m married to the sexiest woman who brought me back to life after the worst thing that ever happened to me."

He rarely referenced that time so directly. And suddenly, the memory of how you met flickered through your mind—the version of him who’d come home from deployment after being honorably discharged, the man who’d walked into your PT clinic with a new prosthetic and a look in his eyes that said he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole again. You’d helped him relearn balance, relearn movement, relearn trust in his own body. You’d watched him fight for every inch of progress. And months after he was no longer under your care, when he finally asked you out, you’d said yes because by then you’d seen the strength beneath the brokenness, the humor beneath the pain, the man beneath the soldier. You finally opened up your eyes again to find your husband looking at you with that intense, fucking eye contact he was so good at.

"You think I’m going to fall for someone because they're young? You think that’s all it takes for me to forget the woman I’ve spent twenty years loving? I chose you. I still choose you. And I’m not going anywhere."

You swallowed at the serious tone in his voice.

"Dr. Mohan is a young physician at the start of her career. I respect her work, but she’s not someone I see through any lens other than professional. I’m her attending. Her supervisor. My job is to guide her, not… anything else. That’s the beginning and end of it."

Pleased to see that your bad mood was starting to fade, he leaned in with a smirk. "And", he added, tapping your chin lightly, "you’re acting like I’m over here high-fiving my brother and Robby for dating girls who were probably in middle school when we started paying our mortgage." You let out a reluctant huff of air—not quite a laugh, but close. "We’ll see what happens with those relationships. I’m not exactly putting money on either of them lasting. But who knows?"

You simply nodded, and Jack’s eyes searched yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw. "Listen," he said quietly, "I know getting older feels heavier for women. You’re judged harder, expected to look perfect, and expected to stay young forever. It’s fucking unfair. Men are rewarded for aging, and women get criticized for it. You’re carrying a weight I’ll never fully understand, and I hate that you have to deal with that. I mean look at you—you’re a knockout."

"You don’t have to exaggerate. I know I don’t look the way I used to."

"Excuse me?" Jack’s voice was sharp as he glared at you. "You are objectively beautiful. And not just 'for your age.' You’re just insanely drop dead gorgeous. I have no idea how I landed you. You are so out of my league, and trust me, enough people remind me every day."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring how his brow lifted in challenge. "Did something about what I say sound unclear?" he growled, and you hated the way your belly pooled with heat at his tone.

"No," you mumbled.

He stepped back ever so slightly, putting his hands on your hips. In one fluid motion, he let his fingers linger before giving your ass a light squeeze. "I mean… have you seen your ass?"

"You really think you’re so smooth." The corners of your mouth couldn’t help but lift. "And unfortunately… it’s working."

"Good," he said, before pulling you in for a deep kiss, temporarily silencing you. His tongue dipped inside your mouth for a few seconds before he pulled away, leaving you wanting more. "I love you," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a seriousness that made your head spin. "And… I’m sorry if I’ve been doing a bad job of showing it lately. If you’re feeling this way… then I’ve clearly been doing something wrong."

Your lips parted, but he kept going. "Because if you’re standing here doubting yourself…" he shook his head, jaw tightening with that familiar self blame, "then I haven’t been showing you what you mean to me." You opened your mouth to protest, but he gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "I’m not saying this to make you reassure me," he murmured. "I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever known…inside, outside, all of it. And if you haven’t been feeling that lately?" His voice cracked just slightly. "Then I’m a shit husband."

"Jack… no. Don’t say that. You make me feel loved in ways I never thought were possible. You haven’t done anything wrong." You took his hand and placed your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. "I just had a moment, and got in my own my head. Honestly, it’s probably just hormones." You gave him a helpless little shrug. "My emotions have a mind of their own lately."

"Are you sure? You can be honest with me. If you feel something’s been off with us… I want to know."

"I’m sure. I promise. If something was wrong, you’d be the first to know. I love you, too. So much."

Jack studied you for a moment, his eyes searching your face the way he always did when he needed to be absolutely sure you weren’t just telling him what he wanted to hear. And when he finally decided that you were telling the truth, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Alright," he murmured when he pulled away. "Then let me remind you of something. There are a lot of perks related to getting older, and we’re about to enter a very fun phase of our lives."

"Oh yeah? What’s that?"

"The kids being out of this house."

"Please. You’re going to cry when they go to college. You’re going to be a mess."

Jack pouted, not even pretending to deny it. "Maybe. Probably." Then he grinned, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "But I’m also looking forward to more alone time with my wife. More nights like these. More quiet mornings. More dates. More vacations. More uninterrupted sex. More… us."

"They’re such cockblocks," you giggled.

"They really fucking are."

You would be lying if you said you and Jack had the same sex life you did from when you first started dating. Things had shifted, but you still maintained a healthy dynamic. It was harder to have spontaneous moments, and the problem with teenagers is that they had comprehension of what sex is. When they were younger, if they walked in on you and Jack, they didn’t understand what they were seeing at ages three or four…so you could quickly shoo them away. But once they reached a certain age, you and Jack had to get creative, especially since they were night owls, and you two usually waited (or passed out) until they were asleep to enjoy private time in your bedroom. Sometimes it was fucking in the laundry room during a very loud load. Recently it had happened in the garage. And the car. If you were honest, you two started having a lot more sex in public places during dates after having kids. A restaurant toilet could surprisingly feel romantic—and fucking hot as hell.

"Speaking of…" Jack’s fingers brushed against your cheek, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine. "Empty house."

Your husband loved it when the kids had sleepovers.

"Oh… I hadn’t noticed," you teased, and your breath hitched as you noticed his eyes flicker down your shirt. Jack leaned forward, pouncing on you and kissing you, and it was messy and all-encompassing. Your lips parted, and his tongue curled around yours, making him groan low in his throat.

You responded by leaning into him, deepening the kiss, your hands instinctively finding their way to the sides of his face, drawing him closer. Jack’s hands found their way to your waist, fingers pressing into your sides as he pulled you in, his hands were hungry, greedy in their exploration. Jack’s arousal was very evident by the tenting of his jeans. Your fingers trailed down his torso, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt, and you could hear the sharp intake of breath he took as you brushed against the waistband of his jeans.

With a rush of adrenaline, you dropped to your knees, hands moving to the front of his jeans, your fingers deftly working to unbuckle the clasp. Jack’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he pulled back slightly, leaning on the counter.

"Sweetheart, wait."

You pursed your lips, frowning. "What? Why?"

"What about your headache? Your head was killing you earlier," he grunted.

"It’s gone. The shower helped," you confirmed, a playful smile forming on your lips. Your fingers squeezed his thighs, feeling the strength beneath the fabric. "I just want to take care of you," you cooed.

"It’s supposed to be the other way around, baby," he groaned, looking pained.

"Since when do you turn down head?" you smirked, tilting your head slightly to the side. 

Jack breathed out a long sigh, nostrils flaring. "I just… want to make sure you’re okay.”

He always, always put your comfort before anything else. And fuck, it was one of the most attractive things about him. Your fingers continued to work his jeans open and pulled them past his hips. "I’m fine. Jack… I’ve been thinking about this all day."

"Oh yeah?" Jack spread his legs a bit wider, clearly getting more used to the idea.

"Yeah," you whispered, pulling his boxers down, as he helped pull his cock free. You wet your lips, tongue darting forward to flick teasingly at his slit, and looked up to find him staring.

"This was all that you thought about?" he taunted. "Sucking my cock?"

You shook your head. "No."

"What else?" he asked, his voice shaky, his fists tightening.

You chewed on your bottom lip.

"Tell me," he growled.

"You using that new toy on me," you admitted, your face feeling hot. You had recently purchased this clit-sucking vibrator that your friend raved about. Her review was literally: Let me tell you, this will absolutely suck your soul through your lady parts and bring you to heaven. You and Jack didn’t use toys often, but whenever you did, it was always an extremely memorable experience. He especially loved watching you use them on yourself.

Jack looked at you for a few seconds, and then finally made a low, dangerous sound. "Well then, you better make use of that fucking mouth so that we can get to the next part." You nodded in agreement and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, applying a soft pressure as you guided him into your mouth. It was challenging to take all of him at once, but you persevered, your mouth stretching to fit his leaking and heavy length.

He barely stifled a groan, choking out muffled curses. With each movement, you felt more confident, your tongue swirling around him as you slowly took him deeper into your mouth.

"That’s it. Take the whole thing. Just like that," he urged, his voice thick with lust as his hand found the back of your head. "Such a good girl. You’re doing so fucking good."

You looked up at him, moaning at his praise, and then focused your attention back on your task. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him in deeper, the weight of him filling your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down. His hips flexed with each bob of your head, his lips parting as he panted. You could feel the tension building in his body, his thighs flexing beneath your hands as you squeezed them tighter.

"Fuck," he hissed, his voice strained. "You look so good with your mouth full. You—" he gasped when he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat.

You gagged, but you kept going because you loved hearing him like this, the sound of him feeling good because of you pushing you further. You pulled back slightly, swirling your tongue around the tip before sinking back down, taking him as deep as you could manage, with tears filling your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away. The perfect taste of him was overwhelming, and you could feel the slickness pooling between your thighs, the heat radiating from your core.

His jaw clenched. "You’re gonna make me come." He tried to pull you off from him, but you kept going, stretching your mouth wider for him, and winked at him.

When he realized what you were insinuating, a guttural moan slipped from his lips, and he chuckled darkly. "Dirty girl."

You whined, causing your throat to vibrate along his length, which caused Jack’s eyes to roll back, and his head to tip back. His neck was straining as he fucked your throat with a feral grunt while you stroked the parts of him you couldn’t reach with your hand.

"Shit—" he started, but before he could finish, you felt him tense beneath your hands. With a few more deep thrusts, he found his release, moaning out your name and filling your eager mouth with his warmth. You met his hazel eyes as he watched you swallow his hot sticky release down your throat.

Jack groaned, melting against the counter, an arm thrown over his eyes as he caught his breath, and you kindly shimmied his boxers and jeans back on him. You were slowly getting up when Jack grabbed your waist, and he kissed your temple. It was a gentle gesture, yet charged with an unmistakable intensity, then his lips were back on yours, feverish and desperate. His hands roamed your back, fingers tracing patterns, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back.

You pulled away slightly breathless, and he started trailing soft kisses down the line of your jaw, pausing just above your collarbone.

"Oh shit, your leftovers," the thought hit you when the smell of chicken tikka masala suddenly filled your nostrils, and you realized his food was probably cold at this point.

"Don’t give a flying fuck about that right now," his lips brushed against your neck softly before he pressed a gentle kiss against your pulse.

"Thought you were hungry?"

"I’m hungry for something else."

Your giggled.

"I think it’s time we go play with that toy now," he grunted, his teeth scraping along the curve of your shoulder. You probably had about an hour or so before Jack would be able to have sex with you since he had just come, but luckily, your husband was very skilled with his fingers and mouth and could give you an orgasm…or two before then.

"Better be careful not to strain yourself, old man," you said playfully.

His strong arms grabbed you, and before you knew it, your body was lifted and thrown upside down over his broad shoulders as you got a lovely view of your husband's denim-clad ass as he dragged you to your shared bedroom.

If you liked this, I’ll be writing a prequel series of these two love birds! Find the Masterlist here.

Thanks for reading! I want to be clear that I’m not criticizing age gap relationships at all. Most of the time when I write Jack with a reader insert, there is an implied age gap, even if I don’t spell it out. It makes sense since Shawn Hatosy himself is almost twenty years older than me, and so his characters are in that age demographic. But for this story, I wanted to push myself and explore something different: Jack in a relationship with a woman his own age. Especially since I don’t really see stories like that in this fandom. Age gap stories are fun, romantic, and absolutely valid, but I think writing age appropriate relationships matters too, especially for readers who want to see themselves aging and still being deeply desired. Women are constantly told (implicitly and explicitly) that their beauty and sexiness have an expiration date. Seeing a man in his 40s or 50s still obsessed with a woman his age pushes back against that narrative. And writing a story about Jack, who is devoted to his mid to late 40's wife, and who still sees her as the center of his world, was powerful to me. Also, Shawn being married to a woman his age makes me very happy inside. They are stunning together.

Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk.

Signed,

he taps the bluetooth with his thumb, speaker crackling to life.

“hey, baby,” he says easily.

there’s a pause on the other end—just long enough for sammy to know something’s up. the kind of pause she makes when she’s gearing herself up for something that feels silly to her but makes his whole chest soften.

“hi,” she says finally, voice soft, lilting. “um… are you busy?”

nate immediately cuts his eyes toward the dash. sammy doesn’t flinch.

“not too busy. nate and i just wrapped a walkthrough downtown. why?”

“you, um…” she hesitates. he hears it, that wobble. that crack that says she already talked herself out of this twice before she even dialed. “you remember that deli we used to go to near our old place in central alameda?”

sammy meets nate’s eye and says without hesitation:

“yeah. we’re close to there actually.”

nate mouths no we’re not? then gives up and just gestures out the dashboard at downtown hollywood forty minutes away from central alameda.

“i was maybe…” her voice drops to this tragic, adorable little near-whisper, “…maybe wanting that spicy italian? the one on the marble rye? with the extra pepperoncinis?”

sammy’s already flicking the blinker on to switch lanes.

“yeah, baby. got it.”

“and maybe the iced tea?” she adds quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. “no, actually, can it be both? the lemonade and the tea? like an arnold palmer? and if they have the cake of the day i kinda want that too. but it’s okay if they don’t, i swear i’ll survive, i just—”

her voice does that thing, trembles right at the edge of a tear or maybe just her hormones spiraling.

“actually never mind. this is crazy. you’re working. i’m sorry, just forget i called, i love you—be safe—”

click.

sammy sighs, but there’s a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he’s already turning onto the freeway ramp.

nate blinks once. twice. then slowly says:

“jesus. even i can’t say no to her when she asked like that.”

sammy huffs out a dry laugh.

“so you see my problem.”

“how many midnight snack runs has she sent you on?”

“none.”

nate blinks harder.

“none?”

“she hasn’t even asked me to fill her damn water bottle,” sammy mutters. “not once. not a single midnight craving. hasn’t asked for anything.”

“oh.” nate exhales slowly, understanding dawning. “so when she does—”

“exactly.”

they drive a beat in silence, traffic parting just enough to give them a smooth path toward central alameda.

“we’re really going forty minutes out of the way to a deli.”

“yeah,” sammy says simply. “yeah, we are.”

“i can’t even give you shit. you were with me when mariella made me go demand a banana split from that ice cream shop during a rain storm at 9:58 p.m. they were out of cherries. she cried. i still don’t think she’s forgiven me.”

sammy grins. nate leans forward, elbows on knees.

“since you’re already buying lunch…”

“for her, not you.”

“i’ll take a turkey pesto. your girl has good taste.”

sammy snorts and rolls his eyes.

“you’re such a simp, man.”

“yeah,” sammy smirks, already dialing the deli, “but i get to go home to her.”

nate huffs a laugh but he’s already smiling too, tapping his phone open.