SMUT LIBRARY 📚

“Listen up. Central 7, 8, 9 is now the blood donor center,” Abbot shouts across the ER, “anyone who's O-neg or O-pos, we need you to donate now. Hands where I can see them, Dana?” 

“OK, let's do this,” Dana answers, headed towards you. You finish your bag and Dana’s wrapping hot pink gauze around your arm, your foot bouncing in anticipation.

“All set kid,” She says.

“Thanks D,” you say, already back on the floor, running alongside a new patient who’s in desperate need of intubation.

“Need some help with an airway!” You call out.

“What is it?” Abbot steps next to you.

“GSW to the neck with expanding hematoma and distorted anatomy…” you say, your hand on his neck, “I can't intubate him, probably hit the carotid.”

“OK. I'll do the airway,” Abbot steps across from you.

“What do we need? A 6.5 and a bougie?” you say, grabbing them. 

“I got the bleeder. Foley catheter with a 30 cc balloon.” Abbot says, his finger in the patient’s neck. Jesse hands you the Foley and the balloon. Your eye catches the tube running down Abbot’s leg, a blood bag held around his ankle by gauze.

“Are you donating?” You smile up at him.

“What can I say,” he smiles back at you, “you inspired me,”

“Uh,” you bite back a smile shifting your focus back to the patient, “it's too bloody to see a bougie,”

“Not for this. Three-step process. Step one, scalpel. Step two, finger. Step three, bougie. OK, railroad in the tube.” Abbot says, and you gently push the tube in the patient's neck, “good, that's far enough, bag him.”

“Walsh, you have an OR for a head-and-neck case? MCI-48,” you call to the surgeon.

“We've got 16 ORs up and running,” Emery answers, “we've got room for one more.”

You and Abbot push the gurney towards Walsh who grabs it along with a few nurses, pushing towards the elevator. Just before they get onto the elevator Gloria steps out into the chaos of the ER. 

“Robby, are you okay?” Robby kind of half nods at her, not giving her his full attention. “Well, I got some good news. County Public Health is sending out a truckload of supplies from Magee-Womens and Mercy.”

“Gloria, are we gonna have to call in more blood donors?” Dana calls across the room.

“Already done,” Jesse says.

“Donated!” Samira adds.

“Wait, hold on. W-what does she mean, more blood donors? You didn't use unscreened blood donations, did you?” Gloria crosses her arms. 

“We did what we had to do to save as many people as we could.” Robby bites back.

“You're killing me, Robinavitch,” Gloria throws her hands up.

“Better than killing patients,” Robby turns his back to her, heading towards the doors to the ambulance bay, another patient being wheeled in. You shoot Abbot a quick, concerned glance and he gives a small shrug and nods you over to where a new patient, a young cop, is wheeled in. Princess already has a clamp in the young man’s neck.

“Ah, too much blood,” you shake your head, “move that kelly to the right a little bit,”

“Any better?” Princess asks.

“Not really,” you click his tongue, “radial pulse?”

“Still has it, maybe a little weaker,” Princess says with her fingers on his wrist, “I can try and give you a bubble?”

“Yeah, yeah, go for it,” You say, and she gives a firm push on the patient’s chest, you shake your head, “no, nothing. I'm not seeing anything, let's bag him. I wanna prep the neck.”

“You don't have a bougie,” Princess furrows her eyebrows.

“I have an 11 blade and a prayer,” you say, scalpel in hand.

“Without a bougie, you could create a false passage on top of the trachea and kill him,” she says.

“You're doing a crike?” Abbot steps up beside you.

“Yep. No skin hooks, no bougie…” you say, bending forward towards the patient, “old school,”

“I got a tactical airway in my bag here,” Abbot says, reaching into his go bag and pulling out a small plastic tube.

“What is that?” You furrow your eyebrows.

“It's a control crike kit,” he smirks at you.

“Woah, that's perfect,” you look up at him with a little disbelief and a lot of admiration. 

“Use that on the battlefield,” Abbot says, “works in the pitch-dark when you're under fire. I can do these with my eyes closed,”

“Keep ‘em open for now,” you scrunch your nose.

“For you, okay,” Abbot says, starting the procedure, “the knife leaves a trach hook behind, so you can't miss, right? Just... good. You slide in the introducer, feel the tracheal rings… Good. Bob's your uncle.”

“Are you always that fast?” you smirk at him.

“Eh…” he smirks back, “balloon is up,”

“Why don't we stock these?” You ask.

“No room in the budget,” Abbot shrugs. 

“Yellow on end-tidal,” Princess says.

“He’s okay now?” The officer who brought him in asks from along the wall.

“Yeah,” Abbot nods at him.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” you say to him, fluttering your eyelashes at him.

“Okay, let's pack the oral cavity with Kerlix and see how fast Head and Neck can take him up to the OR,” Abbot playfully rolls his eyes at you as he speaks.

“What else you got in your go bag?” You smirk, walking towards the door where another patient is being rolled in.

“Oh, just wait and see,” He says, eyes following you as you walk away, a small smile on his face.

9:00PM

“Dilated right atrium and right ventricle,” you say, pressing the ultrasound to your patient's chest, “right-sided strain with bowing of the septum.”

“Sounds like a PE,” Walsh crosses her arms, “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?

“Way too soon for a DVT. Trendelenburg ASAP,” Abbot says to Jesse.

“What for?” You furrow your brow at Abbot.

“Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it's blocking blood flow to the lungs.” Abbot says.

“Need a CT to confirm.” Walsh crosses her arms.

“They're still backed up with other patients,” you say with frustration. 

“Well, maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I'll go check.” Walsh says, leaving the room.

“I need a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter.” Abbot looks across the room to Jesse.

“He doesn't have a collapsed lung?” You say, confused.

“Yeah?” Abbot looks at you with an eyebrow raised.

“So what are you going to do?” You look at him incredulously.  

“I'm not gonna do anything.” Abbot smirks. “You are.”

“The fuck am I gonna do?” You say with a short laugh.

“You’re gonna aspirate the air with the pigtail cath,” Abbot says, handing you the line kit.

“Uh,” you take the kit reluctantly, hands shaking a little.

“Hey,” Abbot rests his bloody hand on your shoulder, “I know you can do this,”

“Ok,” you say, leaning fully into his confidence in you. You make an incision in the young man’s side, “I got the IJ,”

“Okay,” Abbot stands beside you, watching closely, steady and calm, “guidewire and introducer,”

“What the hell are you doing?” Walsh storms back into the trauma room and you flinch and almost imperceptible amount but Abbot notices.

“She is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Abbot says firmly.

“With what?” Walsh walks further into the room with fury.

“5 French pigtail catheter,” you say, voice low, eyes trained on the ultrasound screen.

“What the actual fuck?” Walsh snaps. “If it's showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber.” 

“He'll be dead by then,” you say desperately. 

“Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh huffs.

“We don't have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” Abbot turns to her with an annoyed look on his face.

“Everyone stop saying pants,” you say sharply, firmly holding the central line, “if we don't get the air out of his heart, he'll die,”

“This is not the standard of care,” Walsh bites.

“Oh, fuck standard of care,” Abbot tries to shrug Walsh off on your behalf, “If we want to save him, we go in now.”

“Maybe I should…” you say, pausing your movements, eyes flicking up to Abbot.

“Thread in the pigtail? Excellent idea, doctor.” Abbot says with a firm nod, “Go down to 24 centimeters, and then we'll confirm with X-ray,”

Your hands move with slow, steady precision, threading the pigtail catheter through the incision, hooking up the plastic syringe to the end of the tube.

“Good.” Abbot says, calm and measured. “Now aspirate, see what you get.”

“Pulling back blood from the heart…” you pull back the plunger slowly, blood filling the tube and with a small pop, an air bubble enters the chamber, you let out a breath of relief, “along with some air.”

“How about that?” Abbot looks pointedly at Walsh, before turning back to you, his whole demeanor shifting back to his calm, commanding nature, “pull the pigtail back to the RA.”

“Step aside,” Walsh tries to push between you and Abbot but he holds an arm out, keeping her in place.

“Pull the pigtail, doctor,” Abbot looks at you with a knowing confidence, “you got this.”

“Normal sinus rhythm, 92.” Jesse says, reading the monitor. “Pulse ox is improving. BP's 112 over 84.”

“Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” Abbot stands to his full height and crosses his arms. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”

Walsh’s mouth tightens into a thin line. You and Abbot watch as she grabs the edge of the bed, wheeling the patient out. You let out a sharp breath, feeling an immense weight lifting off your chest.

“You were incredible,” Abbot turns to you.

“That was your save, not mine,” you say, almost laughing.

“Take the win, doctor,” he says and you can’t help but smile at him, “besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself.”

“That’s so not funny,” you say, shaking your head with a small smile still on your face.

FRIDAY 7:00AM 

You stand looking up at the board drinking your coffee and trying to fully wake up while the ER moves around you, humming and fuzzy in the background. You only snap to attention when you see Robby out of the corner of your eye. 

“Hey Robby,” you give him a soft smile and he lifts his mug towards you as a greeting.

“Gloria is looking for you,” Dana says to him, looking over her glasses.

“No guts, no Gloria.” Robby says, “must be time for my weekly spanking.”

“Try to be nice, for all our sake.” Dana gives him a once over.

“Yeah… has anyone seen Abbot?” Robby says.

You sigh and point upwards, indicating to Robby that his buddy is on the roof.

“Again?” Robby sighs and you and Dana watch him disappear up the stairwell. 

“Surprised you didn’t go lookin’ for him…” Dana says, pushing her glasses up to rest on her head before giving you a once over, 

“Me?” You turn back to her. “Why?”

“You know he’s got… a soft spot for you,” Dana says warmly. 

“Please,” you breath out a laugh, sitting in front of a computer, keying in and pulling up yesterday's unfinished charts, “Abbot would flirt with a chicken sandwich if it was in front of him,” 

“Not what I’m talkin’ about,” Dana gives you a knowing smile. You look back at her, biting back a smile of your own.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know why you mean,” you turn towards the computer and spot Robby and Abbot walking off the elevator. A naked patient runs across their path with his IV bag dragging on the floor with Perlah and Princess in pursuit.

“Look at the bright side…” Abbot says, keying into the computer next to you, “...at least it’s a quiet day.”

“Jesus, Abbot,” you cross your arms looking down the hall where the naked patient ran off to, “what were you doing last night?”

And as if the universe is playing a little joke on you, a mother and her newborn baby are being wheeled behind Robby on a gurney right in your line of sight.

“Dr. Abbot!” The mother says as she rolls by slowly, reaching out towards him, “thank you again for everything. You’re a miracle worker.”

“My pleasure.” Abbot turns and smiles down at you, “I was performing miracles”

“Oh please,” you playfully roll your eyes, “women have been having children on their own for a million years.” 

“Not with complete breech presentations,” Abbot smirks.

“I hope she got one of your fan club t-shirts,” you say mockingly as you lean back in your chair.

“Will you two give it a break? It’s seven in the morning,” Robby says. You hold your hands up in surrender.

“Rounds in five?” Abbot says, as Robby nods before he heads to the staff lounge to fill his coffee mug.

“Hey, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something before you take off,” you turn to Abbot touching the side of his boot with the toe of your sneaker, you don’t notice the tips of his ears go red, “that french pigtail cath aspiration during pitt fest…”

“I remember,” he nods with a smile.

“I was thinking of writing up a case report and trying to publish it…” you say, seeming a little sheepish in a way Abbot had never seen before, “maybe in a cardiology or emergency med journal…”

“Ok…?” Abbot crosses his arms with an eyebrow raised.

“Well,” you scoff with a smile, “do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Of course,” Abbot pulls his head back a bit, almost shocked you feel like you have to ask.

“Do you- would you co-author it with me?” You ask, looking at him with a vulnerability that tugs on his heart.

“I- yeah- yes-” Abbot stammers.

“Yeah?” You raise your eyebrows, a look close to glee on your face, “ok, I’ll uh, I’ll do a write up and send it to you? Or, is it fucked up I assume you prefer prints outs?”

“Ha ha,” Abbot fake laughs as you stand and round the desk, a cheeky smile on your face.

“So I’ll print it,” you scrunch your nose at him, resting your hand on the hub in front of him for a second. His eyes linger on you for just a moment too long but your head is already turned towards the board where Robby gathers the day shift.

“Careful,” Dana says, stepping next to him, looking down at the tablet in her hand.

“What?” Abbot scoffs.

“Pretty young resident…” Dana shrugs, “just keep your head on straight,” 

“I’m not gonna- my head is straight,” Jack shrugs on his back pack.

“Yeah, that’s the problem…” Dana chuckles, “but for what it’s worth… I get it, she’s-”

“She’s smarter than all of us,” Jack says, eyes still fixed on you.

Dana pats Jack on the shoulder with an expression somewhere between sympathy and pity before shifting back to her computer. Jack sighs before walking towards the ambulance bay. Of course he’s thought about it, you’re a brilliant, beautiful, confident doctor. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little if it means saving a patient or sticking it to insurance companies. Gloria is certainly not your number one fan but with the second highest patient satisfaction score in the ED it’s in her best interest to keep you around, a point that Jack has reminded her of multiple times. 

You just have a way of knowing exactly what a patient needs: a laugh, a gentle touch, a little tough love… of course you have a bit of a stubborn streak, going toe to toe with a couple of less-than-cooperative patients or family members when they got in between you and your plan of care. Hence, second highest score. But Jack likes that about you, you aren't a push over, you're grounded and principled… and gorgeous. It wasn’t a line he ever planned to cross, but you continue to be a subject of his fantasies…

THURSDAY 6:00PM

“How’s your Le Fort patient?” Robby says, stepping beside you at the hub.

“Floating face?” You grit your teeth and take in a sharp breath, “he’s on his way to the ICU-”

“Hey, Fruitcake.” A raspy, old voice cuts across the ER, making you turn your head. Simultaneously you have opposite reactions, Robby lets out a sigh of distress and the corner of your mouth curves up into a smile.

“Hey, I'm talking to you, Fruitcake,” Myrna says as Robby reluctantly turns to face her.

“Myrna, I told you a hundred times my name is Dr. Robby.” He says, almost pleading, he turns back to you and mumbles under his breath, “Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t take it personally,” you tilt your head to the side sympathetically, “you’re just not her type,”

Robby cocks an eyebrow.

“And what would you know about her type?” Robby crosses his arms, his expression shifting from annoyed to amused. Your smile only widens.

“Hi Myrna,” you turn to the wheelchair bound, or shackled, woman, giving her a soft smile.

“Fruitcake, it’s a crime you’ve got a girl with legs like that wearing those pants all day,” Myrna gestures up and down in the direction of your body and you shoot her a little wink. You turn back to Robby with a look of utter glee on your face, scrunching your shoulders up with a devious little grin.

“I don’t even wanna know,” Robby holds his hands up before turning and walking away from you.

“Don’t be jealous, Robinavitch,” you call after him, “it doesn’t suit you!”

He gives you the middle finger as he continues down the hall of the south corridor.

“Hey,” you turn to Myrna with a pointed finger, “behave yourself,”

“For you angel, I will,” Myrna folds her hands in her lap as you shake your head with a smile. Out of the corner of your eye you spot Abbot.

“Abbot, hey,” you catch up with him as he walks out of a patients room, “I have a very, very rough draft for you, I left it with Lena in case I didn’t catch you,”

“Good, yeah,” Abbot says, clearly focusing on the incoming trauma that Lena just gave a two minute warning for, “I’ll take a look,”

“You’re the best!” You call after him and he gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder.

FRIDAY 8:00AM

Abbot is just leaving the hospital, today’s handoff taking longer than usual, and he’s certain it’s because you aren’t working today. He gets into his truck, slamming the door shut and taking a deep breath in the silence. He pulls out his phone and sends you a text.

Abbot: Hey. I didn't know you were off today. I have notes for you. 

He doesn’t expect it but you respond immediately.

You: jesus, that bad?

Abbot: What? No, it’s really good.

You: oh

You: you just sounded like you hated it

Abbot: I don’t hate it. It’s good.

You: do you always text like this?

Abbot: Like what?

You: Curt.

Abbot can’t help but smile at the way you mimic his texting style.  

Abbot: I don’t know how to text any other way.

You: lol ok

You: can i swing by and grab it from you? is that weird? 

His heart tightens briefly. 

Abbot: No, not at all. I’m just leaving the hospital. I’ll be home in twenty.

You: i can just grab it from your mailbox or something ??

Abbot: I can just hand it to you. 

Abbot: 5139 Penton Road

You: Okay, Dr. Abbot.

You: ur the best !! 

You: is now ok?

Abbot: Yes, now is ok.

You: ok i’ll be there asap

Abbot drives home faster than usual, feeling a little ridiculous at his eagerness to see you. After all he had seen you the day before, and in between he spent half the time he should have been sleeping pouring over the draft you left him. The draft was not ‘rough’ as you had claimed, it was clear, concise, and thoughtful. Was there anything you couldn’t do well? 

He makes it home in record time and paces around his living room trying not to be so anxious. He never feels this way around you. If anything you calm him down more than most people. But the idea of you in his house… the boundary he swore he’d never cross feels like it’s getting hazier. The doorbell snaps him out of his thoughts. He walks to the front of the house, his leg aching against his prosthetic after a chaotic shift.

Pulling open the door his breath hitches slightly. You’re wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans which hug the curve of your hips in a way he can only describe as unfair, your hair is half up, flyaways framing your face like a portrait. You get one look at him and the corner of your mouth turns up.

“Tough night?” You say, in a tone that blends sympathy and amusement. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says in mock offense.

“You look tired,” you say, something in your voice softer now, “I’ll- uh- I won’t keep you- if you have the paper,”

“Oh- yeah-” he says, the tips of his ears turning red, having temporarily forgotten that the paper is the only reason you’re here. He walks back into the house to where his backpack sits, haphazardly thrown on the counter, pulling the paper out of his bag. 

“It- uh- it’s really good so far-” he says, eyes moving across the first page as he walks back to the front door where you wait with your hands in your pockets, “I just had a few suggestions and minor corrections,” he hands the paper to you and you take it.

“Thank you for doing this,” you say, looking down at the notes he had written in the margins before flicking your eyes back up to him, “I owe you one,”

“Nah, you don’t owe me anything,” he says, running his hand up the back of his neck, trying to ignore how warm it is, “it’s no big deal,”

“Well, it is to me,” your gaze drops back down to the paper, “really, I- thank you,” you hold the stack to your chest like he had just given you something precious. 

“Happy to help,” he gives you a small smile and the two of you just stand there for a second looking at each other, before you take in a sharp breath.

“I’ll uh- let you get some rest-” you say, slowly backing down his front walk, as if you don’t want to go.

“I don’t look that tired,” he says, crossing his arms, playfully furrowing his brow. You suck in a breath through your clenched teeth.

“You’re putting all your weight on your left leg,” you say, turning slowly before looking over your shoulder, “go sleep.” 

Abbot shakes his head, a smile on his face as he pushes the door closed. He glances out the glass panel alongside his door, watching you get into the car. After you shut the door before holding the paper up, he assumes you’re going to sit there and read it but you don’t… you take the paper and literally press it against your face, you seem to let out a deep breath. You pull the paper back, looking down at it, your bottom lip between your teeth, biting back a smile. You place the paper in the passenger seat before starting your car and driving off.

After a hot shower he does get into bed, the black out curtains wrapping him in darkness, but as tired as he is he can’t fall asleep, his mind unable to move away from you. The simple beauty of you in jeans and a t-shirt, no more revealing than your scrubs but for whatever reason it felt much more intimate to see you like that, at his house… If he had asked you to come inside would you?

He feels his cock twitch in his boxers. God, this is wrong, and he knows it. But you’ll never find out, no one will ever find out, he thinks as he moves his hand down his body, palming his crotch lightly. He imagines you on your knees in front of him, gagging and sucking as he fucks your face. He grasps his firming cock in his face, picturing how it’d feel to hold your soft hair back for you as you choke on his dick. He thinks of your soft mouth wrapping around his tip, your hands furiously stroking his hot shaft as he does the same to himself. 

He imagines his name on your lips, how sweet it sounds coming from you. Jack, he can almost hear you saying it right now. He wonders how you’d taste, how you’d feel squeezing around him, how you would sound as he fucked you. He can feel heat building around his pelvis as he tightens his grip. You flash before his eyes as he closes them, your mouth, your skin, your scent, smile, eyes, he wants to be consumed by you. 

He quickly brings his hand up spitting on it, increasing his pleasure as he twists his fist around his cock, pushing hips up in desperation. He runs his fingers over the thick vein along the underside of his cock, brushing his thumb over his tip. He moans your name out loud, imagining his hand is yours. His stomach flips as the tension releases, he groans as a hot ribbon of cum shoots up over his pelvis and hand. His body shivers in contractions of pleasure. 

After laying still for a moment, his softening cock still in his hand, Jack slowly sits up assessing the mess he made, what you had done to him… and you weren’t even here. 

SATURDAY 4:00PM

Having time off as a night shift doctor is always a little strange and wanting to keep his sleep schedule as consistent as possible Jack is only starting to get up in the evening. He checks his phone and tries to ignore the twinge in his stomach when he sees that he has a text from you.

You: hey, i know ur not working this weekend, would it be presumptuous to ask you some questions about ur notes?

Jack smiles down at his phone, typing out a reply.

Abbot: How do you know I’m not working?

You: i asked robby 

You: is that weird?

Abbot: No, it’s not weird. 

Abbot: You can ask me anything. What’s up?

You: i didn’t mean over text !!

You: at least let me buy you a beer or something for your trouble

Abbot: That’s not necessary. I’m happy to help.

You: can you just say yes?

Abbot: How about you just bring a six-pack to my place and you can ask me as many questions as you want?

Shit. Maybe that was too forward. He throws his phone across the bed. He should have waited until he was more awake before answering you. The thought of you in his house was clearly still lingering in his mind after yesterday. You probably don’t want to come over to your boss’ house and drink with him… his phone buzzes and he flops over, reaching for it desperately reading your text and his breathing slows.

You: yes!!!

You: what time is good? i don’t want to mess with your fucked up sleep schedule

Abbot: 8?

You: i’ll be there :) 

He lies back down, resting his hand on his forehead. You were about to be in his house. The two of you, alone, without the prying eyes of the Pitt staff. He tries to slow his breathing and his racing mind. This was purely a work related meeting that happened to be taking place at his house, that is the only reason you’re coming. But still, he can’t help but feel excited.

7:30PM

 The closer it gets to your arrival the more jittery Jack gets. At the hospital he knows all the rules, all the expectations. He’s your superior, and sure, he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. But as time went on he started to realize he actually meant it with you. It seems that others, Dana at the very least, have begun to pick up on that as well. Of course it doesn’t hurt that you happily flirt back, and you never miss a beat, always prepared with a cute chirp for whatever he throws at you. But here, at his house, the rules aren’t so clearly defined. Are you just you and is he just Jack? Or is he still Dr. Abbot, one of your attendings? 

By the time you ring the doorbell he’s decided that he’s Dr. Abbot and you’re here to work. The paper is work related and so he’s going to keep it professional. He kept his prosthetic on to try and keep this whole thing as close to working in the hospital as possible but as he pulls open the door he feels his resolve wavering. You’re trying to tuck your hair behind your ear but the warm breeze is blowing it across your face. 

“Hi,” you breathe with a smile.

“Hi,” he swallows, trying not to let his eyes wander down your body but he can’t help but notice the small cut out on the neckline of your black tank top held together with an iridescent button. He feels like he’s buffering, wondering if you had been wearing that all day or if you put it on just for him, before he steps to the side, “uh, come in,” 

“I, uh, hope you like lager,” you say holding up the six pack, “I just guessed,” 

“No, that’s great,” he wanders towards the kitchen table and you follow, sitting next to him instead of across, setting the beers on the table.

“So,” you pull out a notebook, and a stack of papers, the paper he had given you yesterday, right down to business, he thinks. You sigh, looking down at the small pile you just created, then reach across the table and grab two beers out of the pack. You use the first bottle to open the second one, and then grab the disposed bottle top, pressing it between your hand and the sealed bottle, making a little leaver, popping open the second. Your eyes flick up to him as you slide one of the bottles towards him. 

“Sorry,” you say, “I’ve been working on this all day, I need to not think about it for one second.”

You clink your bottle against his and bring it to your lips and take a long drag. Jack feels his heart in his throat.

“How the fuck did you do that?” He says, bringing the bottle slowly to his mouth.

“Oh, just a little party trick I picked up in college,” you smirk. 

“You are full of surprises,” he says, setting his bottle back on the table.

“You have no idea,” you say, putting down your beer as well, “uh- so, ok,” you shift your papers around pulling his copy of notes out and setting it next to your new draft, “can I just tell you what I added and then talk about if it’s ok?”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, his mind still lingering on your little bottle cap trick and how sexy he thought it was.

“Ok, so, first I added a section about methods for prolonged pleural space drainage in the beginning where I say, ‘blah, blah, blah, application of a pigtail catheter for pleural effusion,’” with your right hand you hold up your imaginary catheter, “enter the rib space slightly above the rib below, to avoid major neurovascular bundles running underneath the rib, and collaterals running above the rib,” keeping your eyes on the paper you reach towards him, running your finger along the side of his chest, feeling for his ribs. Jack’s breath catches in his throat and hopes you don’t notice. Clearly you don’t, focusing on reading your notes and doing a mock performance of the procedure.

“Advance your needle in small increments,” you pretend to push the imaginary needle in, “aspirate first, and then inject. After you enter the pleural space, pull back again until you feel resistance again. Does that make sense?” your eyes flick up to his, your eyebrows are furrowed.

“Yeah, no, that’s good,” he says, sitting back in his chair and you move to tuck your hair behind your ears.

“Ok, yay,” your eyes move back down to the page that you then push in front of him so he can read it better, “then I added the thing you said about reexpansion pulmonary edema…”

The two of you sit around his kitchen table for hours, pouring over the paper, other case studies you printed out, making notes and plans for scans and x-rays you need to get a hold of. Eventually the two of you devolve into talking about the craziest cases he’s worked on.

“CIPA?” You say in disbelief, “you diagnosed someone with congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis? No way, I don’t believe you.”

“Swear,” he holds up his hands, “a guy in my battalion, didn’t even realize he had been shot,”

“That’s called adrenaline,” crossing your arms, empty beer bottles scattered across the table. 

“No, no,” he shakes his head with a laugh, “we did tests in the field hospital after,”

“There have been, what, three hundred documented cases ever?” You raise an eyebrow, “you’re such a liar,” 

“Why would I lie?” He crossed his arms back at you, a small smile on his face.

“To impress me,” you tilt your head to the side. He can feel himself blush as he looks down to his lap, shaking his head.

“What would it take to convince you?” His eyes flick back up to you and you’re biting back a smile.

“That you diagnosed someone with CIPA?” You look up to the ceiling and purse your lips, pretending to think hard. “Uh, his medical records and a diagnosis from someone not named Jack Abbot.”

“I might be able to make that happen,” he smirks, “and if I’m right?”

“I will cover any holiday you want for the rest of the year, including arbor day,” you smile. “And when you’re wrong?”

Jack laughs, looking around his kitchen, his eyes drift to the bar cart in the living room, standing and walking through the house. You follow, quick on his heels, all whipped up from this little debate. He pulls a bottle off the cart as you plop yourself on his couch, eyes fixed on him.

“This is a Macallan Highland single malt scotch whisky,” he holds it up. 

“Ok…?” You squint your eyes at him.

“I will give you this really nice bottle of scotch if I’m wrong,” he says, running his finger over the label.

“I don’t even know if I like really nice scotch,” you say with a mischievous grin. He sighs playfully, setting the bottle down and pulling a crystal decanter with dark amber liquid and a matching glass, sauntering over to the couch and sitting next to you. You turn towards him as he sets the glass on the table pouring a finger of scotch, then holds it out to you.

“Hm,” you say, taking the glass from him as he tries not to enjoy the feeling of your fingers brushing against each other so much.

“Cinnamon, orange zest, walnuts, nutmeg, lemon oil,” he says as you bring the glass up to your lips and he tries not to watch your mouth too closely.

“Yeah, you’re full of shit,” you laugh, coughing on the burning liquor, “that taste like lighter fluid,”

“Ok, but,” Jack laughs, “smell it, you gotta try smelling it,”

“Ohhhh ok,” you roll your eyes bringing up the crystal glass to your nose, “mmm… smells like lighter fluid too,”

“Are you always this difficult?” Jack cocks an eyebrow with a small smirk on his face.

“Tell me honestly that you smell cinnamon, or lemon oil, or whatever other bullshit you just said,” you shift onto your knees moving closer to him, so close that your knees are almost brushing against his thigh, and hold the glass up to him. He shakes his head with a laugh and leans in, his nose an inch away from the glass, taking in a deep breath. You raise your eyebrows.

“Yes,” he practically whispers.

“Are you always this difficult?” You murmur. He grabs the glass from you and throws back the rest of the scotch, placing the empty glass on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” he smirks, you drop your mouth open in shock.

“My disgusting drink!” You laugh, “that was my disgusting drink,”

He looks at you and shakes his head, a smile on the corner of his mouth. And the way you’re looking at him… he just can’t stop himself from leaning forward.

He places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips. You go still against him. He pulls back in a sharp jerk. Your face has completely changed, the flirty smirk you had before has melted away to an unreadable expression, your lips parted and an almost astonished look in your eye.

“Sorry,” he says, a look close to horror on his face, before he buries his head in his hands, “I am so sorry,” 

“Jack,” you say softly, resting your hand on his forearm.

“I’m sorry-” he presses his palms into his eyes.

“Jack,” you cut him off, reaching across him, taking his jaw in your hand and pulling him back so he’s looking at you. You let out a short breath, eyes flicking down to his mouth, moving towards him slowly. You press your lips against his with tender intention, sliding your hand up his neck, threading your fingers through his silver hair. It’s his turn to go still as you pull back only slightly, looking up at him through your dark lashes, a blush spreading across your cheeks. 

Jack whispers your name, almost pleading. The two of you press into each other, mouths moving slow but desperate. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your cheek and dragging his finger against your smooth skin. His chest aches at how soft your lips are, at the little breaths that escape you, at the feeling of your fingers in his hair. Your lips part against his and you slip your tongue in his mouth, tangling together with eagerness. 

His hands glide down your side, past your waist as he grabs your hips lifting you into his lap. You straddle his legs, sighing into his mouth, you pull back just barely so your mouth brushes against his before pushing back in. You bite down on his lower lip lightly, grazing your teeth across his mouth and he lets out a throaty groan against you. He slips his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt, you take in a sharp breath at the feeling of his rough fingertips against your plush sides. He smiles into the kiss at your reaction to his touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe against him.

“Are you sure?” He rasps, gripping down on your skin.

“Yeah,” you sigh and his eyebrows furrow in desperate anticipation. His knuckles drag against the soft skin of your sides, pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it to the side. He leans back against the couch, looking up at you while your hands rest on his stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” he runs his hand through his hair, eyes tracing the black lace of your bra. You bite your lip smiling and shaking your head, “come here,” he says, voice gravely. Before bending forward you grip down on the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. Your hands immediately find his face again, fingers running along the silver pinpricks of his scruff as his big, warm hands travel down the expanse of your back, pulling you flush against him as he falls back into the couch. You lick against his cupid’s bow and he pushes his tongue into your open mouth with a desperate whimper.

Jack feels like his heart is in his throat. You are on top of him, smooth skin pressing against one another, sighing and panting into each other’s mouths. You roll your hips down into him, slowly grinding yourself on him, denim rubbing on denim as you both make pathetic sounds at the pressure. He wraps his arm around your waist and you make an adorable gasping sound, gripping on his silver curls as he tips you over so you’re flat on your back and he can’t help but smile against your mouth again. Your lips move together fast and feverishly as you slide your hands from his hair.

Jack pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, aching at the loss of contact, but his chest tightens as he watches you unbutton your jeans, squirming out of the denim beneath him. Fully out of your pants Jack lets out a groan at the sight of you in your lacy black bra and matching panties. He sits back slightly, running a hand down between your tits, over your stomach, settling on your hipbone, tracing small circles on your black lace thong.

“Did you put this on for me?” Jack says, voice low and rough. You bite back a smile and let out a breath like a laugh, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back down on top of you.

“You fuckin’ wish,” you smirk before wrapping your arms around his neck, molding your lips against his. 

“I do,” he groans into your mouth, cupping your tit in his warm hand, running his thumb over your hard nipple through the thin fabric. You let out a little whimper at the sensation and you’re having trouble focusing before you manage to speak, “take off your pants,”

“I need to take off my leg,” he breathes, feeling a prick of heat spread in his chest.

“That too,” you whisper without missing a beat. He forces himself to push off of you, immediately missing the warmth of your body beneath him. You sit on your knees next to him, hands already trying to get his belt off, your mind hazy with lust.

“Leg first,” he says with a smirk, resting a hand over your frantic ones. 

“Ok,” you breathe before you lean forward, pressing hot kisses to his neck as he pulls the leg of his jeans up. He rolls the sleeve down his shin, exposing where the prosthetic meets his leg.

“Step on the foot,” he instructs, voice still raspy with desire.

“Step on your foot?” You repeat with a touch of hesitation, and it’s just so endearing he grabs your neck and pulls you in, kissing you deep and firmly.

“Don’t worry,” he pulls back, running his thumb along your jugular, “I won’t feel it,”

“Ha ha,” you say, flatly, a small smile playing on your perfect mouth. You swing your leg off the couch and press your foot down onto the sneaker. He pulls his leg straight up and barely yanks the sleeve the rest of the way down before your hands are on his belt again, tugging it off, pulling his jeans down his muscular thighs.

“Come here,” he tugs you back towards him, your back to his chest, hauling one of your legs over his lap so you're spread out for him. He unhooks your bra and yanks the lace down your body. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he says, moaning at the sight of your perfect tits, full and round, nipples hard, aching to be touched. You reach your hand up behind you, snaking it around his neck, twisting your fingers into his curls at the back of his neck, pulling him towards you, lips pressing together with heat and passion as you slip your tongue back into his welcoming mouth.

“Jack,” you whisper against his lips with urgency, “touch me.”

He lets out a soft moan, before grasping your tits in his hands as your tongues twist together with desperate, aching fervor. He slides one hand down your body as his other hand massages the soft flesh of your tit. He traces the hem of your panties at a teasing pace before cupping your clothed pussy, making you whine into his mouth and try to press back into him further. He slips his hand beneath the damp, black fabric, dragging a finger up your wet slit and he can’t help but gasp against you.

“Fuck, pretty girl, you’re so wet,” he says, lightly toying with your clit. You let out a pathetic whimper as he starts to rub slow, tight circles on you. He can’t believe how slick your pussy is just from kissing him and he’s dying to make you drip and cream and squirm all night. His thick fingers rub so deliciously against you that you can already feel your orgasm building in your stomach.

“Jack, please,” you whimper, “fuck me with your fingers,”

He groans hearing those filthy words fall from your mouth, something he’s fantasized about so many times before he can hardly believe it’s really happening. You, in his lap, soft and wet and at his mercy. As bad as he wants to make you beg for it he wants to hear the pretty sounds you make more, so he slips his middle finger all the way inside you. You make a whining squeak that goes right to his cock, straining against his boxers, as he slowly starts to pump his finger into your tight pussy. The way you squeeze and tremble around his one thick finger… he can hardly imagine what you’ll feel like gripping down on his cock. He can’t get over how sensistive you are, he’s been fucking you on one finger for only a minute and you’re already shaking against him gripping his thigh with one hand and the edge of the sofa with the other.  

“Fuck,” you whine, leaning your head back against his shoulder, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna come-”

He drops his head forward, sucking on your neck, his left hand cupping your tit, flicking and teasing your pretty nipples, his right hand pumping his middle finger in and out of you at a relentless pace. He’s curling up inside you, hitting your g-stop over and over, making you feel like you’re on fire.

“Come for me beautiful,” he growls into your skin, addicted to the squelching sounds your pussy is making. Your nails dig into his thighs and he feels your walls start to flutter around his finger. You squeak out, gripping his thigh with your right hand, grabbing his left wrist with your other hand as he tweaks your nipple which aches with sore pleasure.

“Jack-” you feel the coil inside you break and you tuck your head into his shoulder, biting down on his neck as you come, hips shaking, “I’m coming- I’m coming- I- fuck-”

Jack keeps fucking you on his fingers through your orgasm, only slowing his pumping as you try to come down, shaking against him, already a mess. He pulls his finger from your pussy in a long, deliberate drag, making you let out a little oh sound as the loss of him inside you. He brings his finger up to his mouth, sucking off all the cum you just gave him. Your chest is still heaving, his eyes fixed on your perfect tits, one of which is still in his warm hand. He gives your breast a soft squeeze which makes you take in a sharp breath and look up at him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his warm breath fanning over your flushed cheeks. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your jaw and pulling you into another slow kiss. You sigh against him, keeping your lips pressed to his you stand between his legs, resting your hands on his meaty thighs. You pull back from his mouth, ghosting your lips down to his neck, kissing, licking, and sucking your way down his body. He runs his fingers through his hair in aching anticipation, just the sight of you on his knees in front of him makes his stomach feel hot and tight. You hook your finger in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his legs before gathering your hair to one side.

Jack holds his breath as you lick a long flat line up the underside of his aching cock. Your spit drips down his throbbing shaft and he drops his head against the back of the couch. If he’s gonna last anywhere close to a respectable amount he can’t look at you, he can’t focus too hard on your warm wet mouth and how it feels, fuck, how it feels closing around his tip. You let out a small moan, sucking on him like he’s a fucking lollipop. You drop your head down further, twisting his shaft with your soft hands while you lick around the head of his dick. 

Jack grips the back of the couch trying to think of anything other than you on your knees between his legs and his cock in your pretty mouth. Pleural effusion, neurovascular bundles, pulmonary edemas, anything other than the sound you make as you press your nose to his pelvis: wet, gags as you swallow around his cock. Jesus Christ, he can’t help but drop his eyes down to you but the second he does he wishes he hadn’t. Your lips are swollen as you suck on his pink tip, hand shimmering with your spit as you pump up and down, your other hand… Fuck. Your other hand is in your panties. You’re touching yourself while his cock is down your throat.

He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you off his dick with a wet pop. You look up at him with his cock still firmly in your grasp, your lips shining with spit, and a look he can only think of as innocence. God, you’re so young. His chest tightens. Should he even be doing this with you? He doesn't think he’s ever wanted anything more. But he’s your boss. And you’re such a brilliant doctor. And he knows something like this would follow you around much longer than it would follow him. And you’re standing, and pulling your little black panties down, and climbing into his lap. And he’s not stopping you. Because he doesn’t want to. He just can’t. He grips your hips as you straddle his legs, taking his face in one hand, pressing a searing kiss to his lips.

Jack’s breath catches as you grind your glistening core against the hard line of his cock. Your mouth is on his neck and you’re biting and sucking and he is just melting. He can’t believe you’re about to let him fuck you raw… he’s clean and he implicitly knows that you are too, that you would never put him in harms way. But is he putting you in harm's way by doing this? 

“Jack,” you whisper, snapping him out of his spiral, “are you okay?”

He’s gone partially rigid beneath you. Your fingers are twisting into the curls on the back of his neck and the way you’re looking at him, desperate and hopeful and almost smitten… he silently decides that this is it. He’s only going to let this happen once, right now, so he’s gonna fucking enjoy it. He takes your face in his hands, pulling you into him, placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

“I’ve just-” he strokes your soft cheek with his thumb, forehead resting on yours, “I’ve wanted this for so long.” You let out a breath like a laugh at his earnestness.

“Me too,” you whisper, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. You rest one hand on his shoulder before you reach between the two of you, gripping his hard shaft before pushing yourself onto your heels, rubbing the throbbing head of his cock against your slick, little pussy.

“Fuck,” he groans, looking down between the two of you, his mouth dropping open as you sink down, sucking his cock up inside you. He grabs your hips, not sure if he wants to slow you down or slam you onto him, your skin under his fingertips turning shades lighter at the pressure he’s applying. You bring your other hand up to his shoulder, clinging onto him. The way he’s stretching you creates a delicious, aching, burn in your core.

“Fuck- you’re so big- I” you whimper, moving down his shaft at a glacial pace, trying to get used to the way his girth is splitting you open.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Jack almost growls, forcing himself to keep his hips still, “that’s it,”

You’re halfway down his cock and Jack loses all ability to speak, overcome with the way you pulse around him. He watches himself squeeze in between your legs, his mouth open letting out a low moan as he tries to focus on making this last as long as he can. Finally, you sit with your ass flushed against his thighs, his dick fully inside you, the pair of you already breathing heavily. His stomach tightens, making his cock flex inside you, and you squeak out a small sound. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, then you raise your hips and he reflexively bites down on your bottom lip.

Jack whimpers your name and you let out a breath into his mouth, slowly starting to move up and down on his hard shaft. He reaches up, taking your soft tits in his hands, kneading them, tweaking your nipples, trying to get more sounds out of you. 

“Jack,” you whine and start riding him faster, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. He watches your tits bounce with a hunger that he has never felt before. Your eyebrows furrow together in pleasure as his thick cock stretches out your pussy, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. You already feel like you’re ready to come again just looking down at him: his cheeks flushed, lips parted in burning desire, salt and pepper curls wild.

“Fuck-” Jack groans as you bounce on top of him, “your pussy- so tight-” 

“You feel so fucking good,” you say, switching your movement from up and down to back and forth, hips grinding down on Jack. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, rolling the other around in his fingers. Your clit catches on his abs as you push yourself backward and your hips stutter. 

“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” He manages to groan. He takes your hand in his and pushes your fingers into your own mouth and pulls them out sharply. A string of spit falling from your mouth to your fingers, catching on one of your nipples as you bring your hand in between your bodies.

“Jack,” you moan as your legs twitch, you grab the back of his neck trying to hold yourself up. He takes your face in his hands, kissing you hard. Your kiss turns sloppy, tongues rolling against one another, mouths sleek with spit, sucking each other's lips between teeth. You moan into him as you rub tight circles on your clit, feeling the warm pressure crescendoing in your core as you grind down harder.

“That’s it,” he groans, the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him, “you gonna make a mess on my cock? You gonna come for me again?”

“Yeah-” you whimper against his lips, “I wanna come for you-”

“Where do you- want me to come, gorgeous?” He sighs, feeling his orgasm rising in his abdomen, “ah- fuck- you’re so perfect,” 

“Inside me,” You breathe into his mouth, fingers rubbing tightly against your clit, and with this request Jack feels the tension inside him snap.

“Holy shit- I’m- fuck-” he whimpers.

“Jack- I’m coming-” You squeak, burying your face in his neck and he pulls your hips up and down, impaling you on his cock over and over.

 “I’m coming- I’m-” He pushes forcefully up inside you, pulling your body tight against him filling you with his creamy load. He grabs your jaw, holding you in place, kissing you hard. The two of you grip onto each other like lifelines as you ride out your synchronized orgasm, shaking and panting against each other. 

As his come drips slowly out of your pussy his kisses turn soft and unhurried, licking against your tongue languidly. You let your full weight come down on Jack who relishes in the feeling of you pressing him down into the sofa. He runs his fingers down the line of your back, the feeling of your sticky body against his, his cum dripping down your legs and onto his stomach, is euphoric.

SUNDAY 11:00AM

The sun streams through Jack’s bedroom window, his blackout curtains hanging open. This rare occurrence of him going to sleep at night had rendered them almost pointless and he couldn’t be happier that the morning light is filling his room because it illuminates you in his bed. You’re sleeping on your stomach, the sheets bunched up around your waist, your hair tousled and fanning over your face obscuring it from his view. He turns to his slide, leaning on his elbow and watches the slow rise and fall of your breath, tracing the long line of your spine with his eyes.

The two of you had gone to bed last night deliriously giddy. After laying together on the couch in a tangled sweaty mess for a while you had slipped on your panties and his t-shirt while he pulled on his boxers. He watched you disappear around the corner heading for the bathroom and was delightfully amused when you came back riding his wheelchair like a scooter, your knee resting on the seat while the other pushed you towards him. 

Jack had pulled you down onto his lap, your back flushed to his chest, before rolling the two of you towards his bedroom. He playfully bit your neck when you asked him what the mileage on this thing was, drinking up the sounds of your giggles. He watched you crawl onto his bed before hauling himself up next to you. 

“You’re probably gonna want to take this off,” he gripped the hem of his t-shirt which hung loosely on your body, “don’t want you to overheat,”

“Mm,” you hummed with a smile, “is that your professional opinion, Dr. Abbot?”

“Oh, definitely,” he smirked, sliding his hand up your side, pushing his shirt up as you lifted your arms. He threw his shirt across the room, before he pulled you on top of him and dragged the fluffy comforter over the pair of you.

“You’re so warm,” you sighed, stretching your arm across his chest snuggling yourself into his side.

“I told you- overheating is a real risk,” he smiled as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, tucking you against his body.

Jack can’t help himself any longer and reaches forward, brushing your hair out of your face with a gentle swipe and something about seeing you like this, so vulnerable and innocent sends his mind back to the promise he made himself last night: this was a one time thing. His chest is already starting to pinprick with nerves. The last thing he wants is for you to feel used or, god forbid, taken advantage of, but he needs to cut this off, before it gets out of hand, for your sake. He knows you’re a big girl and you can make your own choices about your body and what, or who, you do with it, but he has experience… and this could get messy. Jack isn’t willing to let his relationship with you suffer because he can’t keep his dick in his pants.

At such an early point in your career you’re already such an amazing doctor. There goes the future of medicine, he has caught himself thinking multiple times as you walked by him in the Pitt. He wants to be a springboard for you, not a weight around your ankles, and if whatever this is happens again he fears that he could become the thing that holds you back personally and professionally. No. He wants to be the person in your corner pushing you forward. You’ll understand. You’ll probably already be thinking the same thing he is. The two of you just operate on the same wavelength… 

Your breath shifts as you turn your head into the pillow letting out a soft groan. You turn your head in his direction, tucking your messy hair behind your ear, barely opening your eyes before closing them again. You reach your hand out for him, rolling onto your back and pulling him on top of you. You wrap your arms around his neck, breathing in deeply as he buries his face in your hair.

“Mmm,” you groan softly, “good morning.” Jack smiles against your locks, his resolve already wavering. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, tracing a long line down your side with his fingers, “did you sleep ok?”

“So good,” your voice is raspy with sleep and he tries to push away the thought of how much he likes it. Hearing your tired voice. Having you in his bed. He tries to hold his ground, rolling onto his back, but you just follow, settling yourself onto his broad chest. Fuck you’re making this hard and you’re not even trying, you’re still half asleep for christ’s sake. You let out a soft, content hum and start tracing small swirling patterns on his chest. Fine. After you leave today, this will be done. Jack wraps his arms around you, trying to memorize the feeling of your smooth skin beneath his rough palms.

“Jack,” you say gently, shifting in his arms so you can look up at him, “I think we should talk about… what this means…”

“Ok,” he says, entirely unsure what direction you’re about to take this and having trouble focusing with your naked body pressed against him.

“I- I’m really glad this happened-” you start slowly.

“Me too,” he says, his heart fluttering at how you look away shyly before flicking your eyes back up at him.

“I just- I don’t know if this is a good idea-” your eyes flicker with sadness which ripples through Jack’s chest, “not because I don’t want to- you know- do this again- I just,” you pause and take a deep breath, “please don’t be annoying about what I’m about to say,”

“Ok,” He furrows his brow.

“I love working with you,” your eyes drop down to where your fingers trace little stars on his chest, “it’s one of my favorite parts of my job. And if something bad happened between us, and we couldn’t, or wouldn’t, work together anymore… I don’t know… I think I’d be really upset,”

“I’d be upset too,” Jack’s heart feels like it’s bursting at your sweet confession, but he’s trying so hard not to be overly sentimental so he pivots, “does this mean I’m your favorite attending?” He says with a cheeky smirk. You let out a little breath, rolling your eyes with a smile, god he adores your smile.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” You say, a small blush spreading across your cheeks. 

“Well you’re my favorite resident,” he says, brushing his thumb across your shoulder… have your faces been this close together this whole time?

“I already knew that,” you murmur, your nose almost brushing against his.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head the slightest bit and you let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” you whisper and it’s like the two of you just can’t help yourselves.

You press up into him, molding your mouths together with a slow eagerness, his hand cupping your jaw trying to keep you close. You’re already all whimpers and breaths, twisting your fingers into his curls trying to get him closer. He rolls over to his side so your tits squish against his chest, his cock hardening at the feeling of your supple skin against his. He traces the curve of your body while you slip your tongue into his mouth, rolling against each other in aching passion. He hitches your leg up over his hip, gripping down on your thigh and you let out a little gasp which he gladly swallows. You roll onto your back, pulling him between your open legs the pair of you grabbing at each other desperately.

“Just one more time, ok?” you say breathless.

“Yeah,” he pants, “one more time,”

You tilt your hips up, pressing your knees to his side are you rub your core against his shaft, fuck, you’re already slick. Jack groans at the feel of your sticky pussy grinding up his cock. 

“Fuck-” he groans your name, “you’re already so wet for me,”

“Jack,” you whimper, shifting beneath him, “please fuck me,”

He reaches down, takes his hot cock in his hand and gives two little taps to your clit with his flushed pink tip making you jolt. He dips the head in just barely before pulling back out, smearing your wetness across your pussy lips.

“Don’t tease,” you squirm below him, pushing your hips up, trying to force him inside of you. He holds the base of his cock with one hand, the other hand resting on your knee which pushes up against your chest. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, notching himself into you before pressing in at teasing, slow pace.

“Oh,” you squeak as his thick cock stretches you out deliciously. You watch him squeeze inside you with your mouth parted, you can hardly believe he fits. Jack’s eyes are locked on you, your plush lips, the blush on your cheeks, your brows furrowed in anticipation, your chest heaving with pleasure. 

“Eyes on me,” he rasps, and you listen, your gaze flicking up to him as you take one of your fingers into your mouth, biting your nail. The pair of you stare at each other, faces painted with desire as he fully pushes into you. You look so pretty, so desperate. Jack stops for a moment after he’s fully inside you, overwhelmed by the feeling of your pulsing around him. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders as your breath shakes at the sensation of his dick flexing in you. You’re both breathless at the feeling of him stretching you out.

“Fuck,” he says hanging his head forward, resting in the crook of your neck, “your pussy feels so fucking good.”

“Jack,” you moan, rocking your hips up, trying desperately to get some relief at the ache burning inside you, “fuck”

You grip onto the back of his neck, tangling your fingers into his salt and pepper curls as he starts to fucks you slow and hard. He’s pushing in with such force that your tits jiggle with every thrust, brushing your nipples against his hard chest making them sore with pleasure. You feel entirely consumed by him: the weight of his broad body against yours, his cock stretching you out creating a hot coil deep inside you, his lips on your neck, his whimpers in your ear.

“Play with your clit, pretty girl,” he says against your throat. You slide your hand between your bodies, rubbing quick circles on yourself. The whimpers and moans you make are intoxicating. Feeling his own orgasm already building in his abdomen he pushes himself up on his arms so he can look down at you, your face flushed, tits bouncing, body glistening with sweat. You’re a mess, the look on your face is one of pure bliss and it’s all for him. He cups your jaw, trying to memorize you like this but you turn your head slightly and suck his thumb into your mouth.

“Oh my god,” he groans as he thuds his cock into you over and over, “you’re so fucking sexy,” he pulls his thumb from your swollen lips, rubbing the spit across your top lip before dropping down to his elbows, kissing you with reckless desire. You lick into each other's mouths, devouring one another’s breaths and whines.

“Jack,” you whimper, your fingers moving faster, “I’m gonna come,”

You look up at him with desperation in your eyes and he can't believe he has you like this, falling apart on his cock. His stomach tightens as he feels his orgasm rising in his core.

“Yeah?” he says, a small smile on his face. You pull him down to kiss his lips again, rolling your tongue over his passionately.

“Mmn,” you sob into his mouth, “I'm gonna- I'm coming- ”

“Good girl,” he manages to groan out before the pulsing and throbbing of your pussy around his cock sends him over the edge, “fuck- I’m coming,” his abs flexing and hips stuttering, as he bites down on your bottom lip and releases his hot load deep inside you. He keeps fucking you through both of your orgasms, the sound of his cum squelching out of you filling the room as his lips stay pressed against yours. His thrusts slow until he stills, staying pushed inside you as your arms remain wrapped around his neck, his hands gripping your waist. 

The two of you are heaving, sweaty messes, pressed up against each other. After a moment you shift your hips slightly and his softening cock slips out of you as you begin running your fingers up and down his back.The room seems to be filled with a heavy sense of stillness, both of you unwilling to move much because once you do then this moment, the two of you together, will be over. He moves first, turning his face into your neck and places light kisses along your throat. 

“Jack,” you whisper, running your fingers through his soft curls.

“Mm,” he hums against your neck.

“I meant what I said,” you say softly, trying to bite back a smile at his sweet affection.

“Me too,” he says between kisses, “not gonna happen again,” kiss, “you’re too important to me,” kiss, “my favorite doctor,” kiss.

“I’m telling Robby you said that,” you blush. Jack lets out a groan and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

“Please don’t talk about Robby right now,” he murmurs as you giggle. Jack lifts his head, unable to do anything besides smile at you.

“He’s the perfect mood killer,” you say, pushing a curl off his forehead. The two of you stay like that for a moment, looking at each other with longing before you sigh, “I- uh- I should probably go,”

“No- yeah- ok” he says, reluctantly shifting to his back, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the duvet back up over his lap. He watches you climb out of his bed and slip on your panties, padding out to the living room where your clothes had been discarded the night before. Jack tries not to linger on your body for too long. You come back after a minute fully clothed and sit next to him on the edge of the bed.

“I- we probably shouldn’t tell anyone at work about this,” you say, looking down at where your hand rests on the crisp, white bedspread, dangerously close to his. You move your pinky just slightly so it brushes against his and he flexes his hand in your direction too. 

“Probaby not, no,” Jack says, his voice raspy. Your eyes flick back up to his and you cup his face, running your thumb over his jaw, a look on your face that Jack can only think of as wistful. 

“Bye Jack,” you say softly before standing.

“I’ll- uh- see you Monday,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as you back out of the room.

“Yeah,” you give him a gentle smile, “see you Monday,”

You turn and walk out of the bedroom. He listens to the sound of you gathering your papers from the kitchen table before you walk to the front door, opening and closing it softly. He runs his hands over his face letting out a groan. He is so fucked.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

“This is the Kid,” Din explains. “Or, that’s what I’ve been calling him at least.” 

He pulls you to his side, ducking to press a gentle kiss to the slope of your neck. His lips linger in place for a moment, and when he pulls back, you take in how tired he looks. Weariness etched into his face, he lowers his voice so the boy won’t hear. “He won’t tell me his name yet.”

Your mouth pops open with more questions, and he gives your hip a quick squeeze with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll tell you more upstairs.”

Leaving you with the child, the two of you watch as he approaches the madam at the end of the bar. She’s been watching him with narrowed eyes ever since he walked in, and though the noise in the room covers most of their conversation, you can tell from their expressions they’re arguing. 

Well, from her expression. She looks outraged, while he stays firm, the picture of unyielding. Biting the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling, you watch as he wears her down. 

“This is no place for a child, Din,” you hear her chide, and to this, he simply responds by placing a sizable sum of money into her hand, closing her fist around it. 

Both you and the child raise your eyebrows, glancing at each other. 

The madam gives Din a long, stubborn look – and then snaps her fan open, signaling to a couple girls in the corner. 

At this, you lead the boy over. 

“He needs dinner,” Din instructs the women, busy enveloping the boy in their embrace. “And a bath.”

They wave away his words, cooing over how handsome he is, clearly overjoyed to be tasked with babysitting for the night versus any other obligations.

They lead him away, and Din takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, girl,” he sighs. “Let's go upstairs.” 

–

In the bath, he’s quiet. Perched on his lap, you stay silent, unsure if he’s waiting for Gracie or if he is savoring the moment of peace. With the way he lets his head tip forward to rest against your sternum, you think it’s the latter. 

Slipping your fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck, you feel him melt against you, the stiff set of his shoulder relaxing at your touch. He sighs, the weight of his worries ghosting along your skin and his hands splay over your hips, as if seeking an anchor in your soft warmth. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you tighter.

His mouth brushes warm and delicate over the swell of your breast, an action that pulls at a thread of longing from deep within you. His handling of you is so much more tender than you’re used to, so much more reverential – but before you question the emotions it brings forth, Gracie lets herself into the room with a bright and eager smile. She’s always loved a good story.

“I heard you have a little friend with you,” she greets Din, sitting down on the edge of the tub. Bracing herself on the rim, she leans down with an offer of a kiss. Water trickles as he lifts his hand to cradle her jaw, attempting to turn the kiss into more, but she slips from his grasp.

“Not –,” another peck on his lips, “before–,” she sighs, letting his mouth slide down to taste the hinge of her jaw, “ – you tell me where he came from.”

Letting himself sink back into the warm water, he does. 

–

Tracking a bounty about a hundred miles south of a nearby town, it had taken Din a week to get there. Just like the landscape, every person along his path had been rough and unyielding. Every lead had been hard won, every piece of information paid for in coin or with muscle – and even then, the search was half luck. 

Luck that had clearly run out, resulting in a dead end.

Frustrated in his failure, he had doubled back to the last tavern he visited to see if he could drum up any more information. 

He had been riding for about an hour when he heard a loud shot echo across a field. Narrowing his eyes under the brim of his hat, he spotted a small house on the horizon, a barn tucked behind it. Between hunting and farm life, it wasn’t unusual to hear a gunshot, and he continued for a moment before another shot rang out.

At this one, he pulled his horse to a stop. 

The sound of it felt wrong to him, off somehow. Acting on instinct, he rode over to find the front door hanging open on its hinges, the front window broken out. Grunts and thumps of a struggle came from within the house, and drawing his pistol from the holster, he carefully rounded the doorway. 

Inside, he found the dead bodies of a man and a woman, slumped over a wooden floor pooled with blood. 

He also found the man he was searching for. 

The man held a boy in his grip, the two of them locked in a fight. The child‘s small body frantically kicked and squirmed, trying everything in his power to get away while the man struggled to hang on tight, his other hand reaching for his gun that was lying on the floor. 

Then, several things happened at once: Din stepped forward, and the man snatched up the pistol. The quarry reflexively cocked the hammer with his thumb, aiming his gun straight at the boy's temple – and without hesitation, Din aimed his own pistol at the man and pulled the trigger. 

The quarry slumped over, dead. 

With fear-flooded eyes, the child scrambled up and bolted from the house. 

Letting the boy run, Din stepped over his quarry’s body with a sigh. All that work for nothing – the flyer in his saddle said “Alive”, not “Dead”. 

He salvaged what he could: the pistol on the floor, a knife in the man’s boot. Then, he set to work gathering supplies for the child. He rifled through the bureau in the corner, stuffing some clothing in a sack. He grabbed what little food he could from the kitchen. He took a pair of shoes for the kid, a spare blanket from the closet, and at the last minute, the sole picture on the mantel. 

Leaving three dead bodies behind him, he went in search of the kid. 

He found him hiding in the hay loft, his tear streaked face appearing over the edge when Din walked through the barn doors. Understanding that sudden movements and sharp orders were the last thing that were going to work, Din was patient and soothing, with a stillness to him that eventually won the child out. 

Knowing there was nothing left for the boy there, Din lifted him onto his saddle and climbed up behind him. 

With a spur of his heels, they left the house behind. 

–

“He wouldn’t leave my side at the sheriff’s office,” he finishes. “They said there was a place for him with the nuns, but he won’t go.” Kneading the soft flesh on your hips, he slides his hand up. The plump side of your breast fits within his palm, and he runs his thumb over your nipple, making it swell under his touch. 

“I don’t blame him,” he adds. “The nuns are a little too prim for me.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, and he winks. 

“Well, what are you going to do?” Gracie asks, worried. “You can’t just keep him, can you?”

“If he won’t go with the nuns and if his parents are gone, I guess he stays with me,” he shrugs. “Traveling with me is no life for a kid…but I don’t know what else to do. I guess from now on, wherever I go, he goes.”

With both parents dead and almost getting killed himself, you can’t imagine what that child has gone through. Even more, what else he’s going to be exposed to trailing around with Din. Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession – a hard life full of violence and struggle, constantly nomadic, never stable. Frowning at the thought, you’re pulled from your reverie when Din cups your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. 

“Hey now,” he soothes, the lilt of a tease in his tone. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take good care of him.”

Your head tips to the side with silent skepticism, an objection he answers with a press of his mouth against yours. Firm and sure, his kiss silences your worries, distracting you with a slow, lush slide of his tongue against yours. You deepen it, and his hips shift restlessly beneath your straddle, the heft of his stiffening cock pressing along the inside of your thigh. 

“I know what will cheer you ladies up,” he says lowly, capturing your bottom lip with a tug of his teeth before soothing the swollen skin with a kiss. He pulls back, just enough for you to see a glint of dark lust in his eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

–

With Din, you have come to learn, a game could mean different things depending on his mood.

Sometimes, it meant an actual game, like the time he challenged the two of you to strip poker. Extreme in his confidence, he forgot that you and Gracie watch men play poker all day long. In no time at all, the two of you had him down to his drawers, an outcome that had him protesting that you must be cheating. His claim was that you had spare cards hidden under your (nearly transparent) clothes, so you answered by taking them off. Gowns tossed onto the floor, you both climbed onto his lap, and with a straddle over his firm thighs, the game was quickly forgotten. 

Tonight however, you can tell he doesn’t mean that kind of game. 

He means one of his games, the kind he makes the rules for.

Out of the bath and dried off, he explains the rules. 

“Gracie is the bounty hunter,” he says, deftly securing his heavy belt across her naked hips. It sags low on her body with weight, and he checks to see that it’s fastened tight by dipping his fingers beneath the band of leather. They brush through the sparse curls that cover her cunt, and when he looks up from his crouched position, her thighs squeeze together to quell her visible need. 

Satisfied, he presses a kiss to the soft slope of her belly before standing up straight. Turning, he rests his dark eyes on you. “And you, girl. You’re our quarry.” 

He winds a length of rope around the width of his hand, your breath catching at the sight. Everything about his movements scream predatory: slow steps forward, his eyes raking over your body. Unbearably erotic too, given his stark nakedness. The width of his shoulders and the competence in his hands only serves to make him feel even more intimidating, and the want on his face paired with the implication of his words is so blatant. 

Flushed with your own need by the time he comes to a stop in front of you, he teases the rope just under your belly button, and your cunt clenches, the cradle of your hips tight with anticipation.  

His eyes stay fixed on yours when he gives his order. “Hands out.”

Deft and quick, he binds your wrists together. When he’s done, he gives the rope a sharp tug to test its strength, pulling you toward him. 

“You look good like this,” he praises, drinking you in. His nose skims along the column of your neck, goosebumps following its path. 

Taking a breath, you try to steady your thrumming heart. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

Swallowing hard, you nod. 

Stepping back, he drags a chair to the middle of the room with a scrape across the floor, sitting down to openly admire your positioning. The two of you to play with, his to do with what he wants. His posture exudes arrogance: slouched low in the chair, feet planted on the floor, legs spread wide. Tension fills the small, warmly lit space and arousal pulls up inside you, slick and wet between your legs. He looks gorgeous in this light: his skin a golden brown, his hair dark with dampness, his eyes almost black. 

Your gaze lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the trail of hair that collects along his belly to run down towards his lap, you hear Gracie sharply inhale when he brazenly palms his stiff cock, taking himself in hand. His forearm flexes as he gives himself a leisurely squeeze, stroking from base to tip. 

“Okay, girl,” he prompts. “Beg.”

You do. You put your whole heart into it, knowing he likes the show. There is something about the struggle, something about seeing you bound and at his mercy that makes his cock harden, makes his stomach cinch as he sits up straight to get closer.

“Please,” you beg, tugging against the ropes. “You’ve got the wrong person. I swear. I’ll do anything.”

He tilts his head, a smirk gracing his lips. “You can do better than that. What do you think, Gracie?”

“That was nothing,” she plays along. 

He raises his eyebrows in challenge, and you try again. “Please, please. Please, just let me go, I promise– “

The door opens, and the three of you turn your heads at the sound. 

“Is everything okay in–,” the madam starts, her words caught in her open mouth at the sight in front of her. 

Gracie, a heavy belt low on her hips. You, bound and begging for your freedom. Din, lording over it all. Every one of you without a stitch of clothing on. She’s seen all manner of requests, but even this is a new one for her. She blinks, and another girl walks behind her through the hallway, doing a double take.

Making no effort to explain, Din lifts his chin in command. 

“Close the door.”

Without a word, she does – and he’s out of his chair just as fast. 

“This one is gonna get us in trouble. I think we need to gag her.”

You give him a wary, mischievous look, taking a step back for every one he takes towards you and you stop when you bump into the soft warmth of Gracie. She wraps her arms around you, her breasts tight against your back, her small hand curling at the base of your throat to hold you in place. 

“You got something to stuff in her mouth?” she teases, and you can’t help your smile. 

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “That’s so – oh fuck.”

The heat of Din’s body crowds you close to her, his hand finding a home between your thighs. His thumb swirls a slick circle over your clit, and he watches your face as you falter, your expression softening into arousal. He keeps going, enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and Gracie’s delicate touch skims down over your hip, sliding down the inside of your thigh to hold you open for him. 

“What was that?” he asks, his voice like gravel. “What were you saying?”

Sliding his touch through your slick cunt, he teases your aching entrance before filling you swiftly with two thick fingers. His thumb stays on your clit, and he works his touch in tandem: his fingers sliding out to sink back in, his thumb working, working, working. They curl, drawing out heady arousal, your body trapped captive between them. 

You sag into Gracie, and she mouths a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Please,” you whine, your hips canting forward, chasing the fill of his fingers. “I want more.”

His body is so warm and firm, his masculine scent going straight to your head. Paired with the silky touch of Gracie, you close your eyes, letting everything inside you build higher and higher. Your nipples tighten, and her lush mouth presses sweet kisses along your shoulder while you feel the humid skate of Din’s breath over your sensitive skin. 

“Yea?” he asks, bending to take your nipple in his mouth. Your eyes open at his first hard pull, a moan breaking free when he sucks on the peak, toying at it with the tip of his tongue. “You want more?”

“Please.”

Obeying, he slides his slick fingers deeper, working his thumb faster, opening his mouth wider to taste more of your flesh with a savoring pull. He groans against your skin, his other hand skimming up your side with a weighty drag, and Gracie tugs at your other nipple with a delightful pluck. They work as a team, one playing off the other, and Din’s hand cups your chin, just as the other abruptly stops its slick glide. 

You whimper, and he grips your chin tight, leaning in to murmur his words directly under your ear. 

“Too bad we don’t bargain with quarries.”

–

It’s a lot after that. 

Shoving you down on the bed, looping your bound wrists over the bedpost so you can’t escape. Stretching out on the bed beside you, making Gracie ride him. Forcing you to watch while she fucks him hard and fast, his grip tucked under the leather belt to guide her hips forward and back with sharp tugs. He’s filthy and base, feral in his sounds and in his need and slick warmth coats the inside of your thighs, the sheets underneath you damp with arousal. You’re so turned on it hurts, and he watches you struggle against your ropes – a sight that only seems to spur him on. 

Gracie comes with a high cry, collapsing down to the mattress to catch her breath, and before you can even make room for her, he’s shouldering your thighs open, spreading them wide. His hot mouth drags against the skin on your inner thighs, teasing a wet path upwards before giving your clit an open mouthed kiss. Neglected and aching, your hips jerk forward at the sensation, and he bands his thick forearm across them, keeping you in place. Forcing you to take every lick, every lave, every suck and pull and kiss – all the while, paying attention to every detail your body gives away. 

Clenching around his tongue, your hips grind needy and restless against his mouth, the pitch of your moans more and more breathless as you get closer to your peak. “Oh fuck. Din. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He forces you closer and closer to the edge, dangling you over it until you’re babbling and pleading–and then he stops. 

You let out a sob, pulling at your restraints. “No. No, please.”

Again and again he does it, dragging you to the top of your peak without letting you come. 

Sweat beads along your hairline, your skin slick with moisture. Your muscles ache and his hold tightens. His mouth gets messier, hungrier, and Gracie kisses you through it all, alternating between swallowing your cries and worshiping your tight, aching breasts. 

Only when your voice is raw with real begging does he let you come.  

The force of it pulls you under, upending you. Your back bows against the mattress, your thighs clenching so hard they cramp. Soaked, your arousal smears on the sheets and is slick on your skin and glistens on the lower half of his face – everything sticky and slick and wet. Pliant and limp, you lay there with your arms suspended above you as he shoves up onto his knees, making a space for himself between your trembling thighs. You let out a soft whine when you see him grasping his cock to line himself up. 

As tired as you are, you want it. He teases your clit with the tip of his cock, tapping the weight of it against the sensitive bundle of nerves and you crave the thick fill of it, the satisfying stretch only he can provide. He always fucks so thorough and so deep, and you need him to fill you up, to finally give you relief.  

Your hips squirm on the bed, and he pinches the inside of your knee with a teasing tweak. “Hold still, or I’ll have Gracie sit on your face.”

Your face collapses into a frown of pleasure, and Gracie giggles breathlessly beside you. 

Bracing himself heavily on your hips, he pins you in place as he leans his weight into the hold, rocking his hips forward to slide into you with a smooth, full stroke. Your breath hitches it feels so good, even more so when he pulls out to glide back in again. He bottoms out, breaking you open again and again, and tears gather along your lashes, your shoulders sore with the effort of being tied up. 

Dropping forward to rest on his forearms, he guides your legs high around his waist as his strokes get deeper, harder.  “I’m not gonna let you go until I’ve had my fill,” he threatens, and you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your eyes fluttering shut, you give into your body being a vessel for him to use. Sensation fills you from the inside out: his hot skin pressed against yours, his bruising grip, the filling weight of his cock. His sharp thrusts, his humid gusts of breath that skim across your feverish skin. He kisses you, a thick, all consuming thing that steals the breath from your lungs and you chase the heat of his mouth when Gracie tugs his face to hers, pulling him in for a kiss. You whine, desperate and rhythmic to match every heavy thrust he gives you, and she swallows his corresponding groan of pleasure as it reverberates between his chest and yours. 

Another release gathers inside you, every kiss of his hips building it higher. Your hips cant up to meet him thrust for thrust, seeking the sharp edge of relief, but he grips your hip and holds it to the mattress, giving you no choice but to just take it. His hands splay and reach, his grip sliding down from your hip to your ass as he pulls at the skin there with a burn. Mouthing at the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, he pants harshly in your ear, his grunts of effort forcing you towards a bright, blissful edge. When he sinks his teeth into your skin, you come. 

Barely a voice left, the moan that pours out of you is a breathless, raw thing. Your jaw clenches around the sound, your cunt sucking him deeper inside you. He groans against your collarbone, palming your breast with a desperate squeeze as he freezes above you, holding his cock in place, letting you wring every last wave of your release out. 

“You feel so fucking good, girl. So good,” he groans tightly, grinding forward before he growls, forcing himself to pull out. He flips you into your stomach, his hands wrapping around your hips to tug them off the mattress, forcing the ropes to pull even tighter. Shoving his cock back inside your slick soaked heat, his strokes are fast and harsh, his hips pounding against your ass with rhythmic slaps, his white-knuckled grip tight on your flesh. He indulges in a frantic half dozen hard strokes and then, with a groan pouring out of his outstretched throat, he thickens, spilling inside you. 

Everything is hazy and decadent in your half-asleep state; his hips rocking into yours, languid and smooth. Every slide is syrupy and slick, almost soothing and when he slips out of you, you feel the wet spill of his spend trickle down the inside of your thighs. 

Sliding into sleep, you can feel his fingers loosen the knot of your ropes. Gracie slips your wrists out, massaging the tender skin and you hear them murmuring to each other, their words skating on the edge of your consciousness. The sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the feel of his calloused hands as they guide your arms down, his soothing touch as he massages your sore muscles. The mattress shifts and the light clicks out, just as Gracie lifts the blanket up and over. 

She curls into the space behind you, tucking her body against yours with a squeeze, and with the last of your energy, you roll, draping your arm over Din’s chest. Grabbing your hand, he nuzzles your palm, his lips brushing over the indented marks wound around the delicate skin on your wrists. 

“You did so good for me,” he praises, soft and low. “You always play my games so well.” He follows the line of marks, kissing a soothing path over the tender skin. “You're my girl,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”

–

Dawn breaks, and he is achingly gentle.

Knowing that you’re sore from the night before, he wakes you with murmured promises. 

“‘I’m going to use my tongue, okay? I just want to kiss it better.”

You let him: his tongue coated and dripping with saliva, soft, wide licks into your cunt as he parts it with his fingers. Never pushing into you, he keeps a steady, soothing pace as he glides his tongue over your clit, the motion just as sweet as it is filthy. Your hands splay through his thick hair, your nails gently dragging over his scalp as he works. 

He’ll be leaving soon, and your logic clouded with sleep, you ache for him to stay. 

“Come up here,” you beg softly; fuzzy, delicate light seeping into the room. 

Pressing a kiss just over your entrance, he crawls upwards, his mouth worshiping every curve on the way. When his lips find yours, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Decadent and rich, slow and careful, he kisses you until you reach for his cock, fitting just the tip inside you. The thick crown is enough – more than your sore body can take – but you can’t let him leave without getting closer to him. 

He holds himself back, his touch joining your own as you stroke him together. His forehead rests in the crook of your neck, his strained breaths coating your skin. Your thighs bracket his hips and your lips kiss his shoulder, and you stroke together until you feel his body grow tight with his release. Bringing his mouth to yours, you use the first pulse of his spend to ease him into you with a smooth, thick slide. His cum eases the passage, everything thick and wet, finally as close as you need him to be. 

Resting his head on your chest, you lay together, your fingers carding through his hair. He hums, pushing his arms under your back to hold you tight. When he speaks, the words are slow with sleep. “I’m gonna miss you.” He presses a lingering kiss to your sternum, his eyes closed. “I miss this when I’m gone.”

A heavy weight settles in your chest, soothed by the comforting weight of his body on top of yours. You’ll miss him too, though you’d never say it out loud. You can’t. 

At your silence, he lifts his head, his eyes searching yours. When you don’t answer, he slides his body up just enough to capture your mouth with his. 

Everything you want to admit, you put into your kiss. Everything you want to say, everything you feel. It’s wrong, it’s the first rule of the brothel – and yet you can’t help letting your emotions seep into your touch, hoping that he knows just how much you’ll miss him too. He sinks into you, molding your body against his, and you try to memorize the way it feels, so you can recall it when he’s gone. 

He kisses you until you sigh underneath him. Until your hold sways from a tight grip to a loose embrace. Until you’re on the edge of sleep, soothed in his presence. 

Waiting until your eyes flutter shut and stay shut – only then does he pull away. 

“Are you going to miss me?” he whispers. 

More asleep than not, you softly nod.

Smiling, he slides his nose along the lobe of your ear, breathing you in. 

“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby. 

Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables. 

--

The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.

The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.  

“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of  whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water. 

“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”

Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says. 

The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”

“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”

“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”

–

He has a routine, the madam tells you. 

“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner. 

A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight. 

“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues. 

“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”

You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.

“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”

“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”

Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh. 

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”

The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her. 

You immediately turn to Gracie.

“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach. 

She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”

That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls. 

One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature. 

“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”

“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”

Scrunching your nose, you agree. 

“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”

Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room. 

Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case. 

Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room. 

Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening. 

He enters, and your greeting is automatic. 

“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”

He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation. 

He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots. 

He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair. 

His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.

Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed. 

Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.

You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”

Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. 

It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks. 

Handsome. Definitely handsome. 

He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness. 

Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”

Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?” 

He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test. 

“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone. 

“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.” 

Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.

–

He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap. 

“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”

“I’m a bounty hunter.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”

“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes. 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”

A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”

Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation. 

Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.

You swallow, reaching for the soap again. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in. 

“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it. 

His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement. 

Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue. 

The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands. 

You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait. 

Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin. 

He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you. 

“Feel good?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap. 

The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots. 

A smile that makes you want to kiss him. 

Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap. 

Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands. 

“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin. 

Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch. 

Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock.  When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.

The sound he lets out is delicious.

A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water. 

You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it. 

“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?” 

Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does. 

The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. 

Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back. 

“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.  

“You don’t want me to wash you?”

He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. 

“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”

Girl. 

The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care. 

Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in. 

“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”

He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”

“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation. 

“I am.” 

“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her. 

–

That night, you learned who he was. 

Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated. 

Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy. 

You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments. 

He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep. 

He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning. 

“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”

–

Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times. 

Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide. 

Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs. 

“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.” 

It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push. 

“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.

Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.

She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away. 

“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”

“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.

He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it. 

Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss. 

She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief. 

“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”

Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss. 

Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance. 

“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet. 

You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth. 

He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it. 

“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”

The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss. 

“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.  

Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength. 

She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths – 

“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.

You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”

Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak. 

Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”

So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie. 

Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough. 

It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over. 

Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure. 

“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?” 

Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut. 

Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”

At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release. 

At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard. 

There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe. 

“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him. 

The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth. 

In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world. 

He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again. 

Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you. 

Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”

Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness. 

Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.

At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin. 

“They all say that,” you tease. 

You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last: 

No one fucks me like you do. 

I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me. 

I’m your girl. Only your girl. 

When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn. 

With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed. 

You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots. 

The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn. 

Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off. 

It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect. 

Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either. 

The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.” 

You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it. 

“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it. 

He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood. 

He took the rag off your hands. 

And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition. 

It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds. 

Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it. 

The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count. 

Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it. 

He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully. 

He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them. 

“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”

You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”

So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up. 

“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?

You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.

Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue. 

“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.” 

Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you. 

Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him. 

“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.” 

He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear. 

That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’

“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.

“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”

He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it. 

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.” 

You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did. 

He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you. 

His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off. 

“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.” 

Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb. 

You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off. 

“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.” 

Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?” 

“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”

Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?” 

It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him. 

You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.” 

Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened. 

It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself. 

“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly. 

“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.” 

You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.

For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest. 

His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there. 

There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb. 

The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.

You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long. 

The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.

“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”

“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”

“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy. 

“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting. 

“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”

“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.” 

“What if I—”

“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.” 

You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.

There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.

You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.

He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be. 

He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.

He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back. 

He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful. 

He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.

The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know. 

“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped. 

Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”

Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.” 

In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.

He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you. 

You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”

“Don’t try to help me.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“It’s written all over your face.” 

You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.

That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all. 

“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed. 

“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”

“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.” 

“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct. 

“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.” 

“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.” 

“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done. 

One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that. 

“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you. 

“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again. 

You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.

“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.” 

He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.

“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”

“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.

“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.

He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.

“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”

The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.

“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.

“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged. 

Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?” 

“This week, yeah,” you said. 

“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.” 

You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.” 

“Leo pays you enough?”

You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”

Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”

You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.

“This week?”

You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.  

Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.” 

“For the kid.”

“Andrew.” 

“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.” 

“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.” 

“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”

He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.” 

He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”

You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.

“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.” 

He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.” 

He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago. 

He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry. 

It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that. 

You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice. 

He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.

He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.

You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing. 

Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.

Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.

Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate. 

“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?” 

He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it. 

“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.

“The one that does the cash, man.”

“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”

“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”

Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.” 

“Don’t.”

“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.” 

“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.

“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?” 

“Why’s she there?” 

Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”

“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”

“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”

“How much?” Pope asked immediately.

Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”

“Just say it.”

“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.” 

Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”

He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face. 

Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”

“It’s her brother.”

“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.” 

Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.” 

Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.” 

“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—” 

Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that. 

If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.” 

Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”

He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did. 

It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect. 

This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.

Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.

You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.” 

“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through. 

You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.

“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.” 

He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten. 

You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance. 

Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”

Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”

“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince. 

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to. 

He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve. 

He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from. 

Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.

The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.

He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.

Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.

You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional. 

He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest. 

Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended. 

He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”

“Andrew—”

“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”

He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.” 

That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.” 

You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?” 

“No.”

“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.” 

He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. 

“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”

When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.” 

He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?” 

Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.” 

The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.

He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.

You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.

He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck. 

He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it. 

You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it. 

His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.

Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.

His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it. 

It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.

You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you. 

You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.

Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his. 

“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.” 

Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once. 

“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”

Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?” 

“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.

He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip. 

You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.

“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast. 

“We don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.” 

Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.

One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current. 

It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.

“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.

He fluttered his eyes open halfway. 

“Better than this place,” you clarified.

Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly. 

The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried. 

“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”

You blinked. “Where?” 

He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”

You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.” 

“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.

“C’mon.” 

He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.

Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed. 

So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close. 

The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours. 

Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt. 

When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home. 

He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing. 

Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house. 

He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.

“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper. 

You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it. 

“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.

“No.”

“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came. 

He kissed you slow.

He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.

“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. 

Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.

He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.

“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone. 

“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him. 

Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.

Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.” 

He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you. 

You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.

His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. 

You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still. 

“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him. 

“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating. 

“Andrew.” 

“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.

“Can I—” he started.

“Yes.”

He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.

His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.

He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely. 

You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.

His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.

You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.

“Are you—”

“Mhm.” 

You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly. 

You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.

“C’mon, hey—”

You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.

Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation. 

His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.

You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.

“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.

You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.

You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp. 

“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”

He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up. 

You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.

“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”

You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?” 

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.” 

“So ask.” 

He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?” 

You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”

The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.

You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.

You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.

He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.

He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing. 

“You okay?” you asked, quiet.

“One second.”

You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.

He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.

“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.

“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless. 

He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.

His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.

“Andrew—”

“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.” 

Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.

“That good?” he murmured.

“It’s—” you started, breath catching. 

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?” 

“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”

He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.” 

Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.

You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.

His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.

“You with me?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.” 

It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.

You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.

He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.

Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up. 

He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog. 

“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”

“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”

“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.” 

Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.

“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”

Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it. 

Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.” 

Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.” 

“People talk—” you started to say.

“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”

Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”

The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead. 

The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.

“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?” 

“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”

He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”

Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.” 

Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.” 

Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”

Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”

Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.

Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?” 

“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.” 

“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.” 

Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.

“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you. 

You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.

Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today. 

He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.

“Get in the car,” he said to you. 

You stayed still.

Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”

You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled. 

You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.

“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out. 

You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.” 

You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.” 

Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.” 

“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.” 

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.” 

You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.

“That’s not how—”

“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”

“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”

A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.

So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized. 

It rang twice. 

“Hello?” 

The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home. 

“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?” 

He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.” 

“Jesus—why?”

“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere. 

“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?” 

“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”

“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.

“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything. 

“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”

“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear. 

“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?” 

Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.

He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.

You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped. 

“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”

It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.

“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.” 

“Andrew—”

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift. 

“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”

He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.” 

“I don’t want your brother to—”

He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time. 

Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you. 

“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”

He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.” 

He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.

“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”

And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line. 

Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison. 

He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.

“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”

Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.” 

“Please, just—”

“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.” 

The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.

The line went dead under his palm.

you both had spilled your secrets slowly, learning of his past, telling him yours. 

yet, there was one thing you had to tell him. it was dumb, really, keeping this to yourself. you knew he wouldn’t care, but something inside you felt almost ashamed. 

because you, at your ripe age of twenty-eight, were still a virgin. 

you knew it wasn’t something to be ashamed of– who the hell has time for sex while working through med school and residency? 

it wasn’t like there hadn’t been opportunities with jack, there had been plenty. but you’d chickened out each time, ignoring or redirecting his advances. he never pushed you, of course, the guilt already bubbling at the surface just for wanting someone so young. 

so he gave you time and space when you needed it, never pressing. 

you stand in front of his bathroom mirror, smoothing your hands over your worn out shirt, your heart already racing. you’d decided tonight would be the night you’d lay everything on the table. tell the truth, and if all went as planned, you would no longer have that unnecessary shame hanging over you. 

his voice pulls you from your thoughts, a soft call of your name, a low rumble that sends a pleasant tingle up your spine. you catch yourself smiling in the mirror, your expression softening as you take in the pure happiness radiating from you, the nervous butterflies settling. 

taking another deep breath, you slip from the bathroom, your smile still not having fallen from your face as you climb into bed, climbing under the covers he’d lifted for you before settling into his side. you wrap a leg around his hip, your face already tilting toward his for a kiss. 

it was your nightly routine now when you stayed, curled up under the covers, making out like teenagers. 

you pull away first, your chest heaving as you prepare yourself. 

“jack, i need you.” you mumble, your eyes seeking his in the glow of the moon through his apartment windows.

his expression is confused for only a moment before realization dawns on his face. his eyes crinkle with mischief, his lip turning up at one corner. “yeah?”

"yeah," you echo, though your voice wavers just slightly. you press your lips together, steeling yourself again. "but there's something i have to tell you first."

his hand, which had been tracing idle patterns along your waist, stills. not in alarm– jack is never alarmed easily– just giving you his full attention. 

"okay," he says simply.

"i've never-" you start, then stop and try again. "i haven't done this before. any of it." you watch his face carefully, searching for the thing you'd been dreading. pity, maybe. or worse, amusement. "i know that's- i know it's a lot, and i should have said something sooner, but i didn't know how to bring it up without it being-"

“hey, baby, slow down.” jack stops you, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “take a breath, it’s okay.” 

you grimace, but follow his direction and let yourself relax. then his eyes soften even further, his thumb brushes across your cheekbone with such soft tenderness that your throat tightens.

"that's what you've been worried about?" he asks, and there's no mockery in it. just genuine surprise, tinged with something that sounds almost like relief. "baby, that doesn't change anything."

you feel the tension in your muscles ease just slightly, though your heart is still hammering against your ribs. "you're not... disappointed? or-"

"disappointed?" jack repeats, and now there is a hint of amusement, but it's warm, affectionate. "why the hell would i be disappointed?"

"i don't know," you admit, your voice small. "because i'm twenty-eight and i should have–"

"should have what?" he interrupts gently. "there's no timeline for this stuff. you know that." his hand slides from your face down to your neck, his fingers curling around the back of it, grounding you. "you've been busting your ass through med school and residency. think i don't know how much of your life that takes up?"

you swallow hard, nodding.

"and even if that wasn't the reason," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "it still wouldn't matter. this isn't something you owe anyone. not me, not anybody." his forehead comes to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath warm against your lips. "the only thing that matters to me is that you want this. that you want me."

"i do," you whisper, and it comes out more desperate than you intended. "i do want you, jack. i've wanted you for-" you break off, embarrassed by your own intensity.

"for how long?" he prompts, and there's that mischievous edge again, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"since the first time you gave me a ride home," you confess, and his grin becomes a little more sensual.

"yeah?" he murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours again, slower this time, deeper. his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him with a soft sound that makes him groan low in his chest.

when he pulls back, you're both breathing harder. his hand has moved from your neck to your waist, his fingers slipping just barely beneath the hem of your worn shirt, touching bare skin.

"we can take this as slow as you need," he says, his voice rough now, strained. "or we can stop completely if you change your mind. at any point. you understand?"

you nod, but that's not enough for him.

"i need to hear you say it," he murmurs, gaze dark and steady on you.

"i do," you breathe. "but i don't want to stop. i want-" you hesitate, then force yourself to say it. "i need you to touch me."

the sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "you're gonna kill me," he mutters against your collarbone, and you feel him smile against your skin.

"is that a yes?" you ask, and you're surprised by the hint of playfulness in your own voice, the anxiety beginning to melt under the warmth of his acceptance.

"that's a hell yes," he says, lifting his head to look at you again. his eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide, but there's still that careful attention in them, that focus that makes you feel like the center of his universe. "but we're doing this right. you tell me if something doesn't feel good, if you want me to slow down, if you want me to stop. deal?"

"deal," you agree, and then his mouth is on yours again and his hand is sliding higher beneath your shirt, his palm warm and slightly rough against your ribs.

you arch into the touch without thought, a soft gasp escaping you, and he swallows the sound with his kiss. his hand moves higher still, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumb brushing over your nipple making your hips jerk forward involuntarily.

"that okay?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"yes," you breathe. "yes, that's–" you break off as he does it again, more deliberately this time, and the familiar heat pools between your legs, your body responding to the stimulation in little sparks of pleasure.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand stilling. "can i take this off?" he asks, tugging gently at your shirt.

you nod, then remember what he said. "yes. please."

he sits up slightly, helping you pull the worn fabric over your head, and you resist the urge to cover yourself even though you're still wearing your bra. the moonlight streaming through the window casts everything in silver and shadow, and the way jack is looking at you– like you're something precious, something worth savoring– makes your breath catch. it's one thing to be alone in your apartment, touching yourself in the dark. it's another entirely to be seen like this.

"you're so fucking beautiful," he says, and it's not a line. you can hear the sincerity in it, the awe.

"jack–" you start, but he's already leaning down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast above the cup of your bra.

"can i take this off too?" he asks, his fingers already at the clasp between your breasts.

"yes." this time your voice is steadier, more certain.

he unhooks it with practiced ease and you help him slide it down your arms and out from under you, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. and then you're bare from the waist up, and jack is looking at you like he's been given something he doesn't quite deserve.

"fuck," he breathes, and then his mouth is on you, his lips closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud as it hardens under his ministrations.

the vulnerability of it makes your skin prickle with awareness. you know what your breasts look like, have touched them yourself countless times, but having someone else's eyes on you, someone else's hands…

the sensation sends a jolt straight through you, familiar but different, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in his curls. you know you're sensitive there, have always been, but his mouth is hotter and wetter than your own fingers ever could be. he hums against you, the vibration making you shudder, and his hand comes up to palm your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

"harder," you gasp without thinking, and he complies immediately, pinching just enough to make you moan. "yeah, like that."

he seems to want to spend an eternity there, and you’re almost sure you can come from just this, but you need more. you push slightly at his head and he chuckles, releasing your nipple with a soft pop and kissing his way down your stomach, his hands sliding to the waistband of your shorts.

he pauses, looking up at you, and the sight of him between your legs, his eyes dark and hungry but still patient, still waiting for permission, makes something clench deep in your belly.

"can i?" he asks, his fingers hooked in the elastic.

"yes," you say, and you lift your hips to help him slide them down along with your underwear, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

the cool air against your heated skin makes you shiver, and you have to fight the urge to close your legs. but jack's hands are on your thighs, gently pressing them apart, and the look on his face is so reverent that the self-consciousness fades.

"you're perfect," he murmurs, and then he's settling between your legs, his shoulders pressing your thighs wider, and oh god, you realize what he's about to do.

your breath catches. you've imagined this before, late at night with your own hand between your legs, but the reality of it– of him– is suddenly overwhelming.

"wait," you say, and he freezes immediately, his eyes snapping to yours.

"you okay?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.

"i just–" you swallow hard. "i've never– no one's ever–" the words feel clumsy in your mouth. you know what you like, know exactly how to touch yourself to get off, but letting someone else do it, being that vulnerable scares you.

understanding dawns on his face. "you want me to stop?"

"no," you say quickly. "no, i just–" you take a breath, steadying your nerves. "i know what i like. i just don't know if i can... let go.”

his expression softens, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "you don’t have to think about it, baby," he says. "just feel. and if you need to tell me what works, tell me. i want to learn you."

the tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache. you nod, and he takes that as permission, lowering his head.

the first touch of his tongue against you is electric, and you gasp, your hands flying back to his hair. it's different from your own touch, less precise and more intense. the groan he lets out is better than any vibrator you’ve used. “fuck, baby, you’re so wet.”

"oh my god," you breathe as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center. he's exploring, learning, and you force yourself to relax into it, to let him indulge himself for a few minutes.

he pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "tell me what feels good."

"higher," you manage, your voice shaking. "more pressure on the side my clit."

he adjusts immediately, prodding his tongue against your clit, and the pleasure is sharp and familiar but so much more intense than when you do it yourself. you cry out, your hips bucking up against his mouth.

"yes," you gasp. "just like that, don't stop."

you practically feel him grin against your cunt, holding you steady with one hand splayed across your lower belly, the other sliding up to find your hand, lacing your fingers together. the gesture is so tender, so intimate, that it makes your chest ache even as the pleasure builds between your legs.

you know this feeling, have chased it countless times alone in your bed, but this is different. this is trusting someone else to take you there, letting yourself be vulnerable enough to fall apart in front of him.

"jack," you gasp as the tension coils tighter, "i'm close, i'm–"

"let go," he murmurs against you. "i've got you, baby. let go."

and you do, the orgasm crashing over you in waves that feel different somehow– more intense, more overwhelming because you're not in control of it. no pause in the movement while your body seizes with pleasure, no extra energy expended on what you’re doing. you cry out his name, your back arching off the bed, and he works you through it, his tongue gentling as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you try to catch your breath.

when you finally open your eyes, he's hovering over you again, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal, his expression smug and tender all at once.

"you okay?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your damp forehead.

"i–" you start, then laugh breathlessly. "yeah. that was–" you shake your head, still trying to process the euphoria racing through you. "really good."

he grins, leaning down to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. the intimacy of it makes you want him even more.

"we can stop here if you want," he says against your mouth. "no pressure."

but you shake your head, your hands already reaching for his chest to push him down, reversing your positions. "i don't want to stop," you say. "i want your cock." you blush with the vulgarity of it, but the responding jerk of his hips is enough to know you said the exact right thing.

he helps you pull his shirt off, and then you're running your hands over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the way his muscles shift beneath your touch. your fingers trail down to the waistband of his sweatpants, and you can see the obvious bulge there, can feel him hard and hot against the inside of your thigh.

"can i?" you ask, echoing his earlier question.

"fuck, yes," he breathes, and you push the fabric down over his hips and down his legs, mindful that his leg may be sore after a pulling a 24 hour shift.

he's not wearing anything underneath, and when his cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, you feel a surge of pure lust that travels from the tips of your fingers down to your toes. you don’t particularly mean to just sit on his thighs and stare, but he’s just so perfect. thick, maybe six and a half inches, curving just a little toward his belly. the tip is red and flushed, precome already gathered in the slit.

"you can touch me," he says, his voice strained. "if you want."

pressing your lips together to suppress your grin, you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, almost gasping in delight at the feel of it. he’s warm and soft, yet firm and unyielding under your palm. you experimentally pump him, eyes flickering from between his legs up to his eyes. 

"is this good?" you ask, adjusting your grip, twisting slightly at the head the way you've seen in porn.

"fuck, yes," he grits out. "perfect. but if you keep doing that, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast."

you smile despite yourself, feeling a surge of confidence at the evidence of how much he wants you. "can i be on top?” your brow furrows a little as your hand stills, simply holding him at the base.

he exhales a breathy laugh, then reaches over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom. "you sure about this?" he asks one more time, and you love him for it, for checking even now.

"i'm sure. wanna set the pace" you say, and the nervousness isn't about the act itself– you know how this works, know what your body needs– it's about trusting him with this, about being this vulnerable with another person. 

he rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency, letting his hands settle on your thighs spread over his hips. “you ever had anything this big in you?” he asks, and it’s a genuine question. 

you nod, thinking about your not so small collection of toys, and he reaches down to guide himself to your entrance. the first press of him against you makes you tense slightly– not from fear, but from the unfamiliarity of it, the reality of letting someone inside you.

"breathe," he reminds you, and you do, forcing yourself to relax as the tip of his cock teases through your folds. “lower yourself when you want, baby.” 

you whimper as you lower yourself slowly, so slowly, and there's a stretch, a pressure, a moment of adjustment as your body accommodates him. it's not painful, just different. he’s warmer than any of the silicone you’ve used in the past, more forgiving inside you as you lower inch by inch. 

"you okay?" he asks, his voice tight with the effort of holding still.

"yeah," you manage, eyes shut and hands planted against his chest. "just–give me a second to adjust."

he does, thumbs drawing light circles against the meat of your thighs. gradually, your body relaxes around him, the fullness becoming less foreign, more right.

"okay," you breathe. "gonna move now."

you rise up on your knees and sink back down, a slow experimental roll of your hips. the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly needy, but jack's head drops back against the pillow with a groan that makes you feel powerful in a way you hadn't anticipated.

"yeah," he breathes. "just like that."

you do it again, finding a rhythm that makes sparks shoot up your spine. his hands stay loose on your thighs, letting you lead, only tightening when you hit a particularly good spot and clench around him.

"angle forward a little," he suggests, his voice rough.

"oh," you gasp. the head of his cock rubs against a spot inside you you’ve found with your own fingers, your own toys, but so much more overwhelming with him filling you like this. "there, right there."

"yeah?" he asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in it, the pleasure.

"yeah," you confirm breathlessly, planting your hands more firmly on his chest and picking up the pace.

his hand slides up your thigh, thumb finding your clit, and you cover his finger with your own, guiding him the same way you showed him earlier. he follows your lead immediately, no ego about it, just wanting to get it right.

"like this?" he murmurs, eyes fixed on the sight of your smaller hand on top of his.

"like that," you confirm, and when he matches your rhythm perfectly you moan, long and unguarded.

"fuck," he grits out, his hips giving the smallest involuntary thrust upward. "you feel incredible. you have no idea…"

"i think i have some idea," you manage, and he laughs, breathless and undone, his hands gripping your hips for just a moment before releasing you back to your own pace.

the combination of sensations overwhelms you– the fullness of him, his thumb on your clit exactly how you need it, the freedom of controlling the depth and rhythm, the way he's looking up at you like you're the most remarkable thing he's ever seen. the vulnerability of being this exposed, this seen, should scare you. instead it makes the coil in your belly pull tighter as you clench around him.

"jack," you gasp. "i'm close, i'm so close…"

"i know," he murmurs, his eyes dark and focused on your face. "i've got you. take what you need."

you really begin to chase it without shame, your hips working harder up and down until the orgasm breaks over you in long, shuddering waves. you cry out his name, clenching around him, and feel him follow with a low groan, his hands gripping your hips to pull you down as he spills into the condom. the feeling of him pulsing inside you drags your orgasm out longer, the intimacy of a shared orgasm far more spectacular than you could have ever imagined. 

you collapse forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. his arms wrap around you, one hand stroking slowly up and down your spine.

after a long moment you lift your head, giggling softly. 

"hi," you say stupidly.

"hi," he returns, and the smile that breaks across his face is so unguarded, so soft, that your chest aches with it.

you ease off him carefully, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and he takes care of the condom before pulling you back into the warmth of his side. you tuck your face against his neck, his pulse still elevated beneath your lips.

"you okay?" he asks, for what feels like the hundredth time, and you smile against his skin.

"i'm perfect," you say, and you mean it completely. "that was… you were…"

"you were amazing," he interrupts, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "thank you for trusting me with this. for letting me be the one."

you're quiet for a moment, just breathing him in. "thank you for making it safe to be vulnerable."

"you don't have to thank me for that," he says softly, fingers feathering over your arm. 

"i love you," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can catch them.

you feel him still– just for a moment– and the familiar panic flares. too soon, too much, you've ruined it–

but then he's tilting your chin up, his eyes soft and certain in the dim light.

He was nursing a bourbon he’d probably make last the entire night and he was half-listening to Langdon tell some story, his leg stretched out into the aisle, and he hadn’t seen you yet. You had a second. You could have turned around and texted Dana some bullshit excuse of getting the full eight hours and walked back to the parking lot to go home to your dog and half your bed.

You never did, though. You told yourself afterward it was because the leaving would’ve told the table something. But the truer thing, the one you didn’t want to look at directly, was that an evening without Jack had started to feel like a room with the bulb burned out. You’d gotten that bad. 

“There she is,” Dana said, twisting around in the booth, already sliding to make room. “Sit. I saved you the good side. It doesn’t wobble.”

You sat, and the good side put you diagonal from Jack, close enough that his stretched-out leg was a fact you had to arrange your own legs around under the table. He hadn’t acknowledged you yet. He was letting Langdon finish; Jack always let people finish, it was something that made patients trust him and made you, toward the end, want to put a plate through the wall because he’d let you get to the bottom of sentences you’d have killed to be interrupted out of.

But you watched the back of his neck change as his shoulders went from loose to aware. When he turned, his eyes found yours like a bad number on a monitor, faster than he could’ve chosen. For half-a-second, before his face caught up, he looked so completely undefended. Then it was gone and he looked at you like you were weather he'd been told about. 

“Huh,” he breathed, picking his bourbon back up. “They let your department fraternize with the help now, or are you slumming?”

“Dana kidnapped me.” You reached over and took the lime off his rim. He’d never once in his life used it—he hated citrus in bourbon—and only got it because Marlene behind the bar had been putting it in each time. Jack had decided somewhere around your wedding that debating her on it was more than what the lime was worth. 

You bit it and set the rind into his napkin where it went, where it had always gone. 

His eyes tracked you as you did it without any comment. The better half of five years of the lime and he’d never once said anything, only bought you the garnish on his own drink. 

“How was your floor?” you asked.

“Slow.” He turned the glass a quarter-turn on the table, an old tell, the thing his hands did when he was trying very hard to keep his words scarce. “Knock on something.” 

“But I like watching you suffer,” you drawled. 

He huffed at that. “I know.”

That was it. He was good at letting things sit, it was the worst of his habits, the way he could absorb a thing you said and just hold it instead of returning it. Half your sentences to him used to end in a silence you'd eventually have to fill yourself. You'd forgotten how much work it was. You'd forgotten you used to do all the talking and call it conversation.

“You got Kevin this week?” Dana asked from beside you. 

Jack, without a beat of hesitation, said, “She’s got Kilo this week.”

Javadi, the new and curious med student in the ER, looked between both of you with furrowed brows. “Sorry. Kevin or Kilo? Is that—are those two dogs?”

“One dog,” you said.

“Yup. One dog,” Jack agreed.

“Then why—” Javadi started.

“His name’s Kilo,” Jack said.

“No, his name’s Kevin.”

Javadi’s head went between you as though she was watching a tennis match. The table laughed because they’d heard this a hundred times and it never stopped being funny to them; the divorced two doing their oldest bit, the one argument that had outlived the marriage that spawned it.

“His papers say Kilo,” Jack said in Javadi’s direction.

Robby, who’d been completely invested in his own drink, said, “And your papers say divorced.”

“And we very much are, thank you,” you said, picking it up before the laugh had finished.

Jack stayed silent then. Robby, he’d have something for. But this was you saying it, easy and completely certain in front of everyone. The leg that had been stretched into your space this entire night drew back slowly, a small retreat nobody at the table except you could’ve felt. He turned the glass a quarter-turn. 

You’d done it on purpose. You’d felt the whole night immediately tilting into the warm dangerous fiction of it and you’d reached for the one sentence that would shut it, and you’d swung it at the only person who’d actually feel the blade. 

The facts of your divorce were no concern to anyone but the two of you at the table, but you could feel Jack flinch inwardly by the announcement that blanketed it all; that you now lived in separate homes, that the dog was scheduled like a custody hearing; that the word ‘we’ had a tense and it was past. None of it was news. He’d signed the same papers you had in the same flat conference room, with the same pen the mediator kept clicking until you'd wanted to scream. He knew the facts better than anyone. And still you'd watched him wince when you said it out loud.

He'd built a whole life on the difference between a thing being true and a thing being spoken; it was how he ran a trauma bay, how he told a family the worst news in the world in a voice that never broke, how he'd ended your marriage without ever once saying the words that would've made it real, just withdrawing by degrees until you were the one who had to say them for him. He'd made you do that too. He made you do all the saying. And now you'd said this, and he was sitting there absorbing it the way he absorbed everything, quietly, like he'd decided long ago that taking it without a sound was the least of what he had coming.

“Just fucking do it, Jack.”

And he did—finally, finally—push into you with a single long stroke that dragged a sound out of both of you, his coming out through his teeth, and yours into the pillow. His forehead came down between your shoulder blades. He stayed there for a second, breathing, one hand splayed wide over your hip and the other braced into the mattress beside your hips. His weight settled onto the left leg the way it always settled, a decision his body stopped having to make years ago. You could feel him shaking with the effort of not moving yet, of dragging it out, because he always did this, he always made you ask twice. 

“Christ,” he breathed into your spine. “You feel—” he started, and let the words die as his teeth gently pressed into the bone at the top of your shoulder. It was then he started to move.

He fucked like he did everything else with his hands; he was methodical, attentive, and so devastingly present. He went in believing there was always a correct rhythm, and he intended to find it just to ruin you with it. He’d learned by repetition until it stopped requiring thought, until he could play you without looking, and the worst part—the one you’d never say out loud—was that it worked. It always worked. He knew the exact angle that made you stop being a person with opinions about him. 

That long stroke dragged slow on the way out and snapped deep on the way back in, and your whole body misfired around him whether you’d given it permission to or not.

His palm slid up from your hip to flatten between your shoulder blades and pressed, folding you down into the mattress, taking the choice out of your spine. And the new angle had you gasping into the sheets because he’d done it on purpose; he always did everything on purpose, and now he was hitting that place that made your fingers curl and your thighs shake and a thin embarrassing whine climb out you that you’d have died before making it sober. 

Jack felt the exact second your control went and he leaned into it, hips grinding deep and unhurried, holding you right there on the edge of too-much like he was reading everything under your skin. 

“That’s it,” he drawled out, his voice low and even, the bastard, like he had all night, like he wasn’t already wrecked behind the voice. “Yeah, I’ve got you.” And he did. He had you exactly where he wanted you and you let him, because no one had ever taken you apart this precisely, this patiently, like your falling apart was the only thing on his list and he intended to do it right.

The dog tags swung forward and dragged close across your back when he leaned over you, then warm when they settled against your skin, and you thought—stupidly, with the part of your brain that should’ve been offline—that you used to fall asleep listening to that chain shift when he breathed. You thought there had been a version of this where afterward he stayed. You shoved that thought down. You arched your back into him instead and he made a punched-out noise, low in his chest, his grip going tight on you to leave the marks.

“Slow down,” he muttered more to himself than you, but he didn’t. His hips stuttered out of their careful rhythm because this was the one place his composure failed; it was the one place where the sealed-up, gallows humor, watching-you-over-the-glass version of him came apart at the seams. 

You’d figured this out over the months. This was the only place Jack was honest. He’d never say the things across a table, in daylight, with his clothes on. But here, with his cock buried inside of you and his composure shot, the truth leaked out of him in fragments he wouldn’t be accountable for later. 

“Missed this,” he got out, ragged, his mouth at the back of your neck now, words pressed into your hairline like he could bury them in there. “Missed you, fuck. You’ve got no idea, sweetheart, the things I—” 

“Don’t.” You didn’t want it. You wanted it so badly your chest ached and that was exactly why you didn’t want it, because you knew what it was worth in the morning, which was nothing, which was a text about whether you’d remembered to walk Kevin. “Jack. Don’t talk. You can’t—” You let out a gasp as he pressed his hips completely flush against yours, chasing you to the hilt, as if he could physically expel the words out of you. “Can’t fuck me into being with you again.”

You felt him falter at the words, just for a beat, the rhythm catching like you’d reached back and put a hand flat on his sternum. He slowed, dragged himself almost all the way out and held there, trembling, his whole weight coming down over your back so his mouth was now at your ear and you could feel everything against the shell of it.

“I know,” he said, words ragged. “I know I can’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

His hand moved around the dip of your waist, and he pulled out of you slow, the loss making you bite down on a sound. Then he was rolling you, one palm flat and insistent on your hip, turning you under him onto your back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“No—” You got an arm up, forearm against your own eyes, because you knew what he wanted, and you weren’t going to give it to him. The face, the looking. From behind, you could keep it what it was; turned over, you’d have to be there for it. “Jack, leave it. I don’t—”

“Hey.” He held your wrist, thumb working into the soft inside of it where your pulse was going stupid. “C’mon. Move the arm.”

“No.”

“You won’t even—” He let out a low laugh, disbelieving, almost wounded. “You’ll let me do every other thing but you won’t even look at me?”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah.” He went quiet for a moment, and his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, holding you open, patient as anything. He knew exactly what the looking was and exactly why you were hiding from it, and he was going to wait you out. “I know it is. Move the arm anyway.”

He braced over you on his arm, the other hand drawing slow idle circles high on your thigh, his cock notched against you and not pushing in, just there, the threat and promise of him, while he looked down at the arm over your face. You could feel him watching.

So you did move the arm, mostly just to spite him by giving him exactly what he wanted. His face was right there—jaw tight, eyes gone dark and fixed on you like you were the only lit thing in the room—and the second you met it, the slight smugness melted clean down the middle and there was just the wanting underneath, naked and his.

“Thank god,” he breathed before pushing back into you. His eyes tracked your face scrunch up at the familiar—too familiar—pleasure like he’d been starving for exactly this. His hand left your jaw and found your knee, hooking it up higher over his hip. He’d always known your left hip sat wrong, that this was the angle that didn’t ache after; the same way you knew, without ever being told, to take the weight off his right side, the two of you arranging yourselves around each other the way you always had. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”

“Don’t get sentimental, Jack” you said, breathless. “You’ll pull something.”

He huffed a laugh against your jaw. Your hand had gone to his left shoulder and you pressed your thumb into the knot that always sat under the blade after a long shift, working it slow while he moved in you. He groaned low and helpless at the unexpected mercy of it.

“Mouthy,” he managed to say. “Even now.”

“You’re so—so insufferable.”

His mouth found the corner of yours and his hand slid up your ribs so his thumb could catch the underside of your breast exactly where he knew; your back came up off the mattress for him. “You married me anyway. What’s that say about you?”

You got your fingers to his hair and scratched once at the base of his skull, the thing that used to put him to sleep in under five minutes, something you’d done about a thousand times in a bed you no longer shared. You watched his eyes go briefly unfocused with how much his body remembered it meant being safe. You hated that you’d done it. 

The easy heat in him went somewhere graver, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested in his hair. He pinned it there, keeping the touch on him, like he couldn’t bear for you to take it back.

“Why’d you—” His hips stuttered. “Why’d you have to go, huh?”

“Don’t,” you said quickly, and your hand came out of his hair—you made it come down, fighting the pin of his fingers—and you planted your palm against his chest to put an inch back between the two of you. “Don’t talk. Just—shut up. Jack, shut up and—”

He took in a breath, lips still parted like he wanted to talk. You’d expected it. Jack was fabulous at saying everything important while inside you or when he was halfway asleep.

“Yeah.” He nodded shakily. “Yeah. Okay.”

He got an arm under the small of your back and hauled you up into him, and the next stroke was just deep and selfish, like he’d stopped trying to make his point and now was only trying to get somewhere. The slow ruinous tenderness burned off into something with no thought left in it, and your body surged up to meet it—God—yes, this, you could do, this didn’t ask you for anything you’d sworn off. This was just the white-hot animal fact of him and you could be all the way in without losing a single thing. 

“There,” he ground out, forehead dropped to yours, both of you breathing into the same inch of air. “There—fuck—there you go.”

Your mind went black. That was the mercy of getting it like this; the part of you that counted the times he’d said your name, that totted up what the morning had cost, went quiet, drowned clean in the simple overwhelming good of him. You grabbed at his back and pulled him in past where there was room and made a strangled noise.

His hand found yours where it was fisted in the sheet and laced through it, knuckles white, pinning it down beside your head—needing the anchor—and you gripped back just as hard. The bed was loud. Neither of you cared. You'd gone past the place where you could have stopped even if the smarter version of you had walked in and ordered it, both of you just chasing the finish now with a kind of grim mutual desperation, like if you got it done fast enough you wouldn't have to deal with what it was.

“Close,” you breathed. “Jack, I’m close—” 

“I know. C’mon, let me feel it—” His hand let go of yours and dropped between you, fingers finding you without a second of searching, the muscle-memory of you deathly absolute. “Been thinking about this all night.” 

He worked you up to the edge with his face buried in your throat and his hips snapping. The whole thing finally cresting into something neither of you could've talked through if you'd tried.

You went over first, the peak tearing through you with your nails dug into his back and your spine bowed clean off the mattress. He fucked you through every second of it, hips ramming, dragging it up past the point you could stand. And right at the end of yours his rhythm broke and went erratic, deep and grinding and graceless, and you felt the exact moment it caught him.

His arms hooked tighter under the small of your back and hauled you up into him so there was nowhere for him to go but deeper, like the thought of any distance between the two of you right now was a thing he couldn’t tolerate. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs anyway, your heel pressed into the base of his spine.

“Gonna—” His voice came out shredded, into your throat. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna—fuck—”

With a low broken sound, his whole weight crushed down and his hips gave those last helpless grinding pushes, burying himself to the hilt, spilling into you with his face shoved into your neck and his hand fisted in your hair. He continued moving even then, small, greedy rolls of his hips, working himself deeper through the aftershocks, wringing every second out. 

“God.” He shuddered out the word against your pulse, hips still flush, seated as deep as he could get. His arms came around you completely—there wasn’t any inch he wasn’t holding—and he stayed there long after he finished, unwilling to give up the last of it. Greedy even now, especially now. Jack would take every second he was handed and a few he wasn’t.

His heart slammed against your ribs. His breath dragged itself slowly back down. For a moment, you let him have it. You let him stay heavy on and inside you, and you stared at the ceiling. 

After a minute—because that’s all you could grant him, a mere sixty seconds—you put your palm flat on his chest, over the spot where the dog tags had settled cold against his skin, and you pushed.

He came up on his forearms and he looked down at you. That was the hundredth mistake of the night, letting him be that close to your face with the lights of the street coming through the blinds in stripes across him. He looked at you the way he looked at you in the one place he ever did, like you were something he'd been allowed to hold and was already being asked to set back down, and the wanting in it was so total and so useless that you had to look at his collarbone instead.

Then his fingers came up to your chin, tilting your head up gently to meet his eyes again. “I wish you weren’t so cruel to me in front of people.” he said, voice coming out so rough. 

You knew exactly which part of the night he was talking about. He’d carried it the whole way here—through the parking lot, through the drive, through all of this, your body still humming with him—and he’d held onto it the entire time, only to let it out now because now was the only time he could.

“It’s not cruel if it’s true,” you said. “Nobody thought it was cruel.”

“No, nobody thought anything.” He caressed your jaw just slightly, and you stilled under the grazing touch. “I still felt it.” 

Maybe it was the hour, or the drinks still thinning in you, or just the unbearable fact of him looking at you. Regardless of what it was, the lid you kept on the old thing slipped, and you didn't get it back down in time.

“Don’t talk to me about cruelty, Jack,” you said quietly, holding his eyes even though you could feel your own burn. You could do it for once, because he was the one that looked like he needed a collarbone to fix his gaze on. “It was your cruelty that did this.”

His thumb stopped at your jaw. And then, instead of the stillness you’d expected, his hand slid back into your hair and his arm came around you and he pulled you in, the whole weight of him bearing down. His face went into your neck. 

You froze under him, suddenly hating him all over again for making this harder and harder each time.

“Go home,,” you said, and it came out lower than you’d wanted it to.

He let out a shaky breath against your skin. “I’d like to stay with you for one night. If you asked.” 

Your hands came up to his shoulders. You gently pushed. “I’m asking you to go.”

He came up off you slow, by degrees, and the cold rushed into every place he’d just been. He never argued; he only gave you offers where with the condition of you having to ask welded into them. He sat up on the edge of the bed with his back to you and reached for his shirt off the floor.

People at the hospital had a word for you and it was ‘difficult.’ You’d made peace with it years ago. What you didn’t have a word for was the tired. You’d been tired before; this had a different grain to it, bone-level and sitting-behind-your eyes. Twice this week the floor had gone soft and far away when you stood up too fast. You’d put a hand on the counter and waited it out and told no one.

You hadn't eaten, either. The granola bar was still in your bag. So when you stood up from the workstation to walk the corrected units down yourself, the room didn't gray at the edges this time. It dropped. The whole thing tilted bright then dim, your hand reached for the counter and missed it by an inch, and the next clear thing was the floor being closer than it should be and a hand hard around your arm.

“Okay—I’ve got you. Sit.” Dana, you recognized. Of course it was Dana; she had a sixth sense for the exact second a person stopped standing upright. She steered you down to a chair before you’d finished falling. “Head down. Between the knees. You’ve told a hundred people to do this—do it.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice coming out depleted. “I just got up too—”

“Yeah, you’ve been getting up fast a couple times this week.” " Her hand was on the back of your neck, two fingers at your pulse, and she wasn't looking at your face, she was looking at her watch, counting, and the professionalism of it—the way she'd switched you from colleague to patient without asking your permission—made something cold go through you. “When’d you eat, hon?”

“I ate.”

“When?” When you stayed silent, she said, “That’s what I thought.”

She straightened up and you heard her turn. “Hey! Somebody grab Robby. No, he’s not—just grab him.” She turned back to you, and gentler than you wanted, in a way that told you exactly how bad you looked, she said, “We’re gonna put you in a room. Don’t make a face. We’re gonna put you in a room, run some fluids, check a couple things. If it’s nothing—thank god—then it’s nothing, and you can be insufferable about it for weeks. But you went down, sweetheart, and I’m not arguing with you about it.”

You wanted to argue; you wanted to refuse the chair and go back to work instead of occupying a bed at work. But you were so tired. You were tired, and some animal part of you had already known that for two weeks and had been waiting, with a patience that frightened you, for someone to make you stop.

So you let Dana walk you to the room. You let her pull the curtain. You sat on the edge of the gurney in a department you'd worked in for over a decade and let a colleague put a line in your arm, and you stared at the corner of the blood pressure cuff and did not let yourself think the one thought that had started, very quietly, somewhere underneath the tired, to assemble itself, and would not finish assembling until Robby came in twenty minutes later with your labs and a look on his face you couldn't read, and asked you, carefully, like a man stepping onto ice, when your last period was.

You’d seen him tell a people about death with more steadiness than he was managing right now, standing at the foot of your gurney with a tablet he wasn't looking at, asking you about your cycle like the answer was already on the screen and he was just giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.

“Why?” you asked flatly.

“Just humor me. Tell me.”

You told him and he had no reaction, and that was how you knew. Robby’s face had gone completely neutral.

“Okay,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Your labs came back. Everything’s—the anemia’s mild. That’s the lightheadedness and not-eating. We’ll sort that out.” He paused, took a breath in, and the cold thing that had gone through you on the floor came back and sat down in your chest and stayed. “Your hCG’s elevated.”

You felt your body run cold then.

“That’s the pregnancy hormone,” he said gently. He was a teacher before anything, and that reflex was still on, even with you.

“I know what hCG is, Robby,” you said, the words coming out sharp, voice cracking the last word in half. You saw him nod sharply as he decided to ignore it. “I—I know what it is.”

“It’s early,” he said. “Numbers are consistent with early, which means you’ve got time. That’s what I’m saying. You’ve got time to think about whatever you need to think about.” He was being so careful. “I didn’t put it into anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

Early. You’ve got time. 

He picked the tablet up—done being a doctor about it now, the official part handled—and leaned a hip against the counter, and his voice changed, going off-duty.

“Hey,” he said. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, your mind already distant. 

“You gonna tell Jack?”

Your mind sharpened. For a second, you genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Your brain refused it wholly, turned it over to look for the trick. There was no way Robby knew—there was no way anybody knew—because you’d been so careful, the whole thing happened in the dark precisely so it wouldn’t seep into the light, so nobody could say a sentence like that. Your stomach dropped through the gurney.

“Huh?” 

Robby looked at you, then shrugged. “I just figured, because you two still talk. He’d want to know. Big life thing.” Then, he added softer, misreading your face completely, “I guess it’s really over between the two of you then?”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat. That was what people would think when it got out, that the door has finally shut. They’d think you were getting clear, a baby with somebody new means the Jack-of-it-all was finally done, mercifully done. That you’d moved on and met someone, that you were building a thing past the divorce you survived. This was supposed to be proof of it. The sad civilized arrangement nobody named, ended at last by a life you were starting without him.

Robby had it exactly backwards and he had no way to know it. It was the furthest thing from over. It was likely the most permanent thing that had ever happened to you, and it had Jack’s name and only Jack’s name. The thing Robby believed to be your way out was the thing that could mean there’d never be a way out. Not anymore, if you chose to have this child. Not ever. You’d be tied to Jack Abbot. A year and a half of getting clear by inches.

You realized Robby was still standing there and that he’d asked you something. He was waiting for an answer you didn’t have the throat for.

“Can you give me a minute?” Your voice came out hoarse. “Just—a minute. Please. And don’t put it into anything yet. Just—don’t let anyone know.”

Robby nodded, probably thinking you needed a beat to let the good news settle, to feel something private and large before the world got its hands on it. “Course. I’ll hold the room, keep people out. Take your time.” 

His hand found your shoulder on the way past, squeezing, and then the curtain rings scraped along the rod and he was gone. 

It all came up at once, fast and without warning. Your hand was flat on the edge of the gurney and you watched it shake, and you made it stop. You could always make your hands stop. What you couldn’t do was make the rest of it stop. The rest of it was the thought you wouldn't think of, thinking itself anyway, and the worst part was the voice it came in, your own, flat, professional, the one you used to walk a frightened patient through their options without ever letting it shake. You could end it. It's early. Numbers consistent with early. You knew exactly how early early was. You knew the window, the way you knew the shelf life of a unit of platelets down to the day. You knew how clean it was, how legal, how completely nobody's business but your own. There was a door. Right now, there was still a door.

There was a door. There was, right now, still a door; it was the realest door, the one that actually led all the way out that would let you walk back into the life where you got clear of Jack Abbot for good and never had to share a child or a custody calendar or a name with him. He would give you Kevin, you knew that. Over would mean over, for good, where in five years you’d be a woman the hospital remembered being married once, to the ER’s night shift attending, you know the one.

You could take that door. It was yours to take. Nobody even had to know. 

You sat in the small bright room and made yourself look directly at the door and waited to feel the relief of it, yet it didn’t come. What came instead, rising up under the grief like a second tide, worse than the first, was a thing you had no word for and no right to and could not, would not, look at straight on, was that it was Jack’s.

You wished you could see it as a curse, and somewhere in the last thirty seconds it had turned over in you and come up as something else; a small, traitorous, and warm thing. It was the exact warmth that had locked your ankles around him, the same warmth that had opened the door for him every night. A piece of him you could get to keep, that no amount of divorce could put back in its box. The one version of forever you two were going to get. And a part of you, a part you despised with everything you had, wanted it. More than the baby in the abstract. His, specifically and unforgivably. 

You put your hand over your mouth as you felt it all come up, and you cried—the real way, the way you hadn’t since the lawyer’s office. You cried a cry that came up from the root and shook you apart, alone, in a place where you worked, with only a curtain covering you. 

You couldn’t have heard the shift change happen on the other side of the curtain. The hospital had kept turning around your little curtained box, that somewhere out there it had ticked over into evening and the day people were handing the floor to the night people. You hadn’t heard any of it. 

You hadn’t heard Dana catch him at the board, and she would have—you know she would have tried—put a hand flat on his chest the second she saw which way he was moving. You only heard the curtain rings scrape against the rod. 

You looked up—ruined, mid-breath, your hand still pressed over your own mouth with your face holding an expression no one had ever seen you do. And there was Jack with one hand still fisted in the curtain he'd thrown back, stopped dead in the gap of it.

He’d come in braced, almost with the same register he came in when there was a level 1 trauma, except this one was a case of lightheadedness. His sleeves were shoved to his elbow, jaw already set, and he’d walked in expecting to find blood or something else equal to that, a thing he’d be able to clean up and fix. He had a hand half-raised for it, and it stayed there, hovering, for it had nothing to fix. 

You knew his face better than your own; there’d never once been a thing he could’ve kept from you, not even when it felt like he was hardly your husband, especially then. You watched the readiness dissipate off of Jack’s face, watched the doctor leave him by degrees until what was left standing was just Jack. 

Just Jack had no protocol for this; there was nothing he’d been taught to do with his face when you were crying because you didn’t cry.

He of all people knew so. He’d sat at a conference table with you while a mediator clicked a pen and you signed your name with a hand that was too steady. He’d carried his own boxes down to the truck while you watched from the upstairs window, dry-eyed, because tears would have made it all real and you refused—out of spite, out of the last thing you had—to make it real where he could see. 

His mouth opened, and his throat worked around words, any word. When he finally spoke, it was just your name, and it came out cracked down the middle, like a plea and a prayer. 

He had no idea. It made you sob slightly louder than you would’ve liked, the realization that he was standing there gutted with fear for you, scared past the edge of himself, and he did not know. Jack could not have known that he was the answer, that you were the answer. If he’d asked you what had happened, the whole truth would have been his name and your own; it would have been the thing you’d done together in the dark a couple dozen times and called nothing. 

“I hate you,” you said, because the only thing you’d been capable of doing was throwing up a wall, driving him out with your own two hands. And it didn’t work, because the words had come out between sobs, wet and wrong, the cruelty falling apart on the way out. 

He didn’t argue it. He never argued the ones he thought were true. He just took it the same way he’d taken every other blow you’d ever landed, without ever lifting a hand to stop it, as though he’d decided a long time ago this was the least of what he had coming.

Still, something moved through him when the words hit, a flinch, a wince that started behind his eyes and pulled his whole face down with it. 

He came the rest of the way to you anyway, and your hand came up between you—far from a hit, there was nothing left in your arm to make one, just the heel of your palm landing against his chest, more sob turned outward than strike. It pushed against nothing. Jack didn’t even rock with it. And then your fingers were curling into the fabric over his sternum instead, gripping when you’d wanted to shove, the same failure of your hands as two weeks ago; pushing him away and hauling him in, your body unable to decide which.

“You—” Another blow, glancing off his chest. “Why did we have—”

“Okay.” He let you continue, letting the first ones land, face stricken and bewildered as he absorbed the blows for a crime he couldn’t name. “Okay. Okay, hey—”

You drew back, and when your hand closed in again, his own came up and closed around your wrist. You could’ve pulled free—he’d left you room for it—but you let him keep holding it there against his chest where you’d been striking him.

“What happened,” he said, words coming out quietly, not even a question. “Whatever it is. Talk to me. What happened?”

He started to move into you, closing the space between you by inches, his other hand coming up to your face, your shoulder, somewhere, anywhere, his whole self trying to fold into your orbit the way it always had. “Just tell me,” he said, closer now, voice dropped lower, into a register it stayed it when it was only the two of you. “Let me—”

“No.” You twisted your wrist in his hand and turned your face away from the one coming toward it. “You can’t just—I won’t let you—”

His forehead had dropped down to hover over your temple, the warmth of him crowding into every place you’d been trying to wall off. “I’m not. I’m not doing anything. I’m just here—let me be here.”

Here. He’d said the word so softly, with so much surety, like it was a small thing to ask, like it had been a place he’d ever once been. The wall you'd been holding with both hands didn't come down so much as it went out from under you, the way the floor had two weeks ago, all at once and without your permission.

You stopped twisting away. You felt him feel the fight going out of your wrist under his fingers and felt the new alertness move through him.

“You want to be here,” you said into his chest, where your fists were still knotted in his shirt, the words coming out muffled aimed at the fabric. Then, through a disbelieving laugh devoid of any humor, you said, “You want to be here?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Fucking—” The laugh that tore out of you was anything but one. “Congratulations, then.” Your forehead pressed down hard against his sternum, your eyes squeezed shut, because you couldn’t say it and knew you were going to anyway. At least you wouldn’t have to watch. “Fuck—You’re gonna be a father.”

Everything that had been moving stopped all at once; the hand at your jaw, the thumb that had been working slow along your wrist, the whole restless warmth of him trying to fold into you went motionless. For a second, he didn’t even breathe.

You forced yourself to look up. You wanted, somewhere mean and small and ten years old, to see it touch Jack. You wanted to finally watch something get all the way through. 

You got it, and it was worse than you’d let yourself imagine.

The first thing that fell of was the part that told you he was ready to fix this, fix you. It fell clean off, his brows furrowing in worry, a tell that looked too tiny for something this large. 

For a second—less than that, before he could pull the reins on it—something that had no business being there moved under the fear. You knew it because you’d felt the exact same thing only a few minutes ago, alone, the warm traitorous thing rising up under the grief. It was there, on his face—unguarded, naked, wanting—and you watched him catch it. You watched his whole face wilt as he understood, in real time, that he wasn't allowed to feel it, that the wanting was obscene standing next to your wreckage, and you watched him put it away. He got it back behind the wall fast, the way he got everything back behind the wall.

Only his hands gave him up. The one at your jaw had started to shake.

He let out a choked sound, like he was trying to lift the words out of his chest but they kept getting stuck halfway. 

“You’re—” He stopped himself and swallowed, not being able to get the back half of a sentence out of his own throat. “We’re—?”

“Yeah.”

His fingers around your wrist pulled it closer to his chest, as if he could press it through his body and into wherever the words wouldn’t come from. 

“How about you don’t tell anyone, and you do the driving?” you propositioned, flashing the man a faux-innocent look from over the top of the rim as you brought the cup to your mouth. The fresh brew singed the tip of your tongue a bit, just enough to jerk your exhausted mind awake.

“Fine…” Jack caved with a slow huff; his first good breath all day. His following words came out slightly muffled as he leaned forward to press a fleeting kiss to your temple before walking on by you. “How much we got left on our sentence, huh? An hour? Two?”

“Sixty-four minutes, but… Who’s counting?”

“Well, that’s plenty of time for something fun to happen.” Jack turned in the doorway to flash you a knowing grin that you met with a tired scowl.

“Don’t jinx it,” you called to his retreating figure.

You’ve given enough of yourself for one night, you think; and after a rather urgent thoracotomy that nearly killed both the patient and you (though mostly in the metaphorical sense), you feel like you’re owed the small break. Now that the day shift is trickling slowly in, you’ve decided to stay hidden until somebody absolutely needs you.

You sink deeper and deeper into the plastic chair, willing yourself into invisibility, until a baby’s cry shatters the sacred quiet. 

The high-pitched whine cuts through everything — your heavy exhaustion, your simmering headache, and the steady hum of the emergency department you’ve learned to tune out over the years. You drag yourself from your seat with a distant groan in the pit of your throat, ‘cause you know you won’t be able to relax until you know someone else has got it handled. 

You trudge to the door and take a peek down the hallway, if only to say that you did, and find the long corridor bustling with an energy much livelier than you are. When the crowd parts, you spot Dana walking your way with something tiny swaddled in her arms — much too small to be as loud as it is now.

Her eyes light up at the sight of you.

“Dr. Abbot— Just the person I was looking for!” the older woman croons in her usual gritty monotone, with a knowing smile sitting crooked on her mouth. “We got a baby Jane Doe, ditched in the bathroom.”

Your features crumple under the weight of your exhaustion. Your head tips back to groan a long and theatrical, “No…” though your sneakers scuff the floor as you trudge her way despite yourself. “I only have one hour left on my shift— Please don’t make me do anything else.”

“Well, I also got a central line placement in Central 13,” Dana deadpans. “You know, if you’d rather not waste time takin’ care of this perfectly nice baby.”

The swaddled thing fusses when it’s shifted in her hold. Your eyes flit from its scrunched face, round and wet with tears, to the wise look in Dana’s eyes. She grins at your obvious hesitation.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You sigh and step forward, like a martyr to the gallows. You trade the clipboard in your hand for the baby in Dana’s. She sets the thing gingerly in your hold — a warm and delicate weight between your arms, fitting just perfectly against your chest.

You had done a rotation in pediatrics before you settled on emergency medicine some years back. You know what it means to take care of a baby in the most technical sense, though none of it ever seemed to come totally naturally to you. 

You move like a robot accordingly, all tense and methodical. The whining baby settles into your hold with a gentle coo anyway, like a switch suddenly flipped.

“Well, look at that,” Dana hums with an arched brow of amusement. “You’re a natural.”

“You’re evil,” you deadpan.

“So they say,” the woman quips drily, patting you on the shoulder with a warm hand. “C’mon. Show my shadow how to do a proper pedes check-up— Dr. Abbot’s not as mean as she looks, Miss Emma, I promise.”

You flash the young, fresh-faced nurse a polite smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes before leading her towards the pediatric unit across the way. She’s made of bright smiles, braided chestnut curls, and sunshine incarnate as she scurries just behind you. She’s got a sparkling look in her dark eyes that you’re pretty sure you lost somewhere around your first week of residency.

You pass the workstation with a sort of tunnel vision zeroed in on the vibrantly painted pedes room. You nearly miss Jack standing there, leaning over the desk with his arms folded and his biceps straining against his scrub sleeves.

The silver-haired man briefs a newly arrived Robby on the morning cases and pauses at the sight of you — his whole entire life, cradling a much smaller one in her arms, with an exhausted frown on your face that you don’t bother trying to hide.

Robby traces the man’s suddenly distracted gaze over his shoulder. His brown eyes follow your form, lighting up at the sight of you the same way Jack’s do. 

“Well…” the older man croons. “Would you look at that—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply, and don’t bother slowing your stride as you pass them.

Jack’s quiet laughter follows you across the room. His eyes do, too, as he drinks up every ounce of you and the tiny thing swaddled in your arms. He finds himself getting drunk on a craving he didn’t know he had until that very moment.

Robby’s dark eyes squint. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re mentally siphoning through a bunch of baby names right now?”

“I always liked the name Milo for a boy. And Iris for a girl— but the missus is pretty allergic to pollen, so I’m not sure she’d go for that,” Jack answers without missing a beat, as though the thought had haunted his head at least once before. He only turns to face Robby again once you’re out of view. “What do you think?”

Robby just scoffs out a laugh.  “I think you’re screwed, brother.”

Baby Jane Doe is mostly stable, all things considered. 

Physically, she’s perfect. She had obviously spent the bulk of her little life being properly cared for. And, if you had to guess, she spent most of the time being held — if her immediate protest at being left in the warmer had anything to say about it. Her breathy whines fill the otherwise silent room as you perform a routine evaluation with practiced hands. You pay little attention to her annoyed cries and slip into teaching mode despite your palpable fatigue.

Emma hovers just behind you, with empathy glittering in her dark doe eyes. “Gosh,” she sighs. “How sad…”

“Eh,” you hum with a lazy shrug. Your gloved fingers lift the hem of her tiny white t-shirt to check for any bruising on her soft, pale skin, or for any other markers that might indicate signs of infection. You ramble on, half-distracted, “If you think about it, this baby got pretty lucky— If it really was abandoned, I mean. Better to be left here than with a family that can’t love it properly, right?”

Emma’s eyes widen at your cynicism. She can’t shake the feeling that you’re speaking from experience as she swallows hard and nods once in response. “Right…” 

The door swings open across the room. The noise of the E.D. swells for a brief moment, before muffling when it clicks shut again a second later. Robby steps in first, with Jack following close behind. The former stands on the opposite side of the warmer and keeps his suddenly softened gaze on the cooing baby before him.

Jack migrates to your side the same way he always does — never as close as he’d like to be while on the clock, but never more than a few inches away from you when he can be. 

“What are we thinkin’ here, Doc?” he asks.

“Normal pulse. Normal BP,” you rattle off with an air of indifference. “She’s well-hydrated, too. No visible sign of infection, either — though I guess we can’t rule out a benign virus just yet.”

“Do you think she qualifies for Safe Haven?” Emma wonders from Robby’s side.

You shake your head, lips softly jutted. “No. Either this baby is gigantic, or it’s well past the twenty-eight-day mark for Safe Haven. Worse-case scenario at this point is obviously abandonment. She’ll likely be put in foster care after a full evaluation.”

The young girl’s face falls slightly.

You soften despite yourself.

“But,” you add, if only to make her feel a bit better. “Past experience tells me that her parents might’ve just needed a break. Maybe they— I don’t know— stepped out for a cigarette or something. God knows, I’d need one if I had to take care of an alarm clock twenty-four-seven.”

Robby scoffs a weak laugh and shakes his head. “I’ll get Lupe to make an announcement in Chairs. See if anyone’s looking for her— If you’ll excuse me,” he nods with a polite smile down at the squirming baby below before sauntering out of the room.

The baby jerks when the noise of the crowded E.R fills the room again, startled by Dana’s yelling, who seems to be telling off a rowdy patient down the way. Her wet eyes squeeze shut as her gummy mouth opens to bellow a tiny wail. You reach out to comfort the baby, if only to hear less of the thing, with a methodical palm placed against its frail chest. 

It whines for a moment before softening with a contented sigh.

“Look at that… You’re good with her,” Jack mumbles, taking a step closer to peer over your shoulder — until you can smell the coffee on his breath and the musky cologne lingering on his skin. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he watches you with glittering eyes. “Told ya you should’ve gone into pedes.”

You flash him an emotionless scowl. “Don’t patronize me,” you scold.

“Have you guys ever thought about having kids?” Emma wonders with a kind smile, having assumed your marital status from your matching last names and golden wedding bands. She cowers instinctively when your eyes turn to her in sync, fearful she might’ve said the wrong thing. “Or is that super rude to ask? I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s not rude at all,” Jack assures her, reaching to wrap his hands around either end of the stethoscope around his neck. It makes his freckled biceps strain against the black sleeves of his scrubs as his silver head swivels slowly to look at you. Something mischievous swims in his blue-green eyes as he lilts, “We’re just… going with the flow. Right, Dr. Abbot?”

You meet his tightlipped grin with a deadpanned look. The two of you agreed long ago that, while neither of you is totally opposed to having children, you’d also be perfectly happy living a completely childfree life. 

But instead of getting into all of that with less than an hour left on your grueling shift — in front of the newest addition to the nursing team, no less — you just nod with an artificial smile.

“Right. Yeah,” you say, already inching back towards the door. The baby starts to cry again a second later, in a series of revving whines that lead to a sharp shriek. You flash an apologetic grimace over your shoulder from your place in the doorway. “You guys have fun with… all that.”

You spend the next half hour finishing up your already-completed charting. You reword, backspace, and click occasionally at your mouse — pretending to work to keep from being bothered, though it isn’t quite as foolproof as you would’ve liked. Whitaker rushes your way with one of his interns in tow, sporting a worried sort of glint in his wide puppy dog eyes that he only gets when something’s going wrong.

“Hey… Dr. Abbot. Are you— Are you busy at the moment?”

“Nope,” you answer in a monotone, without looking up from the bright-white computer screen ahead of you. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way.”

“Well, uh…” Whitaker falters, shifting awkwardly on the other side of the desk. “We— We kinda need you. In pedes.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Baby Jane Doe hasn’t stopped crying since you left,” the woman behind him says, standing several inches shorter than the boy and sporting a heavy pair of glasses and a glittering silver septum in her nose.

Your eyes dart toward the stranger — Joy Kwon, MS3, the badge on her chest reads.

“That was, like, twenty minutes ago,” you say with an incredulous twist to your features.

“Exactly,” she deadpans.

You huff and lead the duo the short distance back to the pediatric unit. The crying hits you before you’ve even crossed the threshold — a sharp, unrelenting wail that adds to the headache you’ve been nursing all day. 

You find a lanky, blonde-haired man who eerily resembles Whitaker in the vibrantly painted room, though his badge reads James Ogilvie, MS4. The young med student flashes you a wide-eyed look of horror, holding the writhing baby in a visibly awkward hold.

“Please help me,” he pleads.

You don’t bother trying to hide your apathy as you trudge across the room to close the distance between you. You slip the tiny baby back into your hold, where it settles almost instantly, heavying against your chest with another breathy whine. You rock it gingerly in your arms the way you were taught to. Its wet eyes flutter slowly shut as fat tear drops trail down its reddened cheeks.

Whitaker gestures with a dazed smile. “See? Knew it. Total natural.”

You flash the boy a deadpanned look over your shoulder. “Because I’m a woman? That means I’m automatically a natural-born caretaker?”

His light eyes widen with an immediate panic. Joy tries and fails to hide her amused smile as she purses her lips to the side of her mouth. Whitaker, meanwhile, stumbles over himself to get the words out.

“W-What? No! No, not at all! I just—”

“She’s just messing with you, kid.” 

Jack’s voice drifts in as he steps through the door, saving the boy from his own stuttered-out apology. He’s perhaps the only one in Pittsburgh who can decipher your usual monotone from your humorous one, which he was only able to master after years of loving you. 

“Oh…” Whitaker says, deflating with a relieved sigh, though his pink cheeks are slow to lose their newfound color.

“Go check on Mr. Alvarez for me, will ya?” you tell him, jutting your chin back towards the door. “You know, since I have to take care of… this thing.”

Whitaker leaves and takes his interns with him, who trail after him in line like ducklings. They pass by Jack in the doorway, who peers at you over their heads with a pair of wide eyes. 

 “This thing?” he scoffs.

You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m not getting attached to it.”

“It?!”

You huff and adjust the baby in your arms, with one hand resting on its diapered bottom and your other rubbing gently over its tiny back. You sway gently back and forth, far too sweetly for the following words out of your mouth.

“The entire reason I got into emergency medicine was so I could help people without having to deal with all the— baggage that comes with him.”

“Well, babies don’t have baggage, honey,” Jack laughs as he strolls slowly towards you. “They’re brand new— that’s literally their whole thing.”

“Yeah. That’s because the parents give it to ‘em through… years of psychological torment.”

Jack studies you for a long moment with a pair of squinted eyes. “I think you might be projecting a little bit here…”

“I know I am,” you scoff. “Which is why I’d be a horrible mother. ‘Cause I’d just be a mirror of my mom, and our kid would just be a mirror of me, and it’ll just be a whole cycle of… emotionless, unaffectionate women...”

You trail off with a heavy sigh, lifting your gaze from the calming baby to the man towering over you. You find him wearing a much softer gaze than you expect him to. He tilts his silver head to his shoulder, eyes narrowing and lips curling slowly.

“Our kid?”

Your eyes flick away and back again. “…What?”

“You said our kid,” Jack clarifies with a wider grin.

You roll your eyes at him despite the way your cheeks blaze beneath his unwavering stare. “Well, we are married, you know? Who the hell else would I be having kids with— Robby?”

“God, I hope not— Poor kid,” Jack quips drily before leaning in to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your temple. His silver scruff brushes our delicate skin when he pulls away, far sooner than you would’ve liked. “And, just for the record, I think you’d be an amazing mom.”

Something warm flickers in your chest at his words, like embers stoked suddenly to flame. You recoil physically from the foreign feeling, with a grimace twisting your features.

“Eugh…” 

“What?”

You shake your head in response, parting from him to set the now-slumbering baby into the warmer at your side. You lay it gingerly onto the blankets before stepping away with your hands splayed out, as if it had burnt you in some way.

“It got too real for a second there,” you mutter with a look of disgust on your face. “I started feeling all… warm and… and fuzzy— I didn’t like it…”

Jack laughs. 

“Yeah, that’s what they call happiness, Dr. Abbot,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan. “And I’m glad you’re finally getting to experience it after three whole years of marriage.”

Jack can’t get the sight of it out of his head. You, in the rocking chair in the corner, with the pedes room dimmed to a dull lamplight, cradling a sleeping baby to your chest and looking half-asleep yourself. 

“Thought you weren’t getting attached?” he whispered into the serene silence from his place in the doorway.

“’M not,” you mumbled back, head lolled to your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “‘M just using this as an excuse to shut my eyes for a second.”

Something about it all catches him off guard. Not the baby, exactly — he’s seen a thousand babies before — held them, handed them off, charted them like any other patient in a sea of a hundred different patients. They were always temporary things to him, always someone else’s. 

But then he sees you — his future, his eternity — with someone else’s baby tucked to your chest as if it had always been there. You had one hand instinctively supporting the weight of her head while your other smoothed up and down her back. And your voice, often edged with sarcasm dry enough to sand wood, had softened into something warm and low and honeyed. And the seemingly orphaned baby, who could cry loud enough to rattle glass, goes instantly still in your arms like it finds sanctuary in you alone. 

It does nothing more than pique his curiosity at first — the idea of having kids with you, of how great a mom you would be — which isn’t a completely rare thought, but one that is typically fleeting. But then the thought lingers. Festers. Settles somewhere in the pit of his chest until he can’t breathe without thinking about it. 

By the time you’ve settled in the empty cabin, six hours away from the PTMC, the desire has rooted itself somewhere far deeper than he’d like to admit.

Jack, freshly showered, reclines on the clean sheets of the familiar bed, smelling of detergent and time gone by. The bedroom settles slowly into a lamplit darkness in time with the late night. Fireworks crackle faintly in the distance, in mere echoes rolling across the midnight-colored lake outside. The quiet feels borderline suffocating compared to the never-ending chaos of the E.D. 

You move through the space as if you had always been there. Jack watches you from his spot on the bed, which gives him a perfect view of you in the adjacent bathroom. 

Your hair is still slightly damp from the shared shower, dripping onto the t-shirt swallowing your body whole. Your bare feet pad softly along the tile as you complete the last steps of your skincare routine; your attention flitting between your reflection in the mirror and the video playing on your phone.

It strikes him somewhere deep — swells from his stomach, to his chest, to his throat, until he gets the very sudden urge to cry.

“Should we have a kid, you think?” Jack blurts, as if the question were as simple as asking you if you wanted pizza for dinner.

You still in place in the golden-lit bathroom. Your fingers freeze on your cheeks, mid-swipe of moisturizer, as you flash him a deadpanned glare from the doorway.

“…Do you hear that?” you wonder in a monotone.

“The sound of my sperm dying?” Jack jokes

“The sound of quiet,” you correct before turning away to continue your work in the mirror. “Which doesn’t exist when you have kids. I mean, think about it— We wouldn’t have even been able to come here today if we had a kid. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

“Well, that’s just not true,” Jack scoffs, folding his arms behind his silver curls until his biceps strain beneath the sleeves of his black undershirt; the hem rises just enough to reveal the tuft of light brown-blonde hair trailing down into his sweatpants. 

His silver scruff brushes his freckled skin when he turns his head. “Parents take their kids places all the time— or alarm clocks, as you so lovingly called them.”

“Yeah, well, not mine,” you murmur distantly as you chuck your crumpled cotton pads into the bin beside the sink. “They always told me that I was the reason we couldn’t afford to do anything. ‘Cause apparently feed and clothing me was such a burden to them— as if I asked to be here.”

“Your parents were just assholes, babe.”

“The crazy thing is, they were actually pretty nice…” you sigh, bare feet padding softly across the floor as you trudge to bed, plugging your phone into its charger on the nightstand. “Just not to me. Like I ruined them or something.”

Jack’s chest flares with a white-hot warmth that makes his eyes sting. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”

You don’t answer him with words. You just bounce your brows and tilt your head, though he struggles to tell if it’s an agreement or not. He shifts on the mattress when you pull the fluffy comforter down to slide into bed beside him, brows lowered as he keeps his unwavering stare locked on your face.

“Is that why you don’t want kids?” he wonders gently. “Because you think you’ll end up like your parents?”

You scoff, kneeling on the mattress until you settle into place next to his reclined form. “Isn’t everyone terrified of ending up like their parents?”

“Sure, but… You’re nothing like them. I mean, I saw you with that Jane Doe today— You were perfect.”

“Well, you have to say that.”

“No, I don’t,” Jack scoffs. “If I thought any differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But I know you’d be a great mom because I saw that today— Saw the rest of my whole goddamn life in that place…”

He trails off with a faraway look in his eyes.

You watch him with a suspicious glint in yours. 

“…You really mean that?” you murmur, halfway shy, picking at pills of cotton on the blanket thrown over your legs. “The part about me… You know, being a good mom, I mean?”

“Of course I do,” Jack laughs like it’s obvious, eyes glittering as he peers up at you. “And it’s not like I expect you to change your mind right now— or ever, if that’s what you want. It’s just… Something to think about, you know?”

“Well…” you tilt your head and trail off with a mischievous sort of lilt in your voice. “They do say the best part of having kids is trying for one.”

Jack grins up at you, brows raised to his hairline. “Do they?” he hums lowly.

“Mhm,” you nod.

“Should we test that theory out, you think?” he teases, all giddy like a teenage boy.

You shrug lazily, t-shirt sleeping off your shoulder, pretending to remain uninterested despite the excitement flaring red-hot in your chest. “Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?”

Something about your indifference makes Jack ravenous. It always has. It makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. And there’s nothing he loves more than watching your mask slip, than watching all your attempts to tease him fade into moans you couldn’t hold back if you tried. 

You melt for him first, when his long fingers slide your pretty panties to the side, dragging an orgasm from you with an expert hand — and then further when he presses his mouth to the wet spot in the thin cotton, drinking the honey you leak from him until he licks another twitching orgasm from your buzzing body.

Jack’s wearing your slick down to the silver scruff on his chin when he crawls back up your trembling form, massaging his stiff cock through his boxers. “You’re not too sensitive, are you?” he wonders gently despite the proud smile sitting crooked on his face and the honey still coating his tongue.

Your hips buck on their own accord, chasing a pleasure you’re not entirely sure you can take.

“Fuck a baby into me,” you plead in a half-drunken slurs, etching scratch marks long his back in an attempt to ground yourself. “Wanna make you a daddy, Jack— Want feel you leakin’ outta me…”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack huffs, like you’ve just punched all the air out of his lungs. “You can’t talk like that, baby— I’ll cum before we’ve even started.”

He knows it’s just the previous two orgasms talking, ‘cause you’re still on the pill after all —  having a baby now is pretty much out of the equation even if you really wanted to. But Jack isn’t in the business of depriving you of what you want. So he gives you all he has for the time being.

He folds your knees to your chest with a pair of wide, calloused hands, keeping your drooling pussy spread for him as he pierces you slow. The head of his cock, glowing red with need, disappears inside your pulsing confines. His throaty groan entwines with your quiet whimpers as your cunt suckles him further in. Once he’s sheathed fully inside, he stills just against you, with the greying thatch of coarse hair above his cock nestled against your sensitive clit.

“Yeah, you feel that?” Jack croons with a breathy laugh, which turns into a moan when your nails rake down his muscular chest. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you, baby?”

Your heavy head nods lazily against the pillow, eyes bleary and wet with desire. They squeeze shut a second later, when Jack’s hips drag back, until only the head of his cock is left inside you. Then he slides back into you, slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and smiles when your back arches off the mattress.

“I’ll give you a baby one day, honey, I promise,” the man babbles, choppy between his measured thrusts. “Fill you up so much it’ll be leakin’ outta you for days—”

You whine, hips bucking into and away from his cock all at once.

“Yeah, that’s it… I’ll get you all round and full… ’Til you’re walking around the E.D… Showin’ everyone what I did to you— how good I make you feel…”

“Please,” you whine.

“Yeah?” Jack coos sympathetically, beneath the wet schlick, schlick, schlick sound of his thrusts inside you. “That what you want?”

You nod, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, though the pathetic “please, please, please”’s continue spilling from your kissed mouth.

“Take it then, baby— Take it.”

He buckles down over you, punching into you with shallow thrusts that slowly start to lose their rhythm. He talks you through every inch of your orgasm, which hits you so hard it makes tears swell in the corners of your eyes. 

“That’s it, honey. Let me have it,” he murmurs in your ear as your body starts to twitch beneath his muscular one. “Give me all of it, baby. That’s it.”

Your stomach pools with heat a second later when Jack tenses on top of you, burying his groans in his neck as his jerking cock spits thick ropes of warm cum inside of your pulsing confines. He deflates on top of you when he’s finally spent, sticky body melting with yours, until both of you are melting into the tousled sheets below.

“You okay?” Jack asks through panted breaths, muffled into your sweat-slick neck. 

You nod wordlessly, swallowing hard as the high fades, and shoving lazily at his bare shoulder. “Get off— I gotta go to the bathroom,” you huff. 

Jack slides off your body and falls heavily onto the other side of the mattress. He watches with lidded eyes as you hurry to the bathroom with your thighs clenched together. You clean yourself up inside and return some minutes later to Jack having wiped himself off and tucking his soft cock back into his grey boxers.

“Do you wanna… talk about all that?” he asks with a knowing squint in his eyes.

“Remind me tomorrow,” you sigh, feet heavy as you trudge back into bed. 

Jack scoffs a laugh, knowing you’ll likely tell him the same exact thing tomorrow, and flips off the lamp on the nightstand. The golden bedroom delves into a midnight-blue darkness.

His limbs entwine with yours on nothing short of muscle memory when he slides back into bed with you. His long legs slot with yours beneath the covers as he throws a heavy arm over your stomach, folding his free one beneath his head.

Quiet settles over the dark bedroom like a blanket. 

“Actually,” you blurt into the silence, catching Jack right before he falls asleep.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, warm breath fanning over your shoulder.

“It’ll probably take about— I don’t know, three or so days for all the results to come back. You know, for Baby Jane Doe’s workup,” you murmur, half-shy. “And we’ll be back to work by then, so… I was thinking maybe we could… Never mind, it’s stupid.”

Jack lifts his head before you can shrink back into yourself, eyes flitting across your shadowed profile. “No, what is it?”

You roll onto your back to meet his darkened gaze with a far more sheepish one. “Maybe we could take her, you know? Just foster her on an emergency basis until we can find her family. Or someone who can foster her long-term. Like a…”

“A trial run?” Jack finishes for you with an audible grin. “Yeah, that’s definitely one way to pitch it, honey.”

You grimace, hiding your burning face behind your hands. “I told you, it’s stupid,” you whine, muffled behind your palms.

“It’s not stupid,” Jack assures you with a quiet laugh. He pries your hands from your face with gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist. “I think it’s a great idea. We can, you know, taste the waters about the whole baby thing and help a kid in need at the same. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

“Yeah?” you hum with a soft wince.

“Yeah,” he nods. “We can look into it when we get back.”

Your chest swells with a sunshine sort of warmth when he settles back into bed beside you, tossing a muscular arm over you to tuck you back into his bare chest. It’s a pure, unadulterated feeling of overwhelming happiness that weirdly makes you feel like crying. ‘Cause only Jack would agree to foster an abandoned baby you found at work not even a day ago; only Jack would see all of you and still love you completely, for a reason you still can’t name.

“I hate when you’re supportive,” you grouse on instinct as you bury your head back into the pillow, even though you mean the exact opposite.

Jack knows this, too, so he just grins into your hair and jokes, “Yeah, I know. It’s definitely my worst quality.”

Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar — black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants — like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood. 

There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. “How long has it been?” he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.

You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a trauma with you.

“About…” You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, I think?”

His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I don’t know about?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. “Yeah— If that’s what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisette’s entire catalog…”

Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that you’re talking to an attending, and stammer out, “Uh, what— What about you?”

Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. “This was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, so…” he trails off before taking another sip.

His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you wonder through a breathless chuckle.

“I don’t know…” he admits, quieter now. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you out of your scrubs…”

His light eyes flicker over your form again — from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach. 

“It’s different…” he hums. “A good different…”

Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.

“What are you laughing at?” Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.

“Nothing,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I just… I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. Abbot…”

“This is only my second glass, I’ll have you know,” he argues, playfully offended. “What? You think I can’t handle my alcohol.”

He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.

“No! I just—” You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. “I just feel like you probably wouldn’t be talking to me like this otherwise.”

“I talk to you every day,” he scoffs.

“Well, yeah, but you don’t flirt with me every day.”

His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. “Oh. So you think I’m flirting with you?”

An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.

“…No,” you answer after a few long moments. “Of course not.”

Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Well, I was, so…” Jack quips, too casual for his own good. “I guess I’m gonna have to try a little harder now, aren’t I?”

His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not it’s numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)

Your silence is not reassuring.

“Unless—” Jack’s voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, “Unless you don’t want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck off—”

“No, it’s not that!” you blurt. “It’s just…”

He leans in, just slightly. “Just what?”

You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.

“I feel like I haven’t… learned how to be a real person yet, you know?” you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Like… People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guys—”

You don’t notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.

“But I think I’ve just been working so much that… That I don’t know how to do anything but work, you know?”

“Yeah…” he hums softly. “Trust me. I know the feeling—”

There’s a distant call of his name. A faint “Abbot,” half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.

You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.

“You were supposed to be bringing me a drink,” the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. “Not holding it hostage.”

“Shit…” Jack exhales. “I’m sorry. I-I got distracted…”

“Dr. Al,” you greet with a waver in your voice. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “I heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, so…”

You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself — of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that you’ve interrupted something.

“I’ll, uh— I guess I’ll get out of your hair then…”

You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.

Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.

You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from “You Oughta Know” to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of “Head Over Feet” that very nearly brings a tear to your eye. 

It’s not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now — the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond. 

While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks together— 

You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them you’re heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.

“But we’re having so much fun!” Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. “You’ve already won me over, in spite of me! So don’t be alarmed if I fall, head over feet—!”

The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinity’s closet — just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.

You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (You’re unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until you’ve done it.)

You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.

You regret it instantly. 

Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.

“Those things kill, you know—?” Jack’s voice cuts in again.

(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)

You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.

“I can tell—” you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. “There’s no way this is enjoyable for people.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”

His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. “Can I?”

You don’t think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.

“By all means...”

Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later. 

You can’t seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when he’s done.

“So…” He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. “I guess you’re headed out now?”

“Yeah…” you sigh. “Guess so…”

He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, “Want me to walk you home?”

“No, it’s okay,” you shrug. “You’re busy, and I… I only live, like, a block down the road, so—”

“So, then, it’ll be quick?” Jack presses with raised brows.

Your eyes narrow. “…You’re not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?”

Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. “Not this time, kid. No.”

The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you can’t exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer — of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something that’s just been barbecued. 

You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.

There’s something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jack’s broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didn’t want to say out loud— 

“So…” you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. “You and Dr. Al…?”

“…Are very good coworkers, yeah,” Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. “She had a tough first day, you know? Figured I’d treat her to a few drinks.”

“That’s nice…” you murmur with an averted gaze.

“It was nothing,” Jack assures you.

Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.

You don’t think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment — not until you notice the slight hitch in Jack’s step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC. 

“Shit,” you huff. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

“Told me about what?” Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. “I can handle a few stairs…”

“I can’t make it up on my own, if you—”

“Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me, alright?”

You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jack’s steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee. 

You’re at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow. 

Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.

You hold onto him the rest of the way up.

Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be — not that he’d been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because he’s not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. It’s cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.

The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you must’ve pulled it from when you moved in.

“Wow…” Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. “Nice place…”

“No, it’s not,” you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. “Do you, uh— Need anything?” 

“No. I’m good.”

“‘Cause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering you—”

“Really. I’m good,” he echoes. “You don’t mind if I take it off, though, do you?”

“Of course not!” you blurt. “I’ll, um… I’ll go get you some water.”

You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.

“Do you— Do you need me to call you an Uber, or…?”

Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. “Wow… Trying to get rid of me already, huh?”

Your face floods with horror. “No! O-Of course not! I just— With your leg, I— I don’t want you to walk all the way home, you know?”

“I think I can make it, sweetheart,” he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. “I just needed a second… Thank you—” He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.

You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side — very palpably tense, like you’re a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.

“And I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to… kick you out. Or anything,” you add, softer now.

“I know, kid,” Jack assures.

“Good…” you breathe a sigh of relief. “‘Cause I— I don’t want you to leave… Wait, that sounded weird— I just meant that… I like your company. I’m not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.”

Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.

Jack’s lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. “I wouldn’t mind it if you were, to be honest…” he hums, only halfway joking. “But unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so… If you could free me around 6 a.m,  that’d be great.”

“Oh, right,” you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. “The side hustle where you get shot at for fun?”

“It’s good to have a hobby,” Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. “What do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.”

You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. “…I once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.”

Jack snorts. “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t have any hobbies?”

“Work is my hobby.”

“So what do you do to… unwind?”

“…Have panic attacks in the supply closet at work,” you confess. “What about you?”

“Get shot at,” Jack quips in the same gritty tone.

“Well, at least you get to do something outside of the E.D…” you monotone with a far-off stare. “This is the first time in months I’ve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered now— I’m too boring to even go shopping...”

“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You’re young— You should be going out every weekend.”

“Well, I don’t…” you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.

“What about dates?” he presses with his chin to his shoulder. “You don’t go on any of the apps?”

“Well, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,” you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. “What about you?”

“Nah…” Jack shakes his head. “I haven’t been on a date in about… Eight years—”

“Eight years?!” you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Jesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?”

(You’re starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)

“Well, it’s a lot easier than you think,” the older man deadpans. ‘Cause it’s not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasn’t exactly seeking them out. 

He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, he’d catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.

Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off — though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” you scoff. “The last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was… in med school, probably.”

“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” Jack argues. “That vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. “He was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.”

“Well, I’ve had… About a whiskey and a half,” Jack calculates. “Do I still count?”

The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.

Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, ‘cause you think he must be joking — that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.

“That’s not funny,” you tell him with a wavering smile.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” the man insists with a scoff. “I haven’t been funny since 1994.”

Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time — not the fake ones you’ve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.

“There you go…” Jack hums with a proud nod.

“There I go, what?”

“You’re unwinding…”

You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re doing a great job so far— a solid B-minus.”

“B-minus?” you echo. “I’ve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.”

“Well…” Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. “Better step it up then, kid.”

Something inside you tips in that moment. It’s his teasing, maybe, or just the way he’s looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker — brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.

You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, “What does that get me?”

Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. “Probably a couple HR violations?” he jokes after a few moments.

Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.

“Oh. Shit. I-I thought that— I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thing—”

You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified. 

His laughter doesn’t make it any better.

You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.

“You didn’t misread a damn thing,” he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. “Of course, I want to kiss you— I always want to kiss you.”

The mournful twist in your features never wavers. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because it’d be wrong,” he shrugs. “I’m your attending. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I— that I pressured you into something.”

“Well… We both know you didn’t, right?” you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. “And, I mean… It’s not like anyone else would have to know. We’re not getting married, we’re just… unwinding. Right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. “Right...”

You’re not making it easy for him.

Jack’s trying not to cum in his pants before you’ve ever even touched him, and you’re making it damn near impossible. 

He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again — for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly — and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.

“Shit…” you pant with his spit still on your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. “It’s okay,” he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like it’s muscle memory for him — from a life he hasn’t let himself live in a long, long time.

He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.

You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again — you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass. 

There’s a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. It’s not graceful or entirely practiced. It’s laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment you’ve stumbled so suddenly into.

And Jack can hardly take it. ‘Cause hasn’t let himself want like this in years; he hasn’t let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now you’re here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.

It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. It’s all too much. He knows he won’t last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.

And he hates himself for it.

“Hey—” He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. “Hey, you… You have condoms, right?”

You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. “Uh, yeah. Yeah— I think— Somewhere…”

(There’s an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.

“Jesus Christ…” Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch. 

He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.

Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. You’re not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.

“Take that dress off…” he tells you with a voice like honey. “I wanna see you.”

You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinity’s place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra you’ve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.

You’re hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didn’t seem to get that memo.

He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. “C’mere…” he murmurs.

You take slow, tentative steps towards him.

His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.

His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didn’t know you were capable of drawing out of a person.

“I wanna make you cum with my mouth,” Jack murmurs. “Can I?”

You nod wordlessly, and can’t shake the feeling that you’re dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later. 

Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.

He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the world’s soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue. 

You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. He’s wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when he’s done with you.

You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck — still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb. 

Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he pants into your ear.

You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No… No, it was— It was good…” you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. “I wanna ride you now… Is that okay?”

And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?

You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum — he can feel it all underneath the condom — and he’s momentarily grateful that you can’t see any of it. 

You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.

Jack’s grateful for that, too.

His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.

“You okay?” you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.

Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled. 

“Yeah, yeah. I just… I wasn’t lying about the whole eight-year thing.” He exhales a hard breath through his nose that’s supposed to be a laugh, though there isn’t really a smile to accompany it. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna cum too soon, you know? I wanna— make it good for you. That’s all.”

Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.

“It’s already good for me,” you assure him. “I want it to be good for you, too.”

You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jack’s hands grip hard at your hips, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.

His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey — he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where they’re shoved beneath his heavy balls. You’re bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt. 

He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length — in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.

“Nuh-huh. Don’t run away from me,” Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him. 

Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.

Jack smiles into your hair. “Yeah. There it is, honey. There you go…”

He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after — going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.

His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.

Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jack’s panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think you’d turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.

It’s the only way Jack can stay anchored, really — with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. It’s foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.

Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.

The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock. 

“You okay?” Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes. 

You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh. 

“I just… I don’t know what normal people do in this situation…” you confess through uneven pants. “Like, I feel like we should… high-five or something.” 

Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesn’t say a word.

There’s a fleeting moment, then, where you worry you’re maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke would’ve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought. 

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.

Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.

“We make a good team, don’t we, Doc?” Jack hums with heavy eyes.

“Well, you make a good teacher…” you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. “You know, helping me unwind, or whatever…”

“Right, well…” Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. “I think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheart…”

Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring when he kissed you.

It had started innocently enough, if anything involving Jack Abbot could still be called innocent after the last few weeks. A late dinner that turned into drinks after because neither of you had been ready to call it a night. A table tucked into the back corner of a low-lit restaurant where the candles guttered in their glass holders and threw amber light over the lines of his face, catching in the silver at his temples and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The place smelled like charred citrus and expensive liquor and rain drying off the pavement outside every time somebody opened the front door.

He’d looked unfairly good all night.

Not in a polished, trying-too-hard way. Jack never looked polished. He looked lived-in. Worn in all the places that mattered. Dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, broad hands around a whiskey glass, wedding ring still on the finger he never seemed to think about until you caught him turning it once with his thumb when the conversation went quiet. Hair a little mussed by the end of the evening, not styled so much as left alone, with that slightly unruly way it had of falling however it pleased. Tired eyes that missed absolutely nothing. A mouth better suited for dry remarks than pretty ones, which only made it matter more when he said something gentle.

Especially tonight.

Tonight he’d been quieter.

Not cold. Never that. Jack’s silence had texture to it. It had weight. It lived between you in the pauses after a joke, in the way his gaze rested on you a beat too long before he looked down at his drink, in the warm press of his hand at the center of your back when the hostess led you to your table. He listened like he always did—completely, with that unnerving kind of focus that made you feel not just heard but studied—but there had been something else under it tonight, something steadier and darker and impossible not to notice.

Want.

It ran beneath everything like a live wire.

By dessert you’d been so aware of him you could barely taste what was on your plate.

By the second drink you’d stopped pretending not to know what was happening.

By the time you stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the city had gone glossy and dark around you, the street damp from an earlier shower, the air cool enough to wake up the skin at your throat. Traffic hissed past. Somewhere half a block over, music thumped behind a closed door. Jack stood beside you while you got your coat settled, one hand low and brief at your waist to steady the fabric, and that simple touch hit with such clean force you nearly lost the thread of whatever you’d been saying.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His mouth tilted at one corner, not quite a smile. “You good?”

“Fine,” you said, and heard how unconvincing it sounded.

That earned you a soft exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah?”

You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead you found yourself smiling back at him, warm all over and a little breathless in a way the cold air did nothing to fix. “Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t starting anything.”

That was the problem. He hadn’t had to.

The walk to your building wasn’t long, but it felt stretched thin with awareness. Your shoulders brushed once at the crosswalk, then again half a minute later, and the second time neither of you corrected it. His stride was easy despite the slight unevenness that was more apparent on longer walks, a detail you never stared at because you knew he’d hate that, but one you were always aware of all the same. He carried himself with that same unshowy competence he brought to everything—like whatever hurt, whatever history he hauled around with him, none of it got to dictate the terms.

He asked if you’d had a good time in that low voice of his, the one that always seemed to land somewhere below your ribs.

You told him the truth. “I had a really good time.”

His glance flicked to you, then forward again. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?”

“That was me agreeing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re a real charmer, Abbot.”

“I got you out with me twice, didn’t I?”

“More than twice.”

“Then I’m doing better than I thought.”

It should’ve been easy, that exchange. Light. Harmless. But something in his tone kept it from floating away. He said things dry, understated, almost like he was trying to throw a layer over them before they could mean too much. The trouble was, he meant everything.

At the entrance to your building, he reached past you to get the door before you could, his sleeve brushing your bare wrist. The clean scent of his cologne—cedar, soap, the faintest trace of something smoky—slid through the cool night air and settled into your head. You stepped inside first, and he followed you into the quiet of the lobby, where the overhead lights were dimmer than they ought to have been and the old tile floor clicked faintly under your steps.

Neither of you said much in the elevator.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the opposite. It was crowded.

He stood beside you with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose, looking at the changing numbers over the door like he wasn’t acutely aware of you standing there in a dress he’d spent all evening trying not to stare at. You could feel the heat of him beside you. Feel your own pulse ticking faster with every floor.

When the elevator opened, he let you walk ahead of him down the hall.

At your door, you turned, keys already in hand, and that was where everything slowed down.

There was the hallway, quiet and softly lit.

There was the muffled hum of somebody’s television behind a neighboring wall.

There was the jangle of your keys going still in your hand.

And there was Jack in front of you, close enough now that the details sharpened all at once—the tired set of his eyes, the crease beside his mouth, the shadow at his jaw, the way he looked at you like he’d spent all night being careful and was running out of room to do it.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said, because somebody had to say something.

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then came back up. “Anytime.”

He should have left then.

You felt it—the point where the evening could still split into two different endings. One where he kissed your cheek, maybe, or touched your arm and told you to get some sleep. One where he walked back down the hall and the two of you did this again another night, and another after that, stretching the tension until it frayed you both raw.

Instead he stayed where he was.

So did you.

“Jack,” you said quietly.

He inhaled. Held it for half a beat. Let it go.

There was something almost brutal in the restraint of him. He wasn’t a young man fumbling his way into impulse. He wasn’t careless. He looked like somebody standing on the edge of a decision he’d spent a long time refusing to make.

When he finally lifted a hand, he did it slowly enough that you felt every inch of the movement. His knuckles brushed a loose strand of hair back from your cheek. The touch was rougher than it should’ve been, callused, warm. It left your skin tingling in its wake.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, voice quiet enough to disappear into the hall, “and I won't trust myself to be a gentleman."

The line should’ve made you laugh. It nearly did. But the way he said it—worn and honest and a little wrecked around the edges—sent a pulse of heat right through you.

“Maybe I don’t need a gentleman tonight.”

Something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Not exactly. More like the last brace of restraint giving under pressure.

He kissed you then.

Not tentative. Not careless either. Just deliberate in a way that made everything in you go still before it all rushed back at once harder than before. His hand moved to the side of your neck, his thumb settling just below your ear, and his mouth covered yours like he’d thought about it too many times not to do it well. There was no rush in it at first. Just heat. A long, deep first taste of him that had your keys slipping against your palm and your free hand catching at the front of his shirt.

He made a sound—low, rough, barely there—and kissed you again like that sound had gotten away from him.

The second one broke something open.

You felt him step in, felt the wall cool against your shoulder blades, felt the shift in him as the carefulness started to burn off. His mouth moved against yours with more urgency now, still controlled, still precise, but the control had stopped being distance. It had become intensity. His hand slid from your neck to your waist and held there, firm enough to make your breath hitch.

When you kissed him back harder, he answered at once, a low sound catching in his throat as his tongue swept into your mouth. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, messier in the span of a breath, all that hard-held restraint giving way to something far more dangerous. You tasted whiskey and heat and the sheer force of how badly he’d been trying not to do exactly this.

That was maybe the most dangerous part of him, the responsiveness. The fact that for all his steadiness, for all the hard-earned discipline in him, he felt everything. Every small shift. Every shaky breath. Every press of your fingers into his shirt.

He pulled back only far enough to look at you.

For a second all you could hear was both of you breathing.

His forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes stayed closed, then opened. You saw it then, plain as anything—the want, yes, but also the other thing beneath it. The hesitation. The knowledge of what this was.

His hand at your waist tightened once.

“I was trying to take this slow,” he said.

You swallowed. “Maybe slow is overrated.”

That almost-smile touched his mouth and disappeared again. “You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, not speaking. You knew enough about him by then to understand that silence wasn’t emptiness with him. It was effort. It was him sorting through what he was willing to say, what he was willing to let you see.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Lower. Stripped down.

“You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

The truth in it went through you even faster than the question itself.

You could have made a joke. Could have eased the pressure, given both of you an out. Instead you said, just as quiet, “Probably the same thing you’ve been doing to me.”

His eyes shut briefly, as if that landed harder than he’d expected.

When he opened them again, there was less distance in them than you’d ever seen.

“I haven’t…” He stopped, jaw working once. Started again. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

Not dramatic. Not overexplained. He didn’t say her. Didn’t say wife. Didn’t have to.

The history was there all the same, a shadow laid carefully at your feet.

Something in your chest ached.

Your hand came up to his face almost without thinking, palm against the rough warmth of his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Just a little. But enough.

“I know,” you said.

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh in a different mood. “Do you?”

“I know this isn’t casual for you.”

“No,” he said, and there was nothing dry in his voice now. “It’s not.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around you.

You could feel the next moment waiting. Could feel the choice still sitting there between you, changed now but not gone.

Jack stepped back a fraction, not far enough to leave, just enough to give you room if you wanted it. His hand slid from your waist but didn’t leave you entirely, fingertips skimming your side once on the way down.

“Tell me to go home,” he said. “I’ll go.”

The generosity of that nearly undid you.

He meant it. Even like this. Even with his mouth still pink from kissing you, his breathing heavier than before, his whole body carrying the strain of holding himself in check. He would go if you asked. He would walk away from this and take it with him.

You fumbled the key against the lock on the first try and heard the tiny metallic rattle it made. Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted slowly back to your face.

“Jack,” you said, opening the door. “Come inside.”

The look he gave you then was enough to make your knees go weak.

Not triumph. Nothing so easy. Something deeper, denser, almost disbelieving in its intensity.

The door swung inward. You stepped back into the apartment, and he followed you in.

The click of the door shutting behind him sounded louder than it should have.

Everything changed with that sound.

The apartment was dim except for the lamp you’d left on in the living room before the date, its warm light spilling across the hardwood floor and the books stacked on the coffee table and the throw blanket half-fallen from the couch. Familiar space, ordinary space. Except not anymore. Not with him standing just inside the door, shoulders squared beneath the dark shirt, looking at you like crossing that small distance had cost him something real.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Jack dragged a hand over the back of his neck and gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked around once, like he needed somewhere to put the force of what he was feeling and found nowhere for it to go. Then he looked at you again.

“You ask me in here,” he said, “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

Heat bloomed low and hard in your stomach.

“Good.”

That did it.

He crossed the room in two steps and kissed you again, not careful this time. Still controlled—he would always be controlled, even like this—but no longer pretending he wasn’t half out of his mind with wanting you. His hands found your waist, then your back, then settled hard at your hips as he walked you backward until the backs of your knees met the couch. He stopped there only long enough to look at you, chest rising under your palms, eyes dark and fixed on your face like he was giving himself one last second to think better of this.

Then he kissed you again.

Deep. Hot. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth slanted over yours with enough force to make your breath catch, and when you opened for him, he took full advantage, tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that felt far filthier than it should have, all heat and intent and hard-won control fraying at the edges. A wrecked sound broke from him when you clutched at his shirt, and he answered by pulling you closer, one hand spread wide at the small of your back, the other still locked around your hip like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. The kiss went molten in seconds—slow nowhere, urgent everywhere—until the room, the lamp, the whole apartment blurred at the edges and there was nothing left but the drag of his mouth on yours, the press of his body crowding you into the couch, and the staggering relief of finally being touched by him the way he’d clearly been denying himself all night.

This close, you could see the tiny shifts in him. The effort. The disbelief. The sheer force of everything he’d spent the whole evening packing down until it had nowhere left to go.

“Still want this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want this.”

His eyes held yours another second, confirming, grounding, making sure.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened back up for him. The sound he made was low, almost pained, and it undulated through you. His hand slid from your back to your hip, his fingers pressing into the curve there, pulling you closer until you felt the hard line of his erection against you stomach.

He didn’t lay you back against the couch, instead turning you both, sitting first then pulling you into his lap so you straddled him. The position was intimate, decisive. Your dress rode up your thighs, the worn microfiber of the couch scratchy against your bare skin.

His hands settled on your hips, holding you there. He looked up at you, his eyes dark in the lamplight. The grey at his temples was silver now. He was studying your face, reading every shift, every breath.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He reached for the first button on his own shirt. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled for a second. He got it open. Then the next. He pushed the fabric apart, revealing the taut plane of his chest, a dusting of dark hair. He didn’t remove the shirt, just left it hanging open.

His hands returned to you, sliding up your sides, over the dress. He found the hem. Gripped it. Lifted it slowly up your body. The cool air touched your stomach, your ribs. He pulled it over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind the couch. You sat before him in just your bra and panties, exposed in the soft light.

He didn’t move for a long moment. His gaze traveled over you—the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts above the lace, the softness of your stomach. It wasn’t a leer. It was an inventory. A remembering.

“Christ,” he breathed, the word full of awe.

He leaned forward and put his mouth on the skin between your breasts. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. You felt the scrape of his teeth, the wet stroke of his tongue. Your back arched, a silent plea.

His hands went to the clasp of your bra. It gave way. He peeled the lace down your arms, letting your breasts spill free. His control was a visible thing, a tightness in his jaw as he looked at you. Then he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out. His tongue was rough, his suction relentless. He lavished one breast, then the other, until the peaks were hard and wet and aching. His free hand cupped the weight of you, his thumb circling the neglected peak, and the dual sensation made your thighs clamp around his hips.

“Please,” you heard yourself say, not knowing what you were asking for.

He understood. His hand slid down your stomach, over the front of your plain cotton panties. They were already damp. He pressed the heel of his hand against you, and you rocked into the pressure.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, and then you were bare, straddling him, his open shirt the only fabric between you. The head of his cock, trapped within his dress pants, pressed insistently against your damp heat.

He looked down between your bodies, watching as your wetness darkened the fine wool of his pants. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He brought his hand back, his fingers glistening now with your arousal. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.

The groan that left him was raw, unfiltered, your name leaving his lips in a breathy exhale.

His hand returned to your, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit. He circled it once, twice, a slow, maddening tease. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.

You gasped, your head falling back. He was deep, his knuckles pressed against you. He curled his fingers, searching, and brushed a spot that made your vision blur. A wet, squelching sound filled the quiet room as he began to move his hand, a slow, thorough fuck with his fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, and the fullness was exquisite. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles in time with the thrust of his hand. The coil in your belly pulled tight, too fast, too soon.

“I’m close,” you warned, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, met his gaze. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes locked on yours as he worked you with his hand. He saw the exact moment you started to come. Your cunt clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a pulsing, milking grip, and a broken sound tore from your throat. He kept his hand moving, drawing the orgasm out until you were shuddering and limp against him.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and shining. He brought them to his mouth again, his eyes holding yours, and licked them clean with a slow drag of his tongue.

“My turn,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

His hands tightened on your hips, lifting you just enough. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.

He freed himself, his cock springing hard and thick against his stomach. The head was flushed dark, already drooling pre-come. He guided you with a firm pressure, the tip of him nudging against your soaked entrance.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained.

You dragged your eyes from where your bodies met, finding his. His gaze was locked on yours, unblinking, as he began to lower you.

The first inch was a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that made you gasp. He stopped, his whole body rigid, letting you adjust. His breath shuddered out.

“Okay?”

You nodded, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “More.”

He lowered you further, another excruciating inch, and the wet, tight slide drew a groan from deep in his chest. He was thick, filling you completely, and the sensation was overwhelming. You felt every vein, every pulse.

He didn’t move, just held you there, impaled on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. A fine tremor ran through his arms. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.

Your name was a broken moniker on his tongue.

He lifted his head, his eyes glassy. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking you cheekbone. Then he kissed you, deep and slow, his tongue mirroring the join of your bodies below.

He began to move you. His hands on your hips set a deliberate, rocking rhythm, lifting you almost off him before pulling you back down. The drag was exquisite, a wet, slick friction that made you whimper into his mouth.

The sound of your bodies repeatedly meeting was obscene—a steady, squelching slap of skin on skin, your wetness coating him with every rise and fall. He broke the kiss to watch, his eyes dark with a kind of ravaged hunger.

“See that?” he rasped, his gaze fixed on where he disappeared into you. “See how you take me?”

You looked down. The sight of his length, glistening with your arousal, sliding in and out of your swollen flesh, made you clench around him. He groaned, his hips jerking up to meet your next descent.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that. Keep squeezing me.”

His control was fraying. The measured lifts became more urgent, his thrusts upward harder, deeper. The couch creaked beneath you both. He found an angle that made you cry out, a spot that sent sparks up your spine.

“There?” he gritted out, chasing it.

“Yes—yes. Right there.”

He hammered into that spot, his rhythm turning relentless. The wet slap of your bodies filled the room. Sweat gleamed on his chest. His open shirt was damp, sticking to his skin.

You felt the coil tightening again, a fierce, fast build. “Jack, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Come on my cock.”

It shattered you. Your cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and you sobbed his name as the waves tore through you. He watched you fall apart, his expression one of awe and agony.

His own release followed, triggered by your clenching heat. He drove up into you one last, deep time and held there, his body bowing against yours. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse filling you. You felt the warmth spread deep inside.

He collapsed back against the couch, taking you with him, still joined. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. His heart hammered against you ear. His breath was ragged in your hair.

When the both of you finally came apart, it was slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you was quite ready to break the spell of it. You stayed where you were for another minute, straddling his lap, foreheads nearly touching, both of you breathing hard, before you shifted off him and onto the cushion beside him, legs unsteady and skin still warm everywhere he’d touched.

The apartment felt quieter than it had before, though nothing outside had changed. The same distant traffic moved below the windows. The same lamp burned in the corner, casting soft gold over the room. Somewhere in the building, plumbing knocked faintly in the walls. But inside the cocoon of your living room—couch cushions displaced, throw blanket dragged half to the floor, both of you breathing easier now—everything had settled into that strange, suspended calm that only came after something long anticipated had finally happened.

Jack sat at the edge of the couch for a moment, elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth while he caught his breath.

The sight of him undid you in a wholly different way than before.

Hair a mess now. Shirt hanging open, damp with sweat and pasted to his skin. Head bowed slightly, broad back rising and falling, the hard lines of him softened not by weakness but by exhaustion, by release, by the fact that he wasn’t trying to be anything except exactly what he was. When he finally lowered his hand, he stared down at the floor for a beat, then scrubbed both palms over his face.

You smiled despite yourself. “You okay?”

His laugh was short and rough. “Ask me in ten minutes.”

“Bad sign?”

He turned his head to look at you then, and something in his face gentled so completely it made your chest tighten. “No,” he said. “Pretty much the opposite.”

You shifted closer, pulling the blanket up over yourself. He noticed at once and reached for the edge of it automatically, tucking it around your legs with absentminded affection before leaning back into the couch. The movement was so instinctive, so quietly caring, that it hit even harder than it should have.

Jack looked tired.

Not in the everyday way you’d seen before, not the end-of-shift version of him with that brittle edge to it. This was different. Looser. A little stunned, maybe. As though some locked room inside him had finally been opened and he wasn’t yet sure what all the fresh air in it was going to do.

You touched his arm. “You got real quiet.”

“That surprises you?”

“No.” Your fingertips traced once over the coarss hair on his forearm. “Just trying to figure out if I should be nervous.”

His brows drew together faintly, and he turned more fully toward you. “About what?”

“That you regret it.”

The answer came so fast it was almost sharp. “No.”

You believed him immediately.

Not because he’d said it quickly. Because of how he’d said it. Clean. Certain. Like the idea itself offended him.

Jack exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment to where your hand still rested on him. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer.

“I don’t regret you.”

The simplicity of it made it land harder than anything more elaborate could have.

He was quiet another second, then added, “I think maybe I’m trying to catch up to the fact that this was a terrible idea.”

Your heart sank for exactly half a beat.

Then his mouth twitched.

“Terrible,” he repeated, “because now I’m not gonna be able to think about much else.”

You laughed, relief bright and immediate, and he finally smiled properly—small, tired, devastating.

“There he is,” you murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

He shook his head, but there was no argument in it. Only that faint lingering disbelief, like he still couldn’t quite accept that this night belonged to him now too.

For a while you sat there in the warm quiet, tucked against his side, his arm along the back of the couch behind you. Not rushing. Not filling the silence for the sake of it. It was one of the things you had learned fastest with Jack: the right kind of quiet could be its own form of closeness.

At length, he tipped his head back against the cushions and looked at the ceiling.

“I should probably go,” he said, without sounding like he meant it.

You angled your face up toward him. “You should?”

“No.”

“Good.”

That drew a softer laugh from him. He turned then, lifting a hand to brush his thumb over your cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it almost made you stop breathing. His eyes searched yours for a moment, not guarded now exactly, but open in a way that felt rarer than anything else he could have given you.

He looked less haunted like this.

Not healed. Not transformed. Nothing that false. Jack Abbot was still Jack Abbot—still a man built from long nights and hard choices and grief he carried with practiced silence. But some of the strain had eased from his face. Some old brace had loosened.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

You went without hesitation, folding into him, his arm coming around you with a firmness that made the whole world outside the apartment feel irrelevant. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested his cheek there, and the intimacy of that nearly outmatched everything that had come before.

No performance in it. No seduction. Just the truth of him.

After a minute, you felt his mouth move against your hair.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

He sighed, caught. “I said this date got out of hand.”

You smiled into his chest. “In the best way.”

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah.”

The room was warm. The lamp cast everything in honey-colored light. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere far off and then faded, taking the city back with it. Jack’s hand moved once, slow and absent over your back, then stilled there as though he’d found where he wanted it.

If you’d looked up just then, you thought you might have seen it plainly on his face—the knowledge settling in, undeniable now.

Not that he’d wanted you.

That part had been obvious for weeks.

No, the more dangerous thing.