Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all. 

The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.

He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.

Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.

This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.

His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.

J must have gotten it from Julia.

Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.

The pounding of the bass is getting to him.

He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.

You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.

“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.

“Oh my god,” you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.

“So which one are you?” you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”

Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.

“Andrew.” he supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.

“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”

“Fair enough. I’m hiding,” you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”

“I have a few guesses.” Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense. 

He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.

Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.

“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” you ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”

With you, hangs unspoken in the air.

“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”

“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”

“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not really a party person either,” you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.

“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.

He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line. 

You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move! 

Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic —for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.

“I know. I want to-” you start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”

Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.

“Thank you,” you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.

Andrew really hopes that there will be.

—

The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deran’s bar.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deran’s bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deran’s insistence and Craig’s staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.

He’s on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrew’s head turns and suddenly he’s glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.

Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. You’re dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like you’ve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.

You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like you’re not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isn’t sure if he should break eye contact but he can’t help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.

“Fancy meeting you here,” You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but you’re not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. You’re laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. “You come here often?”

“You know Pope?” The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. He’s got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that he’s failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. “And I think I owe him a drink.”

“You do?” It slips out of both Deran and Andrew’s mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.

“Well, I said I’d make it up to you next time,” You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesn’t have enough time. “So, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?”

“Yeah.” Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew can’t help but smile back. 

Two and a half beers later, Andrew’s face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. You’re so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothers’ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times. 

But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesn’t really want to shrink away. He’s tuned out the background noise, even your friend’s obnoxious drunk laughter at Craig’s pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, he’s allowed to have something just for him.

“I like your smile,” You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadn’t even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. “It’s cute. I like your teeth.”

There it was again. That word. Cute. It’s not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.

“You really think I’m cute?” He can’t help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.

“I guess cute isn’t really the word for a guy like you.” His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the ones that you’ve heard.

“A guy like me?” Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.

“Yeah. You’re all built and…” You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like you’re ready to take a bite of him right then and there. “I don’t know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.”

Andrew is sure that he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides that’s a later problem. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly and it’s really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and it’s all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.

“Sorry, I’m being a bit forward, aren’t I?” you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesn’t really work. “I just get flirty when I’m tipsy.”

“So you don’t think us meeting again is fate?” He’s teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.

“I never said that,” You’re hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. “You do believe in fate then?” 

Andrew has to think about it for a moment. He’s not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, he’s done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things he’s done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. “Maybe.”

“Well, let me know when you decide.” He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that you’re seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesn’t have the courage to ask.

“Okay.” he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.

Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrew’s hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.

“She just puked in the plant over there, and I’m pretty fucked up, so…” Craig isn’t subtle in what he’s asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.

“Okay, just… take her outside. I’ll be out in two minutes.” you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face that’s becoming all too familiar to him now.

“Is she going to be okay?” His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.

“Yeah, I think so. She’ll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,” Once you’ve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but he’s not sure if it’s because you’re leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“It’s okay.” Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. It’s cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then you’re gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and it’s his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.

“You got it bad, man.”

—

After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.

Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now she’s basically living at Smurf’s house. Which means that, since you’re her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.

You two haven’t been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrew’s disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.

So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.

They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.

He quickly notes that you’re laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig. 

“Why are you always pulling this crap?” Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.” Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.

It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craig’s back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craig’s skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and it’s a full blown fist fight in seconds.

The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They don’t put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.

A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.

Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. You’re rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door.  

You’re holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrew’s state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. “I heard, uh, your brothers fighting.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. He’s silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.

“Yeah, oh.” You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craig’s rooms, eyebrows raised. “So, back to my question. Is everything okay?” 

Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone you’ve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: “It’s complicated.”

“Right,” you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew can’t help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but he’s too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. “That’s why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated,” he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.

“Andrew, I know who you guys are,” you say and now he’s shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. “I can keep a secret, don’t worry. I just… want you to be careful, okay? That’s all.”

“I’m always careful,” he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you can’t help but smile. It’s a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.

The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.

“I’m sure you are,” You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. “But if this is you careful, I’d hate to see when it gets messy.”

“I don’t do messy,” he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge you’ve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time you’ve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrew’s stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and he’s glad you can’t feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.

“I know, Andrew. I’ve watched you clean,” you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips. 

“Where’s your friend?” he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his family’s line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.

“I’m not sure,” you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. “Her and Craig are probably doing lines off each other’s chests or something.” 

You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.

“Why do you hang out with her?” He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldn’t let go of his hand just yet.

“She’s been my best friend since, well, forever…” Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he can’t help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. “And if I don’t take care of her, who will?” 

“I know the feeling.” Andrew says sincerely. He can’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.

“I can see that,” you hum like you’re contemplating his words. “Is there someone taking care of you?” The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.

“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what he’s lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.

“Everyone needs someone, Andrew.” Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.

Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him —all of him.

A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. She’s crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.

Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?

“She and Craig probably got into another fight,” you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like he’s a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. “Keep it iced, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That he’s a permanent fixture in your life.

He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. He’s still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, he’s not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.

Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.

—

If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about. 

When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars. 

So the fact that you weren’t around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.

You said you’d talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didn’t want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again. 

Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.

“What about a party?” He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Cody’s crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. “What?”

“Pope wants to throw a party.” Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that he’s become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. “Just do it.”

“You won’t hear me complaining, man.” Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder before he goes. The remaining Cody’s watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesn’t want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.

So that’s how he ended up here.

This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasn’t around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.

And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.

He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. It’s already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.

“Do you need some help?” A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag he’s holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.

“It’s late.” Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. There’s a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.

“Craig said I could crash on the couch,” you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. “And I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.”

He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes can’t help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. “So, why am I the only one helping you?”

He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and you’re looking at him expectantly. He can’t help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. “What do you mean?”

“Um, I mean there’s like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,” He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. “Why am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?”

Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.

“I don’t need any help,” he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that he’s trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he can’t help but soften. “I got it.”

“I just meant that you’re always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,” you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. “Cleaning up after everyone. Making sure they don’t kill each other. Craig’s told me that you’ve bailed him out plenty of times.”

Andrew frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of his brothers talking about him when he’s not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.

“I’m serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,” You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do —he’s seen the state the house gets into when he’s gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Come on.”

You pull him along and it doesn’t take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, he’s got half a mind to hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open. He realizes where you’ve taken him in Smurf’s just a beat too slow as he enters the room.

His room.

He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you can’t hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesn’t waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until he’s face level with your torso. The position has him blushing —he’s sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.

“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. He’s so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.

“Okay.” It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.

A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; he’s practically drooling at the feeling. Once you’ve decided he’s had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. He’s sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.

You barely give him a second to breathe before you’re catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper. 

Andrew doesn’t even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point he’s lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.

He can’t help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.

Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that he’s sure he’s leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that he’ll kiss them as an apology later, if you’ll let him.

You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. You’re quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.

He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.

“Do you like that?” You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that he’s made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He can’t seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. “Good.”

The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.

He thinks you can tell that he’s getting close. He knows that his hips won’t stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.

“Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?” you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. You’re dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch you’ve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. It’s your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, “Fuck.”

He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.

Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. It’s all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times he’s touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after you’ve gone.

His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. You’re mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell you’re going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.

Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until you’re begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?

He’s appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and he’d die a happy man.

You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.

Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.

The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.

He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. You’ve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.

The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door. 

“So good, baby. Feels so fucking good,” he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. He’s got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. “Been fucking dreaming about your pussy.”

“Oh my god, Andrew,” you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. You’re squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.

Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. He’s close but you’re closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You don’t stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.

“M’gonna cum,” he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.

“I want it so bad,” you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. He’s never heard you like this before, but now he can’t imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. “Please, I need it.”

“Yeah?” He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. He’s so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way he’s buried so deep inside you. “You want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?”

“Please,” you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrew’s hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he can’t control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.

You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. He’s got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. “That wasn’t too much?”

“No,” he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then he’s got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. “Not enough.”

If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.

—

In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.

He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.

The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite. 

Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.

“Pope, man-” he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasn’t the noise that caught Craig’s attention. Your hair is still mussed and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if you’ve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.

she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead. 

“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t. 

you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”

“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.” 

you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.” 

sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”

“i’m here, aren’t i?”

that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.

that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful. 

“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.” 

“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.” 

“branding survives pain better than people do.” 

you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long. 

the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical. 

sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.” 

you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”

“your devotion.”

that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.

you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.” 

“everyoen says that before they do.” 

the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow. 

the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors. 

homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth. 

homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat. 

soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize. 

he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off. 

homelander smiles warmly at you. 

“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.” 

you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.” 

his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.” 

you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it. 

“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.” 

firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.” 

the deep nods a beat too late. 

sage continues watching the entire room. 

and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight. 

everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues. 

soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth. 

“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.” 

the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun. 

you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test. 

you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it. 

so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.” 

the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him. 

the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.” 

“oh, i’m sure.” 

“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.” 

firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move. 

homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you. 

it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to. 

“yes, sir?”

his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?” 

“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.” 

you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it. 

homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor. 

“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea. 

soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.” 

homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?” 

the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam. 

“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once. 

homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.” 

your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.

the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move. 

his mistake. 

you take one step toward him. 

“that’s close enough,” he says.

“is it?”

his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs. 

it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find. 

soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines. 

the gold under your skin flares. 

soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer. 

then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.

his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.

his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained. 

you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.” 

his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him. 

you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement. 

your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts. 

soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face. 

You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”

no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy. 

homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade. 

“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.” 

soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it. 

homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.” 

sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness. 

soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him. 

homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift. 

and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you. 

homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty. 

“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”

his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible. 

“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”

the room empties in pieces. 

firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers. 

“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet. 

you smile back. “thank you.” 

her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet. 

noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you. 

that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says. 

you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.” 

his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience. 

“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment. 

you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.” 

“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.” 

soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose. 

homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.” 

“i didn’t want to overstep.” 

“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.” 

and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked. 

homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof. 

“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.” 

our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.

“thank you. that means a lot.” 

“it should.” 

and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close. 

you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be. 

sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks: 

“this way.” 

you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open. 

you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it. 

the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again. 

your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.

you nearly laugh. they work fast. 

sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.” 

“for me?” 

“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.

the lock clicks open. 

your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief. 

they have made you a home out of costumes. 

your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass. 

sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.” 

your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”

“nothing about this is sweet.” 

“i didn’t mean it literally.” 

“i know.” 

you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage. 

“he’ll test you,” she says. 

“homelander?”

sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.” 

you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully. 

she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.” 

you glance toward her. “does anyone?”

“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.” 

“is that advice?”

“it’s information.” then she leaves. 

the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.

for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone. 

you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator. 

the world is going to love this version of you.

you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place. 

the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around. 

“didn’t hear a knock.” 

soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.

“door was open.” 

“no, it wasn’t.” 

“it wasn’t locked.” 

you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.” 

he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room. 

you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present. 

“nice place.” 

he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately. 

his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”

“you always this invasive?”

“usually worse.” 

he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo. 

he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.” 

“that supposed to be a compliment?”

“depends on how sensitive you are.” 

you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”

he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done.  for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently. 

he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing. 

“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks. 

you keep folding. “a demonstration.” 

“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out. 

“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”

you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat. 

“you heard me.” 

“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.” 

his jaw shifts. 

you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.” 

soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.

you could touch it again. but you don’t. 

that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”

“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.” 

“whatever.” 

“and no.” you pause. “not always.” 

“bullshit.” 

you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”

“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.” 

“still mine.” 

he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.” 

you smile. “careful. that includes you.” 

his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.

he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through. 

“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.” 

he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes. 

“this your boyfriend?” he asks. 

you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.” 

he picks another one. “girlfriend?”

“no.”

“fan?”

“are you always this desperate for personal information?”

“are you always this defensive?” he argues back. 

“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”

his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”

“would you prefer elderly?”

his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you. 

“you’ve got a mouth on you.” 

“and yet you keep inviting it.” 

the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough. 

you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.” 

“brood?”

“sulk, then.” 

“i don’t sulk.” 

“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.” 

the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of. 

when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.” 

you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger. 

you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing. 

“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.” 

his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer. 

you move instantly. “hey!” too late. 

his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.” 

“put it back.” 

he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly. 

you refuse to name it. 

“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker. 

“put. them. back.” 

he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.” 

you step toward him. “i’m not joking.” 

“neither am i.” 

“soldier boy—”

he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch. 

you stop half a step away. 

he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites. 

“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.” 

you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it. 

“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.” 

his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.

his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it. 

he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.” 

“what?”

“using that little power of yours.” 

you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.” 

“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest. 

for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone. 

good. let him wonder. 

“i don’t need it for this.” 

his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him. 

your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.” 

“or what?”

you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet. 

you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.” 

soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding. 

“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”

you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated. 

“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.” 

his smile fades by a fraction. 

you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin. 

“put them down,” you tell him. 

for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right. 

“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you. 

you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”

his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him. 

you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane. 

soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender. 

you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands. 

his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs. 

“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”

you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying. 

“don’t talk.” 

his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.” 

you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind. 

“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.” 

“mhm.” 

“you wanted this before i did.” 

his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…” 

“i’m not using it.” 

“you’re glowing.” 

“because you’re pissing me off.” 

he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.” 

your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit. 

he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable. 

cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes. 

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. 

you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch. 

the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands. 

his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment. 

his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left. 

“sensitive.” 

“you like it.” 

his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.” 

his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still. 

his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.” 

you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you. 

“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges. 

“don’t flatter yourself.” 

he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan. 

his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.” 

you can’t. not cleany. 

his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure. 

his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”

his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.” 

you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper. 

your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.” 

“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.” 

“i’m not asking.”

“you will.”

you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room. 

instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit. 

he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine. 

“pretty,” his eyes sharpen. 

then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip. 

the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his. 

“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.

he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.” 

his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach. 

“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.” 

“probably?”

his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.” 

you pull at the front of his suit. “off.” 

that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have. 

something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry. 

he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him. 

he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin. 

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.” 

you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through. 

he stills when he’s fully inside you. 

your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing. 

“look at me,” he says. 

you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you. 

“ben,” you whisper. 

his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry. 

there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn. 

“take it,” he manages. 

you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it. 

so does he. 

his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything. 

you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it. 

“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.” 

“i’m the one making you—” 

he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.” 

his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder. 

“oh, god.” 

he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.” 

you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did. 

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.” 

“don’t get smug.”

“too late.” 

“ben—”

“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.” 

he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.

“you’re glowing again,” you whisper. 

his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.” 

your lashes flutter. he feels that too. 

“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”

you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left. 

his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.” 

“yes.” 

his exhale is rough. “good girl.” 

the words land low in your stomach. 

he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin. 

“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.” 

you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.

“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.” 

your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck. 

“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.” 

he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin. 

his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound. 

when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin. 

one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit. 

“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside. 

the angle steals whatever breath you had left. 

you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear. 

“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.” 

your eyes close from please.

his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.” 

you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make. 

“ben,” you gasp. 

his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him. 

his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.” 

“ben.” 

“again.” 

you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive. 

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can.” 

“fuck, no—” 

“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.” 

you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck. 

“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.” 

the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection. 

he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.” 

“there you are,” you taunt. 

he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.” 

he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina. 

“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”

your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you. 

“come for me.” 

it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him. 

he comes with your name half-buried in a curse. 

his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder. 

his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you. 

your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through. 

his glow fades before yours does. 

he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart. 

behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.

you turn around. 

your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up. 

for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead. 

you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”

his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.” 

“give them back.” 

“no.” 

your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.” 

“you were saying my name a minute ago.” 

you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”

his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”

you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.” 

he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door. 

at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.” 

you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin. 

..........

It was a Sunday at midnight. Jack had just finished a particularly long and bloody resuscitation with the interns in trauma two. Exhaling the excess adrenaline from this save, he stripped off his surgery gown, rolled his head a couple times on his shoulders, and gave the others further instructions before leaving the room. Stepping out, he breathed the antiseptic tinged stale air of the department, going to the Hub to pick up something brief.

“What're you looking for?” Lena asked, watching how his lips pursed as he scanned the board. His stance was closed, arms crossed and feet planted in that way that came effortlessly to him. Unapproachable to anyone who didn't know him.

“Just want something quick. The interns keep pulling me away from cases, so nothing too urgent.”

“They're a needy batch, huh?”

He cracked a smile at her words, neither confirming nor denying.

Lena continued for him. “I've got a twisted ankle in South Nineteen for you.”

As soon as she spoke, he was moving towards that bed, adjusting his stethoscope and grabbing one of the tablets as he walked. “Copy. Thank you, dear Lena.”

“Oh, anything for you, dear Jack,” was her dry, early am response.

The department was relatively quiet at this hour; some patients would fall asleep as they waited, and the staff moved in a caffeinated determination, not tending to be more talkative than necessary. 

He stepped up to South Nineteen, finding you there for the first time. Your eyes were open but blinking slowly, a light pink makeup on your eyelids that had been partly rubbed off from the day. You were staring down at your hands, a small hook and some yarn in them as you crocheted what seemed to be a little honeybee.

Jack stood for a moment, just staring quietly at you. Something in your furrowed brow struck him, and he had to shift his gait and keep his centre. He had treated attractive patients before, but he didn't usually let himself stare. With that in mind, he lightly cleared his throat.

You stirred, blinking at his waiting figure.

“Hi, I'm Doctor Abbot,” he said, sitting on a stool tucked against the wall. He wheeled to the end of the bed. “Your intake chart says you twisted your ankle this morning. Can I see it please?”

You nodded, mouth gingerly responding as you set aside your project and took off your right sneaker, the laces already loose.

“Mind telling me what happened?” He asked as he watched you.

Your head ducked slightly as you explained. “Yeah, uh, it was my niece's fifth birthday party this morning. She had it at one of those indoor kid playgrounds. We were playing tag in the ball pit and I took a bad step and twisted it.”

He suppressed a smile. “A ball pit, huh?”

“I know. Embarrassing.” You shifted and yawned, sliding your leg back up onto the starchy hospital bed sheets. 

“There are more embarrassing injuries to be had than anything sustained from entertaining a kid. Believe me, I've seen some dumb injuries; this doesn't crack the top ten.”

“Top twenty then,” you hummed, shoulders loosening a tinge with his assurance. He let himself smile.

Your sneaker now sat neatly on the floor, and you leaned forward to roll your sock off, setting it on top of your waiting shoe. Your ankle was swollen, in particular on the outside of the joint. No bruising had yet to appear, but that was consistent with the timeline for the injury you described.

“I'm going to check for tenderness. You let me know what hurts, alright?”

“Yes,” you said, quietly bracing for his touch.

Jack reached to grasp your ankle, his gloved fingers gently squeezing different points around the swelled area. 

“Are you and your niece close?" He questioned idly, though he had a less than idle curiosity.

“I like to think so. She's a funny kid."

“They usually are."

“Oh, some of them are real shits."

He glanced up at you. Your eyes had been roving his arms but you gave a blink at being caught.

“I'm an elementary school teacher. I only say that out of love and experience.”

He cracked another smile and kept inspecting. You winced as his thumb lightly pressed the bottom of your fibula. His lips pursed in a faint line.

“Just a little sting,” you murmured. “It feels fine otherwise. I can even walk on it. I walked here.”

His eyes flitted up to yours yet again, finding you studying his hair now. “You walked to the hospital?” 

You made another small nod. “Well, I live close by. It was only fifteen minutes. Would be ten on a good day, but…” you gestured to your ankle.

He gently moved your ankle at the joint, one hand cupping your heel as he slowly flexed it forward. You winced again.

“Ow,” you inhaled. “Bit more than a sting that time.”

“Have you tried bending it much?”

“No. After the birthday party I spent most of today lying on the couch with my ankle elevated, but the swelling wasn't going down with ice or anything so I thought I might need some actual medical attention before I go to work tomorrow and have to stand a bunch.”

“Did you take anything for pain at any point today?”

“Two ibuprofen after the birthday party, around about… two? But otherwise no.” You bit the inside of your lip for just a moment. “It honestly doesn't hurt that badly. Only when I stand on it… and when you bent it.”

“Right. Well, it might just be bad bruising and swelling from a pulled muscle, or it might be a fracture. So I'm going to send you for x-rays. Once they're back, I'll come find you again and see where that leads us.”

You nodded, picking up your sock and carefully pulling it on. “Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”

He nodded, pursing his lips in a brief smile before leaving you.

……….

An hour passed between Doctor Abbot's visits with you. 

A nurse, Bridget, had helped you to the x-ray room for scans of your ankle, then brought you right back to your temporary bed.

You finished the crocheted honeybee in that hour too, finally able to put your hook, yarn, and stuffing away safely in your bag. You couldn't put the little guy away yet, though. You were trying to find a good name for the bee before you could give it to your friend's upcoming baby. 

Beebert. Bee-gonia. Buzzby. Honeytruffle. 

Well, maybe not Honeytruffle. That was the delusions of almost seven hours waiting at the PTMC talking.

Doctor Abbot's throat clearing again had you glancing up, and your fingers tightened on the squishy bee. The man had nice arms beneath his scrubs, even if you could mostly only see his forearms, and even if he was only holding something light as a tablet. But you had a feeling the upper arms matched, and that thought was enough to make you mentally flick yourself. He was literally just your emergency doctor. Someone you would never see after tonight if all went well with your hospital visit. 

Besides, he probably only looked so good to you because you had been running on four hours of sleep all day between closing at work late last night and waking up early to help with your niece's birthday party. Or he looked good because of his hard stare but soft words. Or because of the salt in his hair and the scruff on his face. Or because you were ovulating. Or, or, or.

You blinked, rubbing your eyes that you were sure looked a mess by now. The pink eyeshadow you wore for your niece's unicorn themed party had likely wiped away, leaving only dry mascara flaking on your cheeks and the back of your fingers.

“Hi. Sorry. Just a bit tired,” you murmured, avoiding his eyes for a second longer as you put the bee away into your bag.

“Thank you for waiting, miss,” he nodded, sitting at his bedside stool again and scanning through the tablet. You tried leaning over slightly to see. “Alright, the x-rays look good. The bones don't have any clear fractures. The swelling would just be from a pulled muscle.”

“Okay,” you nodded in a gentle relief, sitting up better. “So I'll be fine to just go home and keep icing it when necessary?”

“We'll give you some written instructions before you go, but yes. Ice and elevation.”

“Am I allowed to see the x-ray?” You asked, unable to hide the curiosity of what your insides looked like.

“They're your bones.” He zoomed in on the ankle again to show you the scan, a brief click of his tongue catching against his closed front teeth. “I stand corrected. See this?”

He rolled closer to the head of the bed, bringing the tablet towards you with his beefy forearms on perfect display. He circled a teeny tiny, barely noticeable line where there should have just been bone. It was barely a half an inch when he zoomed in, so you couldn't imagine how much more minute the crack would be in your actual bone.

“This is a small fracture we call a lateral malleolus fracture,” he said, eyes focused on the x-ray. “You'll need to wear a boot cast for four to six weeks and have a consultation with orthopedics in the coming week.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “A boot? But it's miniscule. How bad could it be?”

“A fracture’s a fracture,” he said, voice gentle but words firm. He made eye contact with you again, and you berated yourself for the little flip your stomach did at the focused hazel of them.

“Well, shit,” you sighed and rubbed a hand down your face. Then a chuckle escaped you, “All from a ball pit.”

“More dangerous than they look, I guess,” he nodded softly, eyes light as they played over your face.

You risked looking at him for more than a fleeting millisecond. “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. I’ll be back in a few to help fit you with a boot.”

……….

Jack mentally kicked himself for not catching your fracture at first. He rubbed his arm, stretching out the miss and letting it roll away. You didn't seem upset at him for it, only inconvenienced that you would have the boot cast. You'd even smiled and cracked a joke in that gentle humour you had. He wanted to know if all of your jokes were prefaced with a tiny smile and cute chuckle or if the hour of night was influencing the sweet, tired humour you maintained.

As he passed the hub, Lena glanced up from her computer.

“Spending an awful lot of time at South Nineteen for a twisted ankle,” she hummed. “Thought you wanted a quick case.”

He gave a slight nod, feeling his lips itching to smile before he forced them down. He was not about to get into her teasing. “Have to treat the patient, Lena, not only the injury.”

“Sure, sure.” He kept walking, but he could hear her muttering, “Must be real pretty…”

Jack did what he needed to, scanning into the system and scheduling you for an orthopedic check in as soon as possible, then fetching a boot cast for you.

When he returned to your bed, you were reclined, your eyes shut. He yet again cleared his throat. “I've got your boot and you're scheduled for your checkup in the orthopedic department here on Wednesday at four. If that's not a good time, I can fix it for you.”

“No, that works,” you nodded softly, sitting up. Your eyes met his, looking up at him with a lingering… what was that, trust? “Thank you.”

He pursed his lips into a smile, taking in your sincerity. “You're very welcome.”

Jack handed you the appointment sheet then helped you with fitting your boot. Heat crept up his neck as he felt your eyes trace his arms. He was only explaining how the boot worked–the button to pump air into the cast and the button to release it, the straps to tighten the boot, how the straps should fit, and so on–but you seemed more intent on his arms than the boot. Maybe it was just the late hour, and your exhaustion was making your focus come in and out. It was probably that.

“There we go,” he muttered. “You want to stand on it now? Test how it walks?”

You shifted to stand, and he held out his arm in case you wanted the help up. Was it an excuse to feel your hands on him in some way? Maybe. But he did truly want to help you. You gently gripped his forearm as you stood, and his chest pulled a bit. He was watching your face for any discomfort, but also because he just liked your face. Lena's assumptions were right–you were pretty. Really pretty. 

Your first steps were slightly shaky, but only because you had been sitting without weight on your ankle for a little while. You got to the end of the bed and didn't need his support anymore, letting go. 

“Already a pro,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “Seems like it.”

“I'm good to discharge you soon, then. How are you getting home?”

You looked over at him.

“Don't say you're going to walk.”

“I only live ten minutes away. Besides, you said I'm already a pro at walking,” you appealed with that smile he really liked.

Jack shook his head in gentle amusement. “You should call a cab or get an Uber. It's one-thirty in the morning.”

“I walk home late all the time.”

He couldn't help but give a stern look of disapproval. “Talk to that desk over there when you're about to leave. Nurse Lena will sort you out.”

You might have frowned at his insistence, but he could tell you were tired too, and probably only would have walked out of necessity. Having another option was good for you. The frown softened, and he knew you would listen. But he couldn't help continuing.

“Please talk to the desk. I want you and your ankle to get home safe. Doctor's orders.”

You nodded softly, sitting at the foot of the bed again. “Okay. Fine. I'll… yeah.” You looked up at him again, eyes gleaming with that soft trust. “Thank you again, Doctor Abbot. For everything.”

He couldn't stop his smile, earnest and warm. “You've been a great patient. Now, please get home safe.”

You nodded softly. “I promise.”

He parted with a reluctant goodnight, walking away to the board. He glanced over his shoulder at your open-doored room more than once as he subtly grabbed his wallet from Lena's desk–always the safest place in the department, especially since he didn't like it being tucked into his locker during shift. He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, handing it to Lena.

“A fifty-buck tip? Didn't know I was that good at my job,” she remarked with a questioning look.

“Can you please call a cab for South Nineteen, courtesy of the hospital.”

Lena smirked. “Just how pretty is she?”

He glanced up at the board. “Breath troubles in Twelve go to an intern?”

“Yes. We're all sorted without you, actually. I'm glad you're not worried you neglected your job too much.” Her phone rang and she picked up immediately. “Incoming heart attack. Okay. We'll be ready at the door.”

She hung up and he pushed the money towards her again. “I'll get Ellis to assist me on the heart attack. Please call the cab for South Nineteen.”

“Like a lovesick teenager,” she playfully exclaimed. 

Jack just rolled his shoulders and walked off. 

……….

Lena called the cab promptly, eyes scanning the Pitt as they often did. Charge nurses always needed to know where people were, which beds were occupied, what space could be accommodated for more patients, time of day, the weather, and whether or not the Penguins were doing well this season. And she did. 

The patient in South Fifteen–a little boy with appendicitis waiting for surgery–began crying again, his parents doing their best to fuss over and comfort him. But it was well past midnight, and they were tired from what had been a stressful night. All they could do was rub the six-year-old's back and whisper gently to him.

Lena gave a sigh of sympathy for the boy, but her eyes caught a passing Bridget, and she beckoned her. 

“I called a cab for the patient leaving South Nineteen. Should be here in a few. Can you walk her out and pay the driver with this?”

Bridget gave her a look as she held the fifty-dollar bill. “What sap coughed that up?”

“You don't want to know,” Lena gently smirked.

Her eyes caught on you as you walked from the direction of South Nineteen with your bag over your shoulder and boot cast on. You were headed towards the desk, but didn't make it far. The crying little boy caught you, and you hesitated for a moment. Lena watched you speak kindly to the parents, then reach into your bag and procure a knit honeybee. You handed it to his father, and it found a home tucked in the boy's arms. There was a sympathetic smile on your face as you spoke softly to the boy, his cries turning into sniffles, and the sniffles turning into a little laugh. He frowned at the pain of the laugh, and all three adults around him cooed. The boy closed his eyes after a moment, tired and still uncomfortable from his condition, but comforted by the bee he squished to his chest.

Lena did a quick scan of the room again, seeing Abbot by the ambulance bay doors looking over as well. He was quickly interrupted in his shameless staring by the paramedics rolling in the heart attack, but he had given you every bit of his attention before that.

“You're right,” Bridget said, glancing between all involved parties. “I don't want to know.”

You finally made it to the desk then, smiling at Bridget with a kind “Hi again,” then speaking gently to Lena, “Are you Nurse Lena?”

“That's me, hon,” Lena nodded. “You always carry stuffed animals to hand out?” 

You gave another smile and shook your head. “Oh, no. I just finished crocheting that today while I was waiting. It was for my friend who's having a baby. Or, I mean, for the baby.”

“Well it was very kind of you to give it to that boy.”

Bridget murmured, “And very kind to everyone else that it managed to calm him down a bit.”

You chuckled lightly at that. “Can't be easy for any of you when there's patients young as him.”

"It's not. But we manage as best as we can.”

“Well, everyone here does great work. Really. You all have such important jobs.”

“Thank you, hon.”

“Be sure to say that on the patient satisfaction questionnaire that'll get emailed to you,” Bridget said.

You cracked a smile. “It'll be a rave review, don't worry.”

“We've got a cab waiting for you. If you're ready to go, I'll walk you out.”

You gave Bridget a nod. “Yes. Thank you both again. Have a good night.”

Lena watched you go, walking slowly in your new boot cast.

……….

At around the two-thirty mark, Jack stopped at the board again, hands rubbing lines from his shoulders down to his elbows as he scanned. 

“Your ankle fracture left while you were in Trauma Two. She's pretty, just like you said,” Lena teased idly, working through something on her computer.

“I never said–” he looked at her, catching her amused eyes over her screen. “Don't you have better things to do than meddle, dear Lena?”

“Not when you're blushing like that, dear Jack.”

He shook his head, looking at the board again.

“She gave her crocheted bee to the appendicitis kid.”

“Did she?”

He tried to feign ignorance, but he had seen the entire exchange. How you spoke gently to the boy, smiling kindly as can be to him and his parents… Jack had barely looked away to receive the incoming gurney patient from the paramedics.

“Oh, so that wasn't you watching her from all the way across the room? I didn't know you had a twin.” He gave her a brief look but she pushed on. “I don't suppose she'll be coming back to the hospital again any time soon.”

“Ortho check in on Wednesday,” he murmured, eyes focused back on the board.

“Oh really?”

“Enough with the meddling.”

“Everyone could do with a little meddling.”

He gave her another look, walking off. “Whatever. I have patients.”

“Could have fooled me.”

……….

It was probably too much to hope that Doctor Abbot would be in the ER when you came back to the hospital on Wednesday. So you didn't get your hopes up. If he was there, amazing. If not, then you still got to do a kind thing for the staff.

You arrived nice and early for your appointment, bringing a box of treats from a local bakery into the ER waiting room with you. It was busy, and you felt a bit guilty standing in the line for the desk even though you weren't injured. Well, not that you weren't injured–you were wearing your boot cast, after all–but you weren't in need of care like the other people waiting.

You got to the front of the line and swallowed, looking at the woman behind the desk. “Hi, I was treated here on Sunday and I'm back today for my orthopedic checkup which I know is in another part of the building but I just wanted to stop in beforehand and give the staff in the ER this.”

You held up the box of goodies, giving her a smile you hoped was endearing and not weird. Was this a normal thing to do? 

Her shoulders loosened slightly, and she returned your smile. “That's very kind of you. You know where the main desk is back there?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

“Well, just go left down the hall and then take a right. You can't miss it.”

“Great, thank you so much,” you smiled as she buzzed the door for you.

You took her directions, easily finding the main desk. This area was familiar to you, seeing as you spent your Sunday night in one of those beds on the other end of this space.

You went to where you had previously looked for Nurse Lena. Instead, a blond nurse with her hair pulled back flawlessly in a clip and a doctor with a graying beard and tired eyes were exchanging some quick and seemingly serious words. You stood there, out of place, weight shifted onto your good ankle.

The nurse noticed you first, sizing you up. Her voice was almost annoyed, and you instantly regretted coming by and interrupting what was a very busy emergency department. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

You blinked. “Oh–uhh–sorry, I'm not injured or waiting to be treated or anything. I was here Sunday night for my ankle and I'm back for a check up upstairs. I just wanted to bring something for the people in the emergency department because you all work really hard and I thought you deserved something nice.”

She didn't quite soften, but she gave you a smile and a hum. “That's sweet of you. I can take that off of your hands, here.” 

As you handed over the box, the doctor's hand raised to his mouth, covering an exhale that sounded almost like a dry laugh. The nurse gave him a look.

“It's nice to be appreciated, isn't it, Robby?” She raised a brow at him.

“Oh, definitely.” His eyes landed on you. “Did you fill out your patient satisfaction questionnaire already? That's our favourite way to be appreciated.”

You gave a slight nod. “Tens across the board.”

Movement across the room caught your eye, and you eagerly looked to see whose scrubs you saw. Not Doctor Abbot, to your disappointment.

“You looking for someone?” The nurse asked.

“I was hoping I could thank Doctor Abbot again. And, uh, Lena and Bridget again. Are they in today?”

“They usually work the night shift.”

You endeavored a nonchalant nod. “Right, I was in pretty late the other night. Duh. That's okay. Uh… thank you again. You're all really great here.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. We do our best,” the nurse smiled. “You know where you're going now?”

“Not really. Best way to orthopedics?”

“Just around that corner is an elevator. Go up a floor and you'll be in the atrium that has signs to get you where you need to go.”

You smiled and nodded again, hoping against all hopes that you didn't look like an idiot from all the nodding you had done in this short interaction. “Thank you, I hope you have a good day!”

“You too, sweetheart.”

……….

Fifteen minutes early was the latest that Jack usually started his shifts. Anything past six-forty-five pm and he felt like he was letting down the department. Thus, at six-forty-two, he was at the Hub, taking in the board.

“There's the man of the day,” Robby whistled as he approached.

“What did I do now?” Jack asked dryly, accepting a quick hug from the man.

“You know, you may single handedly boost the patient satisfaction scores here to an actually Gloria-accepted-level, brother.”

“What are you talking about?” His brows furrowed.

“A patient of yours from Sunday came in today with a big box of goodies for the staff.”

Jack didn’t need Robby to describe the patient. He had a feeling he knew who, hiding the disappointment at missing you with a steady purse of his lips. “I know the one.”

“She asked for you by name,” Robby hummed, leaning in slightly. “She was cute.”

The tips of Jack's ears heated up. “I said I know the one.”

“Think she'll come back?"

Jack shook his head. “It was a small lateral malleolus. I barely caught the fracture on the x-ray at first, that's how small it was. Ortho won't call her back again. Probably just gave her a physio note today."

Robby crossed his arms. “That's a shame. She seemed nice."

“She was a patient." 

“And she came back to see you. Just saying.”

“She was thanking the department.”

“She asked for you, Jack.”

“Who asked for Jack?” Lena's voice cut in, the night shift charge nurse setting her coffee down at the head desk.

“A kind and rather pretty patient from Sunday night came in with a big box of desserts for the staff today.”

“Oh my god, Jack, it's your Honeybee!” Lena grinned.

He couldn't help how his nose scrunched. “Let's not call her that, please.”

“Honeybee?” Robby smirked

“It's nothing. She was crocheting a bee while she waited.”

“And she gave the bee to a crying six-year-old patient too, but Jack will deny he was gawking at her across the room when she did.”

“Oh my, my, my.” A tiny chuckle escaped the other attending.

“Whatever. I'm never going to see her again, so why don't we all just move on? You have patients to hand over, Robby. Let's not get distracted here.”

“Yes, Honeybee.” Jack winced at his friend’s response. 

Through turn-over and the team brief at shift start, through rounds with interns and incoming traumas, Jack thought of you all night. Especially at two am when he had a short moment of peace to unwrap the apple fritter Robby had saved for him from your box. One side was slightly stale, but god if it wasn't still sweet.

……….

The patrons at Hannigan's Pub were easy to serve, most of them being regulars who knew the owners and loved the staff or folks there to watch the Penguins, Steelers, or Pirates depending on the sporting season. Tonight it was the Pirates, and you delivered pitchers and plates to tables, chatting and smiling to the customers. Some of the regulars gasped at your boot cast, asking how it happened, begging you to rest, take a seat with them and the like, but you just smiled and eased their worries as best as you could. Gotta make a living somehow had quickly become your coy reassurance to any worried customers.

“Can you take this to seven?” Your coworker, Carrie, asked, nodding to a dish of nachos as she was busy pouring a tray of various drinks. 

“Got it.” You picked up her nachos, passing behind her. Table seven was the booth in the corner, and it had one semi-regular who must have brought his friends and family tonight, as the rest were unknown to you. Until you really looked at their faces. One woman–glasses, red hair, kind eyes–looked so familiar. And excited to see you. Honestly excited, like you were a surprise gift on this otherwise mundane Monday evening. 

You shifted your weight from your bad ankle, and you realized.

“Nurse Lena?” You grinned at her. “How are you?”

“I'm absolutely wonderful, hon,” she grinned. “Oh thank god you knew it was me, I'm not allowed to say I know you unless you do first.”

“How could I forget you? Everyone at the emergency department was so lovely.”

“Like Doctor Abbot?” 

There was a faint tease in her voice, and you chuckled goodnaturedly. “He was very kind too, yes.” You looked over the table. “Can I get you folks anything else or are we good with the nachos for now?”

“Oh, we’re excellent, hon,” Lena charmed. “Just excellent.”

The hours passed until closing time at midnight. You went about your closing tasklist, sweeping, wiping things down, putting glasses away. Carrie was counting out the till as you sprayed the mirrors behind the bar.

“Seven left a fat tip. Don’t know what we did for that,” she hummed.

“I knew one of them,” you said.

“Really? You don’t know anyone in Pittsburgh, babe. Just your sister.”

“Ha ha,” you replied dryly. “I’ll have you know, my hospital visit introduced me to several new faces.”

“Look at you, getting out there,” she teased lightly.

You suppressed your smile. “Rude.”

“You can take it. The customer you knew must have really liked you. Was it a guy?”

A part of you wished it had been Doctor Abbot at that table, but you shook your head. “No, a woman. She was the nurse at the main desk in the ER.”

“The charge nurse.”

You shrugged. “Probably. Is that what they’re called?”

Maybe your eyes were too distant at that moment, because Carrie chuckled. “Was there a guy at the hospital?”

“What? No guys,” you muttered, blinking over at her. “Just the nurses and a doctor who were taking care of me.”

“A completely female team?” You had no reply to her probing, and her face lit up. “Co-ed then. Please tell me he’s the doctor. Little Miss Schoolteacher bagging a doctor? That feels right.”

You took a breath, going back to your cleaning. “I haven’t bagged anyone… Besides, I met the man once.”

“And you’re smitten!”

“You’ve known me for like four months, Carrie. How would you know what I look like smitten?”

“Oh come on! You never get this way, not even when customers hit on you. Even the cute ones!”

“Carrie…” You gave her a look. “Keep counting, will you? I wanna get home before one tonight.”

You both went back to work. But after a moment of peace, Carrie started humming the Wedding March under her breath, only stopping when you chucked a rag at her.

……….

On her first night back to work after her days off, Lena went into the Pitt with a clear action plan. She showed up thirty minutes early, trying to guarantee that she’d be earlier than Jack. Standing at the Hub with Dana, she spun her story, explaining how the crew needed a deserved break at a pub that happened to be only a fourteen minute walk from the hospital. A pub with great customer service.

“Are you feeling okay, Lena? What’s with the wink wink nudge nudge act you’re doing right now?” The other charge nurse lightly grilled.

Lena leaned in. “Abbot’s ankle fracture patient works at Hannigan's. I saw her there the other night when my cousin dragged us out to watch the Pirates.”

“The one who brought the baked goods?”

“The very same.”

Robby approached the desk then, scanning into a nearby computer. “What are we whispering about, ladies?”

“A certain Honeybee,” Lena hummed.

Robby cracked a smile. “You know Jack hates your meddling, Lena.”

“He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

“She wants us all to go out for a staff morale boost at a pub the Honeybee works at,” Dana said. “Probably wants you to organize it too.”

“Oh, please don't drag me into this,” Robby breathed with an amused shake of his head.

“He’ll think something’s up if I do it,” Lena insisted. “It has to be you, Robby. C’mon… I have never seen anyone turn that man’s head. Not in any real way.”

Robby rubbed a knot in his neck. “Fine. But first round’s on you, Lena.”

Dana cleared her throat, alerting them to the incoming attending.

“You’re here extra early,” Abbot remarked with vague curiosity, looking at Lena.

“I asked her to come in and talk about a few nursing matters before shift change,” Dana shrugged.

Abbot seemed satisfied by that, and he leaned against the counter, already talking to Robby about patient handovers. 

……….

Robby felt a smidge of guilt in his stomach for tricking Jack into coming out tonight, but he hoped it would be worth it when he was reunited with his Honeybee. 

Jack was right, they really had to stop calling you that. But maybe it was accurate; you were sweet enough to come back to the chaos of the Pitt, smiling and giving earnest thanks to him and Dana at the Hub; sweet enough to be bashful when you had been caught glancing around for Jack, or so Robby figured that’s why your searching eyes were so eager. 

Lena was the one looking around now, while Jack and the others who’d come out were still oblivious to this little ruse of theirs. No sight of you yet. 

“Doesn’t a beer in the park do just as well for boosting morale?” Jack muttered, slipping into one of the booths with Robby.

“The ambience here is a bit better, don’t you think, brother?” Robby replied. Jack shook his head, sipping from his bottle. “It’s more for the others, anyway.”

“Then why’d you drag me out?” Jack’s eyes narrowed a touch.

“Cause I’m going to need your assistance when some of the interns get too curious about their progress at work and start clawing at the walls for approval.”

“That’s a shitty excuse.”

“You don’t remember the student at that one holiday party a few years back? What was his name–Jeffords?”

Jack groaned. “I’ll be going home before anyone has that many drinks tonight.”

A server came by the table to take some orders. Still no sight of the Honeybee.

But as the time passed, Robby felt more guilty. It didn't seem you were working tonight, and his friend would never know why he’d really been dragged out on his night off. 

While Jack was occupied chatting with some of the interns about an ER birth years ago where he delivered twins at three in the morning–exaggerating the where of the story, as what had once been “delivered on the doorstep of trauma 1” had become “delivered in the ambulance bay”–Robby slipped away to the bar, where Lena was inconspicuously leaning in to speak with one of the servers.

“...yeah, he’s that one right there. The one in the gray shirt,” Lena said, glancing over her shoulder at the booth Robby had just left. Jack was subtly beaming as he answered the interns’ follow-up questions to his tale.

“Oh, they’d be so cute together!” The server cooed, her nose scrunching up as she smiled.

Lena spotted Robby. “Robby, this is my new friend Carrie. She wants Jack and the Honeybee together as much as we do.”

“I didn’t think anyone could match your exuberance for Jack’s love life,” Robby sighed, the lie catching up with him as he rubbed his arm. He looked at your coworker. “She’s not working tonight, is she?”

Carrie shook her head. “She doesn’t usually work Thursdays, no."

“So we’ve made up this plan for nothing. Great.”

“It’s been good for morale!” Lena objected, looking around. “The Pittlings are thrilled to be drinking with their mentors.”

Robby rubbed a hand down his beard. “Right.”

“You’ll just have to get Jack out on a night when she’s actually working,” Lena hummed, glancing at Carrie.

“She’s always here Fridays and Saturdays from five ‘til close. But you didn’t hear that from me,” Carrie said in a quiet sing-song voice, eyes bright with her and Lena’s shared mischief.

……….

The television above the bar was playing a hockey highlight reel from the last month, no proper games of anything good on right now. Jack could still smell the antiseptic coming off of Robby, his shift having only ended an hour ago. The text he sent that landed Jack back at this pub was simple: Shitty shift. Let's get a drink tonight. The sky was gray all day long, raining on and off as Jack slept after his night shift. The rain kept lulling him back into dreams, and while his body usually woke him just after two pm, he managed to sleep until almost four today, calmed by the rain on his roof and a dream of a patient he had only met once. When his friend's semi-concerning text came in–despite the rain and the generally gross weather–Jack begrudgingly drove to Hannigan's Pub.

After Robby barely answered questions about his day, good or bad, Jack tapped his fingers on the table. The man didn't seem distressed, not even in the usual subtle ways he tried to hide. He just kept sipping his beer, watching the highlight-reel.

“Why are we here, man? It’s shitty weather outside so the park's out, I get that. But why here? There’s not even any good games on tonight, and the food is garden variety pub fare. You got a thing for that server or something? The one who had her hair in a bun last time?”

“What?”

“You were talking to her at the bar. She was all smiley with you.”

“No, that’s not–”

“I’ve got the two burgers here,” came an approaching server from behind Jack. 

He looked up just to get the wind knocked from him.

There you were–like he had never woken from his dream earlier–setting the two plates down with a server’s idle smile and practiced hand. Had you seen his face yet? Would you remember him? He sure as hell remembered you.

“Ketchup and vinegar’s on the table there for you,” you hummed, looking at Robby first without recognition, “just let us know if–” you had looked at Jack then, lips still parted despite your pause. A blink. Then a smile. “You.”

You had completely reset, like being flipped off and on again. Instant. Easy. Smile warm, eyes bashful, and shoulders relaxing beneath the fitted black shirt that made his throat dry. Jack couldn’t form words, much less a sufficient response. He wasn’t supposed to say he’d met you until you verbalised the connection first. But even if he wasn’t bound to that rule, he wasn’t sure what he would or could say.

I have thought about you every day–hell, every hour–for the last three weeks. Not quite.

“Doctor Abbot,” you finally said, grinning at him.

That had him smiling too. He’d hate to know how baffled he looked before that. He cleared his throat, glancing down at your boot cast. “You know, you really should be resting that ankle”

“You barely caught the fracture at first," you retorted, then glanced at Robby. “It’s true. He didn’t see it right away–thought it was a pulled muscle, until he zoomed in again.”

Jack actually chuckled a little. “Doesn't mean it's not still fractured and needing rest.”

You just lit up even more and leaned back on your good foot. “Gotta pay the rent somehow, right?”

“I thought you said you were a schoolteacher,” Jack hummed. He didn’t think he had looked away from you once since you’d come to the table. But now that he saw you, he wasn’t sure he could ever look away again. 

“I switched school boards when I moved to Pittsburgh last year. They don’t have any placements for me yet, so I’m a substitute for now. And server, evidently.”

“That’s good,” Jack nodded. Then his lips pursed, “–I mean it’s not good that you don’t have a consistent school for yourself yet, I'm sure that's not ideal, but… I’m glad I got to see you again.”

Something hung in the pause, your stare so soft on him and his world narrowing exclusively to you. The music in the bar had dissipated; all he knew was the rhythm of your breathing, the way your shoulders and chest subtly raised with it, and the beautiful curve of your eyes.

“It was a kind gesture,” he said lowly, “bringing sweets for the staff.”

“It was the least I could do,” you muttered, expression even more bashful now. “You weren’t there, did they save you any?”

He nodded, his smile soft as he slowly traced your face.

“That's good…” The bell above the door rang, more customers coming in, and your perfect eyes broke away. “If you two need anything just let me know. Good to see you, Doctor Abbot. And I don't know your name but good to see you again too!”

You stepped away from their booth, going to greet the new customers then return to the bar. Jack couldn't stop watching you, eyes trailing around the room as you worked.

“Your burger's going to get cold,” Robby murmured, already a third into his.

“Fuck my burger,” Jack said, his mind and spirit truly someplace else.

“Brother, you are very lucky that Lena meddles.”

Jack blinked, but couldn't focus on what his friend said. “...What?”

“Don't worry about it. I'm just going to eat my garden variety pub burger, then go home. What you do with your evening is none of my business.”

……….

“You're behind this?”

“Well, someone had to be!” Carrie whispered.

You clutched your forehead, pacing just beyond the door to the kitchen. Carrie had let slip that she and some of the hospital staff were responsible for Doctor Abbot being here tonight. The implication that your love life was such a lost cause that other people had to organize this seemingly coincidental meeting caused a mortification so deep you were almost queasy. Logically, you went to hide, and crouching behind the bar was still too visible for your liking, so you were secured beyond the threshold of the kitchen.

“I wouldn't have told that nurse when you'd be working again, but c'mon! He's hot! If there's even a chance you two could meet again, wouldn't you take it?”

Carrie looked excitedly out of the kitchen as Doctor Abbot picked at his burger. He kept glancing around, waiting for you to resurface behind the bar. You were one charged look away from locking yourself in the walk-in. He really was hot, as Carrie kept reminding you.

God, he was wearing a nice fitting navy blue t-shirt tonight, his jacket tossed beside him and no scrubs to cover his upper arms. The upper arms that you were beyond pleased to learn did in fact match his beefy forearms. Fuck if you didn't want to bite them. Just a nibble. You would even settle for a quick, tangible squeeze between your palms so long as you could dig your nails in a bit. You hadn't let yourself indulge in that weeks ago when his forearm offered support for your first steps in your boot cast, and shit you regretted it.

“Couldn't you have told me he was coming in? Or that he was here already tonight? I blinked at him like a slack-jawed mess when I dropped off their plates.”

“No way, babe,” she said. “You would have avoided his table at all costs if I told you.”

“No,” you scoffed. “I'm very friendly.”

She gave you a look. You scare easily.

You frowned slightly. “I wouldn't have avoided his table. I went back to the ER, I'll have you know. That's not hiding or avoiding.”

“And what do you call this right now?”

That stopped your pacing, and you glanced out the door, seeing Ryan at their table. The two men were nodding at your coworker, but the one whose name you didn't know did all the talking. Doctor Abbot's arms were crossed, and you practically salivated at the sight. At the very least, your stomach did a flip, which was enough to make you lean back and keep him out of sight once more.

“How am I supposed to work for five more hours?” You muttered, “I feel stupid, Carrie. My brain won't move.”

“Girl, go sit with him! It's dead–Ryan and I can handle it until he leaves at eleven,” Carrie purred. “Go get your man, I beg of you!”

“He's not my man,” you argued uselessly, rubbing your forehead.

“He wants you!” She argued back, voice hushed but urgent. “Every time you're out there he doesn't stop looking at you! Besides, Ryan is cashing out his friend right now, and you wouldn't want him to be all alone, now would you?”

You sighed, “This is too much, Carrie. I can't.”

She looked out of the kitchen again. “Tough luck, ‘cause he moved to the bar now.”

You hurried to glance past her shoulder. Sure enough, Doctor Abbot's table was clear–his friend gone–and he was now at the end of the bar. Ryan set water in front of him, and he gave a serious-seeming thanks. His fingers anchored to his glass and eyes trained on the wood grain of the bar. You gulped.

“Go talk to him,” Carrie turned to you and pleaded. “You'll regret it forever if you don't.”

……….

The rain had kept away most other customers. Jack scanned the room, glancing at the decor, signs, the booths with only three people eating and drinking. He looked anywhere that wasn't the kitchen door, knowing that was where you had disappeared. His eyes went to the TVs, hoping to distract himself from searching out that door every five seconds. 

“Can I help you with anything else, doctor?” Asked your coworker, the one from the other night he thought Robby had a crush on. Jack pursed his lips faintly.

“I'm great, thank you. And no need to call me that.”

She turned her back to the kitchen door, leaning in slightly. “She really likes you, by the way.”

“Everyone's invested in this, huh?” He murmured.

She smiled. “Hard not to be. I've never seen her so much as flinch when any customers hit on her here. But you make her nervous.”

“That doesn't sound like a good thing.”

“Believe me, for her, it is.” She leaned back again, giving him a wink. “Just thought you should know.”

Jack suppressed a smile and took a sip of his water. Your coworker went to check on the other patrons, and he forced himself not to glance around too eagerly again. Did you really like him? Could that be even a slight possibility? He thought about your eyes, how they lit up when you saw him at the booth. That could mean anything. Recognition or realization. Definitely not adoration.

A sigh gently sounded beside him, and he turned his head, chest squeezing at the sight of you there.

“Can I get you anything?” You wondered, eyes darting to his water glass, his arms, his face.

Jack shook his head gently. “I actually wanted to check in with you."

"Doctor's work never stops, huh?” You cracked that smile he had thought about for weeks.

He pulled out the stool next to him, a silent request passing in the action. With a moment of hesitation behind you, you sat.

“How has your ankle been healing?" He asked, sipping his water.

“Fine, I think.” You leaned your folded arms against the bar, looking to the side at him. “I've been doing the physio exercises from the sheet the Fracture Clinic gave me."

“Good, good. Can't drive in the boot, how do you get around?”

“Me and the PRT are well acquainted."

His lips pursed. “Public transit means extra walking too. That's not great.”

“It barely hurts,” you shrugged.

He didn't like your dismissiveness, but he kept on. “Do you have anyone in the city who can help you get around?"

“I don't need a chauffeur. I can handle myself.”

“I never said you couldn't. I just want to know you're not in recovery all on your own."

“It's barely recovery. But if you must know, I do have someone who can help me if need be.”

“Good. I'm glad."

His eyes scanned your features. The warm brown eyeshadow you wore, the small wing at the corners of your beautiful eyes. He stared as if that would tell him who was helping you. He could always just ask…

You let out a breath, somehow knowing what his eyes had sought. “My sister helps. The one whose daughter's birthday I was at when I twisted my ankle."

He ignored the way his chest loosened. “Great. Is she your only help?”

“Why are you so concerned about that?" Your eyes narrowed a touch on his face as you glanced around it.

“It can be difficult to ask for help sometimes, I just want to make sure you're okay.”

"That's a cop-out of an answer.” You exhaled and moved to stand from the bar stool. Jack let his hand fall to yours on the wood, making contact before you could slip away. 

“What time does your shift end?" 

The faintest smile reappeared on your lips as you felt his hand over yours. "Are you dodging my question, Doctor Abbot?"

“Let me drive you home."

“I finish late…”

“And I'm nocturnal. Please let me drive you home."

“I get off at one. Twelve forty five if it's a quiet night and quick clean…”

“Okay. Then I'll stick around and drive you home.” He watched your eyes. “I'll beg if I have to. C'mon…”

You pressed a finger to your chin, pressing the smile of your lips into a flat line. “If you're willing to sweep and mop.”

“I'll do anything you ask,” Jack hummed.

A faint laugh escaped you, and you sat on the stool more comfortably. Five minutes of talking to you, and Jack was more at ease than he had been for the last three weeks. Maybe even longer than that.

……….

You couldn't tell how long you sat there with Doctor Abbot, or Jack, as he had told you to call him.

“That actually makes sense,” you murmured once he told you his name.

“How so?”

You cracked a smile, “I don't know, Jack just suits you.”

He made a chuckle that caused pride to thrum through your chest. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.” 

“I’d say it is.”

The two of you talked and talked, about the hospital, about your niece, classroom horror stories, how long he'd lived in Pittsburgh, why you'd moved here last year… and all throughout your conversation there was a pleasantly nagging voice in your head. Look how easy this is, it kept humming down the back of your spine. 

Jack was the one who made it easy. He was charming and sweet, and it took you a second to catch on when he started doing it, but he knew exactly when to lean into a moment and tease you with a joke or flit of his eyes. It came so naturally, you wondered if the magnetism was only you being drawn to him or if he felt the pull too. 

“That honeybee you were making in the hospital,” he started, shuffling slightly on his stool. “What were you making it for?”

“Oh, my friend is pregnant.” You smiled at the reminder. “It's just a little something for the baby.”

He leaned into his hand as he stared at you. “Hmm…”

“Yeah… I've made a bunch of new ones since then.”

“How come?” He chuckled softly.

“Well, I gave away the first one, then my niece saw me working on a new one and was feeling excluded, so I crocheted one for her. And then I got a different yellow yarn so I made yet another one.” You rubbed your neck. “Now I just keep making them because they're cute and easy to make.”

Jack studied your face, and you fought the urge to glance away. The intensity of his eyes, however soft they were right now, was enough to make your knees wobbly, and you thanked yourself for deciding to sit with him. A fractured ankle was already enough to keep you off balance, you didn't need anything as trivial as standing on weak legs to potentially knock you down. 

“I saw who you gave the first one away to,” he murmured. “When you were leaving the hospital.”

You blinked, averting your eyes to the wood grain of the bar. Had he been nearby? Did he think you gave it to that crying little boy just to be seen?

“That was a really thoughtful, kind thing to do. You're really thoughtful and kind.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” you murmured.

His lips pursed for a brief moment, stare seeking yours. “You're not just anyone.”

You glanced up again, struck with the sincerest look you'd received in a long while. It took everything to keep looking in his eyes, but the longer you did, the easier it became.

……….

Pitbull was blaring through the speakers–Carrie's choice–as Jack helped you and your coworker clean at the end of the night. You had told him to sweep and mop before, but when he actually grabbed the broom you frowned, trying to take it away.

“You don't have to do that, Jack. You're already offering to drive me home, that's enough.”

“Let me feel useful,” he insisted. “Besides, this'll get you and Carrie home earlier, and who doesn't want that?”

“Listen to the doctor, babe,” Carrie smirked, slipping past you behind the bar as she put away glasses.

Being teased suited you, and you begrudgingly smiled, leaving him be as you counted the tills.

Jack swept, attention straying to you every so often in comfortable glances. Once he had dumped out the dustpan, you showed him to the mop station in the back of the kitchen. He liked the close proximity as you leaned over to turn on the faucet, his hand itching to settle on your lower back for support he knew you didn't need at the moment. After three weeks, your boot had become standard in your walking now, no wobbles or hesitation in your step. Though he noticed a fleeting moment before where the bottom of your cast caught on the tiny lip between the wooden flooring in the front of house and the kitchen tiles behind the bar.

Carrie was buzzing quietly behind the bar, constantly looking between you and Jack, a blatant grin on her lips whenever she caught Jack staring at you. She knew his pattern now, how he would mop a strip of the floor and then quickly glance at you; almost like he still needed confirmation that he had found you again, despite spending nearly the last three hours sitting and talking with you. Usually, Jack would hate to be predictable, but he couldn't bother to hide his intentions, even if you were so focused on scrubbing down the counters you didn't catch his eyes.

When all was said and all was done, you locked up with Carrie, rolling your eyes at her teasing “goodnight, lovebirds!” then walked side by side with Jack to his car. Your hands were stuffed in your pockets, your shoulders squared. The rain was gone, but it imposed a lingering chill, and you sighed into the cool air.

“She's fun,” he remarked, tone light.

“You don't know the half of it,” you murmured, hesitating when he opened the passenger door for you. You blinked at the gesture, then smiled and got in. “Thanks.”

He gently shut your door and went to the driver's side. As soon as he started the car he turned on the heat and pointed the warm air towards you, then pulled out of his spot.

“Which way?” He asked, coming to the nearest corner.

You blinked at him again. “Left. Then right at the next light.” He felt your eyes on his profile as he turned left. “I'm in the little yellow brick building on the corner of Wells and Derry.”

Jack laughed to himself, eyes on the road. “You're kidding.”

“Uh… no?”

He glanced at you, a little smirk on his lips. “I live a few blocks over–on Edna Street. I think I've driven past your building a couple thousand times.”

“Oh,” you said, “that's convenient. I mean, you won't have to go far tonight after you drop me off.”

“Convenient,” Jack parroted, taking a measured breath he hoped you didn't see. “Small world we live in, huh?”

“And getting smaller,” you hummed.

……….

Jack's car smelled like him. Any quick hint of cologne you'd tracked off of him in the pub had been nothing compared to sitting in his bubble. The sight of him with his focused brow and tight navy blue t-shirt conjured thunderclouds and leather, but he smelled undeniably clean instead. Fresher than laundry left to dry in the sun, clean like sage and mountain air, and lighter than a dew-drop tinged spring morning. 

You wanted to press your face into his chest and breathe him even deeper, but you denied yourself the pleasure. He had to drive, after all. Plus, there was the small matter of scaring him off. Even if Carrie vehemently swore he liked you, who wouldn't be spooked by someone planting their face into your chest? 

Jack found a spot against the curb opposite to your building, parking and getting out. The streets were quiet at this hour, but he still came to your side and opened your door, looking both ways as he helped you out and walked you across the road. The gesture made you pause a second yet again. It was a small thing, something you didn't even need, and yet you were more than endeared by it and by the way he did it so naturally. 

“Thank you,” you said, stopping at the doorway to your building, “for driving me. And for everything else.”

“Anytime,” he smiled, eyes warm and lips positively inviting.

His mouth somehow still felt off-limits, but surely you could give his cheek a little peck. Just something light and sweet that wouldn't frighten him away.

You shifted forward to do it, to press your lips to his freckled cheek, but as you moved, your boot cast had other ideas. The sole scraped against the sidewalk, catching what would have otherwise been a smooth movement as you leaned forward. So instead of kissing his cheek, your nose butted into his jaw.

You winced, face scrunching up at the bump. Mortification struck your chest quick as a lightning rod, making your skin burn so easily you hardly registered the warmth of Jack's palms on your arms, gently steadying you.

“You okay?” He questioned, head ducking to try to find your eyes. You couldn't look at him for the life of you, though.

“Yeah, I'm… yeah.” You raised a hand, rubbing between your eyebrows. “Uh… sorry.”

“Don't be. I'm just sorry that you missed.”

You glanced at his face, only able to look at his amused yet intense eyes a couple of times. “I was aiming for your cheek, but I guess this is a sign I should maybe not have tried that.”

“Only my cheek? You know you can aim for my mouth, sweetheart,” Jack smirked.

You let out a delicate huff to hide the sudden heat in your stomach at merely the look on his face and the nickname he'd bestowed. “Very funny.”

“C'mon. Take another try and aim properly this time. I'll help.” He tilted his head at you, leaning closer. His chin even jutted out a bit to force his lips nearer to yours. The warm hands on your arms traced down to your elbows, still firm and warm.

Your eyes met his again, the light hazel of them urging you forward. An inch closer, two inches, and you could feel his breath on your skin. At the first brush of your lips to his, your eyes drooped shut. He nudged his mouth firmly against yours in return, but didn't push it any way that wasn't still utterly tender. His hands at your elbows traced back along your arms again and when you parted you realized you had one hand fisting in his shirt. Your eyes opened, and you found him exhaling with a concentrated stare on your mouth.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” He asked, his low voice making a mockery of your threadbare balance.

“Oh, I picked up a shift,” you softly groaned. “Three to eleven.”

“Can I take you to lunch before then?”

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes grazing every one of his freckles. “Yeah, I'd like that.”

“Good. I'll pick you up at noon?”

Jack smiled when you nodded again, and your eyes lingered on his lips. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Please.”

This time was a bit hungrier, and his grip on your arms migrated to your waist, the touch a real anchor as you felt your balance slipping yet again. Your breath mingled at parting, and you kept your eyes closed a moment longer.

"Thank god for meddling," Jack murmured into your lips, making you crack a smile.

..........

A/N: Thank you for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment if you want to read more, I really appreciate the feedback! If you want to request a fic for The Pitt, right now I will write for Abbot, Robby, and Langdon, so please feel free to send in an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

“You heard me. If you win, you go. If I win, you’ll marry me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “We’ll have a small ceremony, move into the house I bought for us—before you decided to be an insolent little bitch and broke up with me—and live there as a couple, as we should. And we’ll have children, to inherit my name, my legacy.”

He’s insane. There is no way he means this, is there? You hesitate before saying anything, staring at him, trying to read his face. But all you see there is… that he means it. He’s set on this.

You’ll have to try to find your way out of this somehow.

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” You question, crossing your arms over your chest, hiding the shaking of your hands. “You know the complex better than I do. How would I be able to hide?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“But what about the rules?”

“Anything goes. Except killing, of course.”

The more he talks, the more you realize there’s no way out of this. You will have to play.

And yet you hesitate. He’s made it clear he can’t let you go, so even if you win, what’s stopping him from keeping you anyway? What’s stopping the Council from having you quietly disposed of the moment you’re no longer under Titus’ control? In the official games, Le Bail’s rules are absolute. Unbreakable. People explode for breaking them. But this? This is unofficial. There’s no contract, no supernatural enforcement, no consequences for going back on his word.

All you have is his word.

You almost ask. You can feel the question sitting right there —his word, and what it’s actually worth—but you swallow it back down. What would be the point? If he says yes, you have no way of knowing if he means it. If he says no…

Well. You’d rather not find out what comes after no.

So instead you just look at him for a moment, and then nod.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll play.”

He was gracious enough —if that word can even apply to him— to give you some kind of head start. He let you leave the mansion before he did, which is technically the bare minimum, but in these circumstances is practically generous.

Your headstart is seven minutes. Seven.

You force yourself to think fast, clear and precise, which actually takes a lot of effort when you know your crazy ex boyfriend is literally hunting you down.

The thing about his family’s complex—you think as your feet start moving— is that it’s huge. It has a casino resort, the golf course, stylish lobbies, the kitchen, the laundry room and a gazillion other rooms you’re probably unaware of. The downside? Titus is aware of all of them. And he has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t assume he’ll play fairly, not when it comes to you and the risk of losing you. The property will be crawling with employees that could, and probably would, report back to him on sight.

So, you choose the most even terrain you could think of under duress.

The forest.

You run straight to it, trying not to be unsettled by how unfamiliar it feels.

Sure, in the two years you were with Titus, you’ve been in the forest a few times, but it was never alone, always with him. Once it was to get to know the terrain when you started dating, the second is when he taught you how to shoot; once he’d revealed enough about his family for you to understand that your life was always at risk simply by being with him. And oh, there was a third time too, but that one was to fuck.

You try not to think much about the latter, instead, you try to focus on the first visit, the tour, trying to recall whatever useful information he’d given about the forest that you can possibly remember right now.

And as it turns out, you can’t remember shit. Not under all this pressure, not when you know he’s following you.

So you run deep into the woods, with no sense of direction or idea about the depths of it, you just run and run, trying to find somewhere with enough coverage to stop and think of something. Of a strategy to win.

Coming up with a strategy is difficult though. You could always just hide, and stay alert for any noises or signs that he’s close by, but then what? You run and confirm that you’re there by making a whole lot of fucking noise in a forest that feels like it’s holding its breath on purpose? You’ve seen that man in action before, he’s strong and unnervingly fast. And you know he’s got stamina. So you stand no chance against him. Not to mention, you have no fucking clue what time it is, and he said you’d win at sunrise. Which is… a lot of time.

Fuck.

The forest swallows you whole.

You find a cluster of trees dense enough to crouch behind, pressing your back against the bark and forcing yourself to go still. To stop breathing so loud. Your heart is doing its best to get you caught, hammering so hard you’re half convinced he could hear it from across the property.

But there’s nothing. Just the wind moving through branches somewhere above you, and the sound of your own pulse.

A minute passes. Maybe two. You don’t know for sure, it’s impossible.

You start to think, stupidly, desperately, that maybe you’re better at this than you thought. Maybe he went to the casino first. Maybe he assumed you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere with walls and doors, with many rooms and the illusion of safety. Maybe for once in your life, you’ve managed to surprise Titus Danforth.

You almost smile.

“You always did like your trees. Especially when I fucked you against them.”

His voice comes from directly behind you. Not approaching, but already there, already close enough that you could reach back and touch him, and your stomach fucking drops. It was like he’d been standing there the whole time, patient and unhurried, just waiting for you to finish thinking.

You scramble to your feet and spin around. He looks completely unbothered. No sweat, no urgency. He looks like a man who went for a leisurely evening walk and happened to find you along the way.

“How-” you start.

“I know you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

And the worst part is… it does.

You run.

It’s stupid, you know it is. You just mentally calculated your chances and came out in red numbers, you are aware that this is senseless and just prolonging what has always been inevitable. And yet you still try.

You hear him scoff, it echoes with how quiet these woods are, and then his steps begin.

You’ve never felt like this in your life. You had no idea you could even run like this. It’s probably the adrenaline. Your body, ironically, can’t tell the difference between being chased by a wolf and being chased by Titus. Being chased to death or being chased to marriage. There’s probably not a big difference there, to be fair.

Your lungs start to burn before you expect them to.

You push through it. You push through the branches catching on your clothes and the uneven ground trying to twist your ankles and the darkness that’s settling between the trees faster than you’d like.

You can hear him. That’s the worst part. He’s not silent and he’s not trying to be. His footsteps are steady and unhurried, like a metronome, like someone on a morning jog.

Your legs are already protesting, paired with a sharp stitch blooming under your ribs. To be honest… you don’t work out, not really. The only cardio you’ve ever gotten, the only thing that’s ever left you this breathless and aching, is Titus. Nights spent riding him until your thighs shook, mornings bent over whatever surface he wanted, afternoons where he’d fuck you slow and deep just because he could. Your body knows exertion, sure, but it knows it in the shape of him, not this. Not sprinting blind through roots and dirt like prey.

You change direction sharply, cutting left between two trees. Maybe if you’re unpredictable enough, maybe if you zigzag, double back, make it complicated-

His footsteps don’t falter behind you, there is not even a moment of hesitation in his steps, you’re not even making him make an effort or work for it.

The thought makes something cold shoot down your spine. You run faster.

You break into a small clearing and for one stupid, desperate second you think —this is it, this is where you lose him, and then…

…Then your foot catches a fucking root and you stumble, catching yourself on your hands, scrambling back up before you’ve even fully registered falling. Your palms sting. You don’t stop.

Behind you, almost conversationally: “You’re going in circles.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t want to, but also because you don't have the breath for it right now. God, you hate him.

You hate that he’s right. You’ve completely lost all sense of direction out here, the trees all look the same no matter which way you turn, and the sky above has shifted from dark blue to almost black, swallowing any hope of figuring out where the hell you are. You can’t tell north from south anymore, everything blurring together in the growing dark.

You cut right this time, then right again, mind racing toward the perimeter. If you can just find the edge of the forest, hit the fence, spot anything that gives you a landmark, then maybe you’ll have something solid to go by. But he’s closer now, you can hear his breath, steady and way too near. You hadn’t even noticed him gaining ground, but somehow he’s right there behind you.

The impact comes from the left without warning.

He doesn’t just grab you, he takes you down in one clean, decisive motion, and you hit the forest floor hard with him over you. One of his hands braces so he doesn’t crush you completely, which somehow makes the whole thing worse, that little bit of consideration cutting sharper than if he’d just slammed you flat. The breath gets knocked right out of you, and for a second the world narrows to nothing but darkness, his solid weight pressing you into the dirt, and the smell of him, unfairly familiar, wrapping around you like it has every right to be there.

You recover fast though, twisting and fighting with everything you’ve got, managing to get one hand free so you can shove hard against his chest. Titus lets you push, just enough to give you that flicker of thinking you might actually be winning for once. Just enough.

Then he shifts his full weight and you go absolutely nowhere. He’s stronger and heavier than you, pinning you so completely against the forest floor that all your struggling turns useless. He’s looking down at you with that expression you’ve seen a hundred times before, patient, certain, almost warm. and his breathing stays completely even. Not even winded. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s older than you; how the hell is he in this much better shape?

“Get off me,” you manage to gasp out.

He doesn’t. Instead he tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering it as a real option before dismissing the idea entirely.

“You did well,” he says instead, voice quiet. “Longer than I expected.”

“Don’t.” You twist again, uselessly, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it gently but completely beside your head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” And the infuriating part is he sounds like he genuinely means it. “I’m actually impressed, baby.”

You go dead still. Not because you’ve given up—you’ve got way too much goddamn pride for that—but because your brain is spinning, scrambling to find the one mistake he’s bound to make eventually. He’s already onto you though. His eyes track every little twitch of your pupils, reading you with that same effortless, irritating fluency he’s always had.

The clearing around you has gone completely silent except for the ragged sound of your own lungs working overtime.

He’s crowding you now, his weight a heavy, solid heat that presses you deeper into the dirt and leaves. You can feel the direct pressure of his fingers locked around your wrist and the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken woods worth paying attention to.

You need to say something sharp. You had a line ready, something bitchy and mean that would actually sting, but the thought gets swallowed whole the second he moves.

He doesn’t hesitate. He just takes what he wants.

His mouth slams into yours with slow, heavy hunger, lips forcing yours apart and eclaiming something that’s always belonged to him. When his tongue slides in it’s a deep, wet drag that sends a hot liquid weight straight down to your crotch. You let out a noise you immediately want to choke back, it’s half moan, half pathetic whimper, as he tilts his head for a better angle, sucking on your tongue before slicking back into your mouth in a way that’s just fucking filthy.

Your free hand scrambles for his jacket, knuckles turning white as you bunch the fabric tight. You can’t even tell if you’re trying to shove him off or drag him closer anymore, but your body isn’t listening to your brain. It arches up into him anyway, chasing the heat of his chest and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. When your teeth accidentally snag his bottom lip he lets out this low, vibrating groan that you feel rumble all the way through your own chest.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips wet and swollen, hot breath mingling with yours. His thumb strokes slow over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is hammering out the truth he already knows.

“Still want to run?” he asks.

The bastard is smiling. Not pissed, not even serious, he’s having the time of his life. You should’ve known he’d get off on the chase like this.

“Yes,” you snap.

And you mean it. Mostly.

Then you reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and haul him back down.

He goes willingly, of course he does, the man is horny by nature. This time the kiss sinks slower, deeper into the spit and heat. You slide your hands up his chest, fingers hooking into his collar as you feel him shift, settling his weight more comfortably between your legs. He’s getting distracted, his iron grip on your wrist loosens, just a tiny bit.

There it is.

You let your hand drift lower, low enough to make his breathing hitch against your mouth. He makes this thick, needy sound in the back of his throat that tells you his focus is exactly where you want it now. You shift your leg in a slow, deliberate tilt of your hip that looks like you’re just trying to get his cock flush against you.

He falls for it.

Your palm slides over his stomach and presses hard against the thick, rigid line of his cock straining through his pants. He’s already fucking wrecked for you, throbbing and hot under your hand. You rub him slow, giving him a squeeze that makes his hips jerk forward into your touch. The groan he lets out is raw and guttural, vibrating straight into your mouth as he loses himself in the kiss, his tongue licking deep and messy against yours, teeth catching your lip in a sharp tug. You can feel him pulsing against your palm, thickening even more as you stroke him through the cloth like you’re finally giving him the reward he thinks he earned for catching you. His breath stutters against your lips, his tongue moving in ways that are pure filth.

He thinks he’s finally broken you.

That’s when you plant your foot flat against his hip and shove with everything you’ve got.

It’s not a clean move by any means—it’s pure desperate leverage—but it’s enough to break his hold and create one beautiful, stumbling second of space. You’re on your feet before he can even blink, already bolting back into the treeline.

Behind you, you hear him grunt as he hits the dirt.

And then you hear him laugh. A private, delighted sound, like you’ve just done something genuinely charming instead of kicking him while he was down.

You run harder, but you’re still breathless, mind distracted by how fucking good he kisses and the way he groaned and how quick he’d gotten so hard for you. Turns out your little strategy to distract him had backfired and distracted you instead.

You make it maybe forty feet. And that’s being generous, giving yourself way too much credit.

The arm that wraps around you comes from nowhere, thick and absolutely immovable, and suddenly your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, pulling your back tight against his chest while your legs kick uselessly at open air. He doesn’t squeeze, and he’s careful not to hurt you. He just holds you there, completely secure, one arm locked around your middle as you writhe and swear and accomplish absolutely fucking nothing.

He’s breathing harder now. Finally. But it sounds less like exertion and more like pure satisfaction, like relief.

“There,” he says close to your ear, almost fond. “All done. I won.”

After that ordeal, Titus brought you back to the mansion. Once there, he personally escorted you to your shared room, as if you didn’t know the way already. Though you can’t blame him for keeping you close, not after what happened today.

You shower. The water comes out murky with dirt at first, so you wash your hair and your body as many times as it’s necessary until it’s all clear, until you cease to perceive the scent of dirt and sweat and his cologne all over you.

By the time you exit the shower, the sun has fully gone down, and you find a white gown delicately hung by the door. It’s so beautiful. And it’s a shame; because it truly is. It’s exactly your taste, in a style you adore, a fabric you seek often in formal dresses. It's perfect for you.

He’d gone to those lengths, of having a dress made specifically for you. But then again, he’s known for going to lengths.

You do your hair the way you always do, it’s all muscle memory by now, all with such ease that it requires no effort for you to look good.

Then you slip the gown on. And it’s… bittersweet. In the two years you were with Titus (or have been, are you back together? Who the fuck knows), the thought of marriage did cross your mind. You won’t sit here and pretend to be an innocent bystander. You know what he’s like. You know the things people like him do—and let’s not even go that far— the shit he has done. You know he has many irredeemable qualities. So you won’t sit here and pretend to be a victim. You stayed, longer than you should’ve, sure, but you had stayed.

Marriage had come to mind before, but you’d never allowed yourself to think too much about it. You were scared, still are, about what it would mean to marry into his family, his world. Starting with the fucking initiation. All it takes is pulling the wrong card before everyone is on a game to hunt you to death.

You shiver.

So seeing yourself in this dress is… bittersweet. You had, at some point in time, longed to marry him, even with all his issues and his bullshit. But you knew, deep down, that it’s also something you should fear. Something no one should want.

And yet, here you are.

A knock on the door makes you jump slightly in your place. You take a breath to steady yourself before doing anything.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Well, you might as well have said ‘yes’, because he unlatched the door as if you’d said it.

The moment his eyes land on you, he stills completely. His gaze moves over you slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, though tonight he does; he won. It drags from the hem of the dress upward, taking its sweet time, and when those eyes finally meet yours there’s something in them that makes your stomach do a slow, unwelcome flip you’d really rather it didn’t.

You’ve seen Titus Danforth unmoved by things that would fuck other men up completely. You’ve watched him stay unbothered in rooms full of people trying to intimidate him, composed in situations that had no right to feel calm. And yet here he is, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking at you like you’ve just undone something deep inside him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

He clears his throat. Looks away for exactly one second, then his eyes are back on you, heavier than before.

“You look beautiful.”

And the worst part is that he means it. You can tell there’s no sick angle, no calculated game in the words. Just Titus being completely sincere, genuinely undone by a dress he picked out himself. It’s exasperating how real he can be sometimes, how he can drop the armor and just say shit like that without any ulterior motive.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it too, because what else is there left to say at this point?

There’s a brief stretch of silence where it’s obvious both of you want to say something more but neither of you does. This whole situation is so fucking complicated. You broke up with him this morning, and now here you are, gowned up, about to marry him. Not without a fight, but still. It makes you wonder if you ever had any real backbone at all. If you even wanted to break up with him in the first place, or if some part of you had been waiting for him to refuse to let go.

“This isn’t how I imagined it,” you finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you expected. “I imagined something huge, something that would probably annoy me because you know absolutely everyone that matters and I don’t, and you’d keep getting pulled aside for all those meaningful conversations. Then I’d get mad and you’d call me immature because we were already married and you’d never go anywhere without me. I imagined music, pretty scenery, flowers everywhere…the whole thing.”

He looks down at his shoes for a second. It’s brief, very brief, but you catch it. Then he adjusts his cuffs, because yes, he’s all suited up and unfairly handsome, much to your dismay.

“It’s not what I imagined either,” he agrees gruffly. “This isn’t how I had planned things to go.”

You can already feel the ‘but’ coming.

“But you left me no choice.”

Of that, you’re painfully aware. You probably threw a massive wrench into all his carefully laid plans. The breakup had been such a sudden decision, dropped right in the middle of one of the good periods between you two. You really had been in a solid place before you sprang it on him. If anything, you’re still surprised by how calmly he took it. You’d been terrified for those few seconds before the words left your mouth, half expecting him to snap, but he hadn’t. Nothing thrown at the walls, no cruel words thrown back, besides the ones you’d already said to start the conversation, anyway.

But now you understand why he stayed so calm. He wasn’t going to lose you, no matter what you said. He’d already bought the house. He’d had the dress tailored and made perfectly for you. He’d turned the whole thing into a game he knew he could win. He knew you weren’t actually going anywhere.

The attempt at breaking up had really disrupted his plans, though.

“It’s time,” he says, and extends his hand to you.

You look at it for a second. Open and waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just heading out to some nice dinner instead of signing your life over. You take it anyway.

His fingers close around yours immediately, warm and sure, and he leads you out of the room without another word. The mansion is unnervingly quiet around you. Your heels click against the floor, and you focus on that sound, nothing else. Just that steady rhythm instead of letting your mind spiral about where you’re going and what happens when you get there.

The room he brings you to is small. Candlelit. There’s a man already waiting: the lawyer, or someone who passes for one in this world, standing with papers and a pen, his expression suggesting he’s done far stranger things than this. Titus is probably paying him a fortune for the discretion.

It’s just the three of you. No music. No flowers. The complete opposite of everything you’d imagined.

Titus positions himself in front of you and turns to face you fully. For a moment you just look at each other, the air thick between you.

The lawyer clears his throat and begins.

“Do you,” he says, looking at Titus, “take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Titus says. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of one.

Then the lawyer turns to you.

“And do you take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

And there it is.

You think about this morning, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, saying the words that were supposed to end everything. You think about the forest, those seven minutes, the way he found you like he’d never even needed to look. You think about the dress hanging by the door—perfectly your taste, perfectly your size—bought long before you ever said a word about leaving. You think about the fact that even now, standing here, some traitorous part of you doesn’t entirely feel like a victim.

The lawyer waits. Titus waits. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and certain, because he already knows what you’ll say. He knows you.

You take a breath.

“I do.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which surprises you considering your heart feels like it’s trying to leap straight out of your chest.

“The rings,” the lawyer says.

And of course there are rings, because this is Titus and he’s thought of everything, has been thinking of everything for god knows how long. His ring slides onto your finger with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. You slide his onto his finger, your hands only shaking a little.

“The license,” the lawyer says next, producing the papers and setting them on the small table beside him with a pen.

You sign your name. You watch the ink dry for exactly one second. There’s something about seeing it there, your name, your handwriting, now permanent, that makes the whole thing feel more real than anything else tonight. More real than the dress, more real than the vows. This is the part that can’t be undone.

Titus signs beneath you, quick and certain, then straightens up.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The lawyer says it like a closing argument, the matter finalized, binding. “You may kiss the bride.”

Titus closes the gap between you, and suddenly the air in the room feels way too thin. He reaches up, his thumb dragging slow and heavy across your cheekbone, like he’s giving you every second to realize exactly what he’s about to do. His eyes drop to your lips for a quick flicker before locking back onto yours.

Then he’s on you.

It’s nothing like that panicked, adrenaline-soaked mess in the forest. This is different, slower, more deliberate. He’s taking his time, his mouth moving against yours with a focused hunger that makes your knees go embarrassingly weak right there in the candlelit room. His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady like you’re something he actually wants to keep intact, while his other arm hooks around your waist and hauls you that last inch forward until there’s no space left between you.

The kiss doesn’t just happen, it grinds and lingers, thick and heavy, delicious in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the lawyer still standing three feet away. This is just Titus finally getting his hands on something he’s wanted for a long goddamn time, and he’s not rushing any second of it. You hear him catch a sharp, ragged breath through his nose, the sound barely held together as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are blown out and dark, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His thumb is still tracing slow patterns across your skin, and he’s staring at you like you’re completely his now.

Which, technically, you are. Legally and irrevocably.

“Hello, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, his voice a low vibration meant only for you, the words sinking straight under your skin.

And despite the total shitshow your life has become, despite how much you should hate him for all of this, something in your chest does something it really, really shouldn’t. It fucking flutters.

The lawyer gathers his papers with quiet efficiency, offers a curt nod that feels more like a final seal on a contract than any kind of congratulations, and slips out of the candlelit room without another word, leaving the two of you alone in the heavy silence.

Titus doesn’t move away. His hand stays cradling your jaw, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your flushed cheek as he looks down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The title he just gave you—Mrs. Danforth—still hangs in the air between you, heavy and permanent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I’m not,” you lie, even as your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, betraying you completely.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips. He leans in closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of your ear, breath warm as he murmurs, “Liar.”

Before you can even get a retort out he’s scooping you up again, effortless, carrying you down the quiet hallway toward the master suite. Your heels are dangling stupid off your toes, one slips free and you don’t even care where it lands. The white gown pools and tangles around you, heavy silk whispering against your skin. You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore. The game’s over, you lost bad, and some treacherous, stupid part of you is already humming low and hot with what’s coming next, buzzing under your skin like electricity you can’t shut off.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, the bang echoing a little, and sets you down on the edge of that massive bed. The room’s dim, just one lamp throwing soft light and moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains, making everything feel hushed and secret. Titus stands over you, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside without looking. His fingers work the cuffs of his shirt open real slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. That stare pins you.

“Take the dress off. Slowly.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You hesitate, just long enough that he notices, the corner of his mouth twitching, and reach behind you for the zipper. The sound of it sliding down feels obscenely loud in the quiet, like it’s giving everything away. The fabric slips from your shoulders and pools at your waist, leaving you in nothing but that delicate white lace lingerie they gave you for tonight. His gaze drags over you shameless, slow, possessive, hungry, lingering on the way your nipples pebble tight against the thin lace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word rough, scraped raw with want. He steps closer, cups your face in both hands and tilts your head up. “My wife. Finally.”

That word shoots through you, part fear, part something way more dangerous that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together without thinking. You open your mouth to say something—probably stupid, something to grab back even a sliver of control—but he kisses you before you can. This kiss is different, deeper, slower, filthier than the one in the ceremony room. More like the forest one but hungrier. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, tasting, claiming, sucking on your tongue like he’s trying to devour every last protest, every doubt, every bit of resistance you’ve got left.

He pushes you back onto the bed until you’re lying beneath him, the gown still tangled around your hips like it doesn’t want to let go. His body covers yours, solid, warm, overwhelming in the best worst way. One of his knees nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, grinding the thick heavy line of his cock against your clothed core with these deliberate rolling presses that make your breath hitch. You gasp into his mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily as heat floods between your legs, fast and embarrassing.

“Already so wet for me,” he teases against your lips, voice dark with amusement. “Even after trying to run from me all night. Your cunt knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. Your body’s already betraying you completely, aching for more of that friction, that pressure.

He chuckles, low and filthy right by your ear. “That’s the plan, baby. Until you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave.”

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that’ll bloom tomorrow like proof. He peels the rest of the dress off you with practiced hands, tossing it aside like it’s nothing more than wrapping paper on a gift he’s been dying to unwrap for years. The lingerie follows; bra unhooked and discarded, lace panties dragged down your legs slowly. You catch the way his pupils blow wide when he notices how the crotch of your panties is stuck to your pussy, soaked through because of how wet you already are.

When you’re completely bare beneath him he sits back on his heels for a second and just looks, drinking in every inch like he can’t get enough. His hands follow, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs circling and pinching your nipples until they tighten into aching sensitive peaks. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing and tugging while his fingers pinch and roll the other. You arch off the bed with a broken moan, fingers threading through his silver curls and pulling hard, harder than you mean to.

“Titus, fuck—”

“Shh.” He releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses his way down your stomach, spreading your thighs wider with his broad shoulders. “I’ve waited long enough for this, lemme taste you.”

He doesn’t tease for long. His mouth is on you in the next breath, hot and relentless. His tongue drags through your slick folds with one slow savoring lick from entrance to clit, then circles the swollen bud with firm knowing pressure. You cry out, hips jerking against his face, but his strong hands pin you down, broad shoulders holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wants. He eats you as hungrily as he did the very first time, that never changes. Messy, greedy, groaning against your cunt like your taste is the only thing that’s ever satisfied him. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes while his tongue flicks and sucks your clit with those obscene slick sounds.

You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. He doesn’t stop to give you some reprieve, of course he doesn’t. Keeps licking and sucking through the aftershocks, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much-ah, Titus—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and satisfied. “Not nearly enough.” He crawls back up your body, shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. His cock springs free finally, heavy, thick, flushed dark and already leaking precum at the tip, as it rests hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Look at me.”

You do. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up and pushes in, he always loved eye contact while he slides in, and fuck, it is pretty hot. The stretch burns in the best way, filling you completely until he bottoms out, balls-deep inside your clenching heat. You both groan, the sound raw and filthy. For a moment he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him. You’re thankful for the pause—you always needed some time adjusting to his cock. It’s huge. That, and because you’re still incredibly sensitive after the previous orgasm.

“Fuck… so tight. You feel like you were made for my cock,” he rasps, and it’s such a delicious tone you have to hold back from clenching around him right then. “My wife’s greedy tight cunt sucking me in like it missed me.”

Then he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. Which is also a contradiction to how you imagined your wedding night with him as his wife, but you’re not complaining, how could you? His hips snap forward in deep punishing strokes that rock the expensive bed beneath you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your ragged moans and whimpers, mixed with his groans. Each thrust drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick vein on the underside of his cock feels so good dragging along your walls, the head kissing your cervix with every brutal plunge. He fucks you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your breakup right out of your body.

It’s working. God, it’s working too well.

His left hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, the golden ring on his finger digging into your plush skin, a blunt reminder that he’s not your boyfriend anymore—he’s your husband now. He pulls your hips up so he can go even deeper while his other hand braces beside your head, driving into you harder, faster, angling those strong hips to hit that spot that makes you see white. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back and shoulders, urging him deeper even as you gasp his name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.

“Say it,” he demands, voice rough against your ear, hips never slowing. “Say you’re my wife. Say you’ll always be mine.”

You shake your head, stubborn even now, biting your lip to hold back the words. But he angles just right and slams in harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust, making your back arch off the bed with a keening whine.

“Say it,” he repeats, punctuating each word with a brutal wet thrust. “Tell me who you belong to, Mrs. Danforth.”

“I’m-fuck- I’m your wife,” you finally choke out, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm builds fast and vicious under his relentless pace. “I’m yours- oh god—”

“Good girl.” He reaches between you to rub tight rough circles over your swollen ultra-sensitive clit, pushing you over the edge again. You come with a sob, clenching around his thick cock so hard it drags a guttural groan from his throat, your walls fluttering and milking him as the waves rip through you.

He doesn’t slow down. Fucks you through it, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm starts to hit. With a low broken sound—a whimper, for your ears only—he buries himself as deep as he can and comes hard, pulsing inside you, filling you with hot thick spurts of cum that make your toes curl and your mind go blissfully blank. You feel every twitch, every rope as he empties himself, marking you from the inside.

For a long moment the only sound is your shared ragged breathing. Titus collapses half on top of you but careful not to crush you completely, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips brush your pulse point in something almost tender while his cock twitches inside you, still half-hard, like he’s not quite done claiming you yet.

But he’s far from finished.

After a few minutes he lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead, then pulls out slowly. A thick trail of his cum leaks from your swollen pussy right away. The sight seems to please him immensely.

“Round two,” he murmurs, voice husky. “On your hands and knees. I want to watch my cum drip out of you while I fuck it back in.”

He flips you over with ease, pulling your hips up so your ass is raised high, chest and face pressed to the sheets. His hands spread your cheeks and he groans at the messy sight of his release coating your folds. Without warning he pushes two fingers inside you, scooping up his cum and pushing it deeper, making you whimper at the overstimulation.

“Look at this sloppy cunt,” he says, voice thick with filthy appreciation. “Already full of me and still greedy for more?”

He replaces his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt again. This time he fucks you harder, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass with sharp stinging smacks that make you clench around him. The angle is deeper, more punishing, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every snap of his hips.

You come again, screaming into the sheets, and he follows soon after, flooding you with another load until it’s leaking down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you rest for long.

By the time the sky begins to lighten outside the windows, you’re a trembling, cum-soaked mess, your limbs weak, voice hoarse from moaning, every inch of you marked and claimed. Titus pulls you into his arms one last time, spooning behind you with his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to leave your heat.

“Sleep, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss there. “You’re mine now. And I’m nowhere near done with you. We’re going to see our new house later today.”

You should hate the way that promise makes fresh heat coil low in your belly, but you don’t hate it. And yeah, you feel stupid, like you’re betraying the version of you that was set on breaking up with him yesterday, but you can’t hate this. Hate him. The break up had never been out of lack of love, if anything it had been the opposite what drove you away, it had been knowing the lengths he’s willing to go to for you and being afraid of the responsibility of having his heart in your hand.

With a sigh, you press back against him, letting exhaustion and that dangerous, ruined satisfaction pull you under.

A short, airy chuckle escaped Jack’s lips as his head dipped. He was exhausted—you could see it in the frame of his body and the way his shoulders drooped like a person who had given up on the day when you turned around. With the mug to your mouth, you blew on the steaming coffee carefully.

“Rough night?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you,” you began to breach slowly, “want to talk about it?”

Your eyes fluttered around his face for an answer before he gave it. He chewed on the inside of his lip before hovering, his right fingers twisted his ring on the left. Probably a female patient stuck on his conscious, you imagined.

Jack only ever got in a funk about patients that reminded him of himself, the men he served with, children, or women who reminded him of you.

He'd argue that the ones "like you" were the worst. For you, it all looked relatively the same.

“Robby came in early and this woman…” he trailed. A shake of his head followed the click of his teeth. “He really fucking pissed me off about her care.”

“Oh?”

“He’s been such an asshole lately.”

“I’ve heard.” Your eyebrows raised in acknowledgement. “He’s been an asshole for months, apparently.”

“Try a fucking year,” Jack scoffed. He lifted from the wall and ran his hands over his face. “He stalled too long and by the time Neuro came down, they berated me for waiting so long to page. It’s not my fucking fault. I told Robby what the course of action was and all he did was argue about it.”

The steam began to roll.

“He’s just—” Jack huffed “—is so dense sometimes it makes my blood boil.”

“Sounds like you need to go to couples therapy,” you replied lightly and his shoulders dropped further at the retort. “They must have a platonic co-worker, bestie session somewhere.”

“Funny,” he panned. “Robby needs fucking therapy. He’s gonna get me into a lawsuit that I have no reason to be apart of.”

“You’re gonna need more therapy for Robby’s lack of it.”

“And you know what?” Jack exasperated. He held up a pointer finger and wagged it around to make a point. “He’s a know-it-all too.”

“Aren’t you all?” You looked at him seriously. “Isn’t the whole point of your job to be the biggest know-it-all for your staff?”

“He’s an ass about it though. I’m not. I’m like… cool. Like a coach or something… he’s… he's just an asshole.”

“Then don’t ask for his opinion, Jack. Rely on your residents, your seniors, before falling back to him. Robby isn’t the chosen one, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why act like it?”

Jack shook his head. “Maybe because he does. He’s a fucking… wolf in sheep’s clothing and every time it pops out, I wonder why the hell I listen to him in the first place sometimes.”

“He can be a bully,” you agreed from what you knew of Robby and what Jack debriefed to you in confidence.

He loved his friend, truly, but even friends can be a larger stressors of life. In Jack’s line of work, it was more probable than not that Robby and Jack’s friendship would ebb and flow over time. Robby was hitting a low—and everyone always suffered when the great Michael Robinavitch hit rock bottom.

“I just wish he’d just knock it off.”

“You know that it’s not that easy.”

Jack concurred. “Doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating when other people don’t accept it.”

“Why won’t he?”

“I really don’t have a clue, honey.”

Your mouth quirked a smile to one side. “Then fuck ‘em right now. As much as I care about Michael’s well being, I really don’t want to talk about him when you’re home.”

“I know you don’t.” Jack breathed in. He shook off Robby and the patients and looked at you truthfully. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you returned.

He paused, gazing at you with a refreshed appreciation. Jack’s eyes softened easily. You’d been home alone without him for an entire night and while he knew you didn’t mind his deflation of work drama, it really wasn’t what you wanted to hear this early.

Let alone when you’re in his presence again, on an off day, with a whole day to waste.

“How was your night?”

“Fine,” you gave a vague, noncommittal motion. “Didn’t do much. Watched the news, I told you I didn’t want to make dinner so I had a bowl of cereal… went to bed, but I don’t like sleeping without you.”

Neither did he. Jack hummed. He nodded in listening and his eyes trailed down your body shamelessly. The shorts you wore to sleep always bunched weird—your own reasoning—when you walked. A shape he could only identify as an upside down heart narrowed his attention to the apex of your thighs. It targeted Jack’s mind with a reminder that he was home.

There was nothing more to worry about at work.

He was at ease under a roof to share with you.

You. You. You.

And his body sure knew it.

“Is that all you did? Sleep?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. The time on the microwave read 8:36 and for anyone else, maybe it would be too early for this. But for Jack, time was an illusion of practice.

He slept for four hours a day and devoted himself to a million different tasks to escape the quiet. However, when you were home together on a Saturday, Jack couldn’t help the way his brain immediately shifted into one mode. He missed you. He missed being close to you on nights where he imagined you tossing and turning because he wasn’t around to hold you.

“Why?” You said warily. “What did you imagine me doing other than sleeping?”

Jack’s tongue wet his lips; it ran over his bottom lip before he bit down to stop himself from blurting out the first thing that came to mind. He wasn’t seeking to be so fucking dirty minded at the break of goddamn dawn, but one look at you and he was always on the brink of exploding.

He thought you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. The kind where sailors of old were bewitched by sirens in the water... empires surely fought over you in another life. You looked so simple and refreshed in your pajamas and robe as you stood in front of the window that looked out into the backyard. The sun had risen, painting a swirl of Valentine’s colors in place of its generic blue.

He loved you. Immensely. And all of that love often transpired in every room of the house.

Jack’s mouth frowned in dismissal. “Nothing…” he scoffed. “Just like… did you read a book? Watch a… movie… or something? An audiobook?”

“Jack.”

“Maybe you watched a couple of episodes of—”

“I didn’t!” You were quick to defend. “I told you I’d wait for you to be off!”

He waited for seconds to pass. “So… nothing then?”

“Jack.” You set the mug down beside the sink. “Are you trying to ask me if I did something dirty?”

“Well that makes me feel and sound like I’m 10.”

“You’re kind of acting like you’re 10.”

“Rude,” he joked. “I… I guess so.” He answered your question.

“You wanna know what I do in bed without you when you’re ten minutes away and so frustrated about your job and all you can think about is fucking me?”

“Now you’re just being lewd.”

Jack stepped toward you and caged you with his hands stretched onto the counter beside you. Your hands landed on his stomach, smelling the antiseptic that always traveled home with him.

“Don’t you want to shower?” You inquired as his chin tutted out in observance of you.

“Don’t you wanna tell me what you did?”

“You have an imagination, Dr. Abbot,” you breathed. “Maybe you can use it to figure it out.”

Your hands smoothed over his sides. His breathing leveled out from his ire against Robby. Building the walls of his home around his heart, Jack hands gripped onto the counter hard. The strain of his muscles pulled on the veins of his arms that made you weak in the knees. Every bit of the man was attractive to you—everything.

“I think you were a little… cold,” he suggested. Your eyes lingered on his lips before meeting his own that seemed to pin you to the counter. “And you needed something to warm you up.”

“Oh,” you frowned, “so very cold.”

Your hands drifted higher. In a break from their internal memorization of Jack’s body, your hands traced his biceps and forearms, bumping over the shallow ridges of veins.

Jack rumbled. “Was it your hands? Or our friend in the drawer?”

Your eyes flickered back to his lips. Jack’s dick twitched in his scrub pants. Fuck. You were just perfect.

“A little bit of both, I guess.”

“You guess?” His face inched closer, noses brushing against one another. “Need a reminder?”

“Why would I?” You mumbled quietly. “You’re here now.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before.”

Jack’s nose danced across your cheek and to the side of your face where he sucked in the scent of you. Your hands brushed up to his pecks and back down, threatening to go lower at the bottom of his top. His breath hit your ear and your head lulled away from him playfully.

“That’s not what I want. It’s not what I wanted, either.”

“I was thinkin’ bout you last night,” Jack rasped against your ear, “how much I wanted to be here. All the things I wanted to do you.”

“Oh yeah?” You smiled as he placed a kiss on the side of your face. It was barely a kiss, a brush of his lips, but it was there. “You gonna tell me about it or do I have to guess.”

“Well you know how I feel about these shorts, honey.”

Jack backed away from your face and looked down between your bodies. He could see your nipples peaking at the fabric and the way your legs pressed together as he gazed. He wet his lips hungrily.

“Who knew sunflowers could be so fuckin’ sexy, huh?”

You laughed. He grinned like a schoolboy at the sound.

“I might only wear them just for you,” you said with a lazy smile. “They’re like my ‘Jack Trap’ I suppose.”

“Jack Trap?”

“Mhm,” you bit down on your lower lip. “Guaranteed romance with them on.”

“Guaranteed?” He joked and pretended to pull away. You tugged him back without resistance.

“Honey,” he lamented casually. “There is no trapping me. Ever. You got me. On my knee or not. Prisoner of your heart for life—honestly.”

“A prisoner?” You gagged. “In the world’s most cozy prison then.”

“Well I’ve never been to any so I wouldn’t know.”

You pushed against his stomach and he shook his head smiling before returning to blocking you in.

“I think about you every minute of the day,” he brought back. “Even if I know you’re working or reading or just making a sandwich, I’m thinking about you.”

The sincerity in his eyes killed you. He was certain death. Your certificate would read: CAUSE OF DEATH—HUSBAND’S LOVE, and it would be correct.

“Why don’t we put all that thinking to good use now?” You proposed.

You pushed up to him and planted a quick, easy kiss to his lips.

“For all the time I missed you at work,” another kiss, “and for all the time you missed me while you were at work.”

You kissed him again, longer.

“I think you have really good ideas.”

“That’s why you married me.”

“No,” he shook his head but his lips landed on yours. “I married you because you’re my best friend. And that you put up with all of my shit and still somehow love me.”

“Eh,” you shrugged, “that too.”

Jack kissed you deeply in return.

You sunk into a warm place because of it. His mouth commanded you to fall into him every time. A routine of adoration, his tongue was fast to escalate the scene to one of cuteness to one of craving. Chasing an itch that could never be fully scratched, Jack’s mouth devoured yours.

Shallow, hushed shaky breaths filled your ears when he chose to let them go. His left hand left the counter to cup your face gently. In a stark difference from his kiss, his thumb traced over your bottom lip, then top, resting in the center where your lips parted.

You locked eyes with him. Jack’s thumb breached your lips and your warm mouth accepted it. A mixture of your combined saliva coated his thumb and as he retracted, your teeth grazed his skin. Jack used his wet thumb to coat your lips before pulling your face back to his and kissing you once more.

It was thoughtless. A mindless warping of his body into yours and no one needed to think about anything except where hands went and how lips moved. Jack pushed his body into yours to lessen any possible space. Your back dug into the counter, quick to remind you that you weren’t 25 and sex outside of soft spaces wasn’t always easy.

But it was exciting and different and new.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had sex with Jack that wasn’t in bed. As much as your imaginations sought spaces that seemed sexy or exhilarating, the reality of it was that sex was a bodily maneuver that over time, became prisoner to age. It didn’t only matter if someone’s sexual prowess was dimmed by time. Knees ached, a back’s soreness frequented, and the longevity of the act became sporadic with hormone imbalances.

Jack’s twelve hour shifts and leg also didn’t always allow for more adventurous loving. But you were both satisfied with what you could do. You didn’t need to have pornographic levels of acrobatic flexibility to enjoy having sex with each other. Simple lust and attraction did all the heavy lifting where kinesthetics just didn’t work out.

Yet he kissed you like all of it was possible every time. His mouth moved against yours with fervor. Devoted to one task only: Jack wanted you to feel him. To sense one’s intent through only a kiss seemed useless—Jack gave every ounce of himself in it. Your lips nearly puckered with a grin, hands moved to cling to his scrub top as his hand tipped your head back.

His right leg wedged itself between yours. Jack’s hand that had lodged itself stiff against the counter slid between the opening of your robe and smoothed over your back before grasping your ass so hard you moved to grind against his leg. Your lips never released his, alternating between chasing his dominance and giving into it.

Jack’s hand prompted you to move. Switching to hold onto your bare thigh and sinking his fingers into your flesh, he asked your hips to roll without words. Heat rose to your cheeks when he let out a sound of appreciation.

It was something “new” he offered during times like these.

He’d always been vocal about praising you during sex—it was a non-negotiable for you when you first met so many years ago. This wasn’t a silent game. It wasn’t an unimportant encounter that could be quietly passed over until the next. Sex was sex. It was vulnerability in a bottle and fuck, if you were gonna let him see all of you, he better show that appreciation audibly.

So, when he followed up with a quick and low: “just like that baby,” your heart picked up a few extra beats.

However, Jack had become more aware of it over the last year. When he wasn’t able to give all of himself during intimacy because of his meds, he resorted to focusing on your pleasure alone and doubled down on the vocal praise. It added onto a long list of things that made Jack irresistible for you. He moaned more, let himself feel more openly, and sometimes, he talked you through it.

He was always willing to learn.

If someone asked him what makes his marriage to you work, Jack would say it was that he never stopped learning about you. People change. All the time. And just because you think you know someone in and out, it doesn’t mean that things become stagnant.

He never stopped dating you just because he married you. Jack learned, listened, and adapted when he needed to because that’s what good people did.

So, he knew when something needed to change and he knew when something clicked.

The kitchen? It’s doing it for him. It clicked.

It’s where he hoped he’d find you when he walked through the door and it was a magnificent feeling mixed with his anger to witness.

The gentle roll of your hips against his thigh was sending shockwaves throughout his body. His hand gripped your thigh harder, the other firmly grasping the back of your head as if to tell you telepathically to keep going. You leant your body on a diagonal away from him, pushing your hips down where the seam of your shorts began to press into your clit just right.

Shit. He really did love those fucking shorts.

Jack’s lips deserted yours. He looked down between your bodies, letting your face fall forward and down too, to watch you grind down on his scrub pants like a fucking machine. All you could feel, however, was the thickness of his thigh underneath it.

He loved that it being his right leg didn’t bother you.

And he thanked fucking God that he was a stronger goddamn soldier than the thought because he wasn’t sore, shaking, or ready to collapse under the pressure.

“Oh fuck,” he said your name breathlessly. “That’s so…”

“Mhm,” you hummed with a huff. “I knew you had a thing for these fucking pajamas.”

Both his hands landed on your waist, just above your hips.

“Is it bothering you?” You asked a bit softer. Still, your breath was catching.

Jack shook his head. “Think you can get off like this?”

“You’re not gonna fuck me?” Your hips faltered.

“Oh,” Jack’s voice dragged out like a cautious warning. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

Jack moved his hands underneath your pajama shirt and to your breasts. He palmed over your nipples before kneading them in his hands.

“You’re gonna come like this first.”

“You think I can?” You knew you could.

The seam of the shorts outlined your pussy perfectly. You “forgot” underwear whenever you wore these but under the guise of “she needs to breathe.” Jack didn’t argue. He didn’t argue as Dr. Abbot and he sure as hell didn’t argue as Mr. Abbot. The friction it gave felt better after every grind made them tighter. Soon, they were barely considered shorts and you hoped that the wetness building on his pants wasn’t going to wear down the fibers of it.

But Jack didn’t give a shit.

He’d buy a thousand pairs of pants if it meant you orgasmed on them.

“Yeah,” he murmured and your breath hitched. “You can, baby. I know you fucking can. You feel this?”

Jack left one of your breasts to guide your hand over his cock. He was hard, fully, without any assistance from the little blue pill.

“If you can do this to me?” He placed your hand along his covered shaft and your hand molded quickly. “Then yeah, you can fucking come on my thigh.”

You rubbed his length slower than you humped him. Nevertheless, you encouraged your bones to keep going. Jack watched your chest rise and fall more rapidly every minute that passed. It used to take no time for him to get you to the finish line but with time, that changed.

Your needs changed. He’d been rough, gentle, and everything in between but it varied from day to day what was needed.

This… this was working wonders.

“You feel so good,” you whined. “F-fuck me.”

“I will, be patient.” Jack’s head dipped to your neck where he nipped at your skin. He pressed kisses into the column of your neck and moved his hands back to the counter for support.

“Tell me if it’s too much Jack,” you said shakily. “I’m not going to leave you hurting.”

“You could take my other leg and it would hurt less than you stopping.”

“Jack,” you said seriously and hesitated moving again.

“Did I say you could stop?”

Jack lifted his head to look you in the eyes. You were taken aback by the boldness—you aren’t sure he’s ever said that before. Your mouth, against your heaving breaths, fell open into a small O.

“Did I,” he repeated, “tell you that you could stop?”

“N-no,” you sputtered.

“I know you’re close.”

“So? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” he assured. “But if you don’t get moving, my fucking erection is gonna hurt from not blowing my load into you.”

“Romantic,” you muttered dryly. “You’re not gonna fuck me if I stop? What happened to thinking about me all day?”

Jack moved his thigh instead and your chest stuttered.

“I told you that you need to finish first,” he nearly demanded. He said your name resolutely. “You gotta move, baby. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen if you’re not moving.”

You tested the waters and realized that it only jolted you back into place.

“You’re kind of mean, do you know that?”

“Something new.” He kissed your cheek. “Does it work?”

“A little.”

“Good.” He helped you pick the pace back up.

Not thirty seconds later, his hands left yours and pinched the back of his scrub top. He lifted it up and over his head before taking his tee off too.

“Does seeing these help?” He asked honestly about his pecks and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” Jack’s eyes matched the furrow in his brow. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you chuckled. He was so sweet.

You placed a hand on his cheek and rubbed your thumb over his skin softly. “You’re just so damn charming.”

“And you’re everything,” he replied.

“Yeah?”

He nodded and brought your hand from his face to the dip where his abs started.

“What’s everything?” You asked.

He didn’t even have to think. “You’re beautiful,” he started, “and kind. You’re always the most pleasant person in the room even when you’re a little bit bitchy. You take care of me when I need it the most and even when I don’t, you’re always there.”

Your head shook in agreement but Jack knew that’s not what it was. You were close. Hearing what he loved about you was sending your body into overdrive and the hand that was still on his cock loosened from distraction.

“You’re so good at your job and everyone loves you. But I love you the most, I think. Pretty sure on that one. And you’re so sexy. So, so, so fucking sexy that I can barely keep my hands to myself every time we’re in the same room. Your body is magnificent. Just a fucking smoke show of a wife.”

Your lips fought a smile.

“And I think you really want to come on me. I can see it, baby. I know you want to. You can do it. I’ve got you.”

“Yeah?” It sounded near pathetic coming out of your mouth.

“Yeah,” he affirmed. “Don’t stop, baby. Don’t fucking stop. I wanna watch you.”

Jack’s hand grasped your chin tightly. He locked eyes with you, never letting you out of his sight. His head nodded up and down as you whined and then shook once, twice, and wrapped your hands onto his arm as tight as a vice.

The lights seemed to flash brightly inside of you and your hips jolted against him.

“There you go,” Jack tutted. “There you go. Good fucking girl.”

“Oh what the fuck, Jack.” You stated. Your head dipped into his chest. “Good girl? Shit.”

“You like that one?” You could hear the smile in his tone.

“You know I fucking do.”

“Do you know what I like?” Jack asked you and helped lift your head. “Hm?”

“The idea that you’re gonna fuck me into the counter now?”

“No,” he shook his head. “You.”

“You’re so cheesy. You’re the cheesiest person I think I know.”

Jack scrunched his nose and ran his hands up your sides as your leg fell to the floor and you slumped against the counter.

“It’s a cute cheesy, right?”

“A hot cheesy. Like a Philly Cheesesteak kind of hot.”

“Disrespectful to Pittsburgh, but okay.”

Jack guided you to turn around. He helped slip off your robe before discarding it onto the counter so it didn’t get dirty on the floor. His hands went to the waist band of your shorts before sliding them down and palming your ass for the sake of it.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked softly. He guided his body to slot against yours.

He was as hard as rock from just watching you dry hump his goddamn thigh.

“Yeah,” you sighed in. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Jack’s hand lightly slapped one cheek.

You backed up, leant forward onto the counter and having spread your legs enough to where he whistled at the view.

“Honey,” he swooned. “Why haven’t we done this sooner?”

“We usually don’t have sex when you walk through the door.”

“We might have to from now on.”

Jack lowered his scrub pants and pumped himself from balls to head as he zoned in on your glistening pussy from behind. One hand glided to your hips to position you right, his good foot nudging you closed just enough.

“I don’t know if I’m gonna be nice, baby.” Jack huffed low. “I’m still pretty fuckin’ pissed inside.”

You pushed closer to him. “And I’ll tell you if I don’t like it.”

“Such a good girl,” he praised. His cock lined up nicely. Jack guided his tip along your folds and closed his eyes at the sensation of it mixing with you. “I think I told you that? Right?” He suddenly couldn’t remember.

“Drunk on it already?” Jack’s hand ran up your back as he began to sink in.

Both of you lost words at the feeling. It was always like this—and you’re relieved that never changed. Jack fit inside of you like a hand in a glove. He was made for you, if that was a possible thing to manifest. Enveloped in your warmth, Jack let out a loud reset sigh with a satisfactory moan.

“Fuck. You feel so good.”

“Give me a minute,” you told him as your forehead fell against your arms on the counter.

Even if Jack fit you well, he was still big. You didn’t engage in this position much. It wasn’t practical 90% of the time with how much you’re both on your feet, plus it wasn’t the most comfortable setting. No one wants marble countertops digging into their stomach and arms. No one wants to be standing for however long it takes to come.

But when lust overtakes the both of you, it’s impossible to think of the consequences down the line.

“You’re good, baby,” he encouraged. Jack’s palms cupped your hips and sides.

“Okay,” you were ready. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Jack tested it by pulling out a fraction and slowly going back in. “Sure?”

“Positive.”

Jack thrusted in and out carefully the first few times before gradually snapping his hips harder. The grasp on your waist tightened, fingers telling you that his upset hadn’t disappeared completely and it was rapidly creating a mask of attention diverting from you.

You felt his cock deeper every time. He was hitting you in the spot that made you see stars; head lulling back to your arms and up to the window, the early morning blues and greens meaning nothing when all you could focus on was Jack’s thrusts impairing your senses.

“Baby,” he said out of breath. “Give me your hand.”

You wordlessly obeyed and slid one of your hands back where he grabbed it fast. His hand entwined with yours and now pulling your shoulder back too, he picked up his pace further. Harder, all consuming where the thoughts were truly lost. Jack’s hips slammed into your ass and the sound of his cock pushing into your ecstasy made your eyes roll. His growls came at a close second.

“Shit.”

The words came spewing out of Jack’s mouth the closer he became.

“Fuck.”

“You feel so fucking good, baby,” he gasped when your walls squeezed uncontrollably. “Oh, just like that. Yeah… you’re taking me so well. Your pussy feels so fucking good.”

You let out a meek sound of disbelief.

“Oh my God, Jack.”

“I know,” he hissed. He repeated your name like a prayer.

His cock was immensely hard and he pounded into you just as much. You’d surely have a bruise or two on your arms, but it wasn’t something you were peeved about. Jack wasn’t hurting you. He would never hurt you.

“Fuck,” he gritted through his teeth. “I’m not gonna last long baby.”

“Neither am I,” you replied just as lost.

A follow up orgasm was on your horizon. Jack’s cock clipped your clit, sliding out of you for a moment of reprieve before he recorrected and pushed on. He never let go of your hand.

“I love you so much.”

You bit your cheek. “I love you, Jack.”

“I don’t think you know how much I love you,” he grunted. His hips shuddered. “I love you so goddamn much. You’re just fuckin’ perfect. My perfect fucking wife—that’s right, my fucking wife.”

The hand he held onto was your left. He would never get over the feeling of your ring on his skin.

“Oh you have no idea.” He sighed loudly.

“Come with me, Jack,” you begged him.

You were so close again. You squeezed your muscles around him, relishing the way it made his effort slow just enough for a moan to escape his lips.

“I’m right there.” Jack was starting to lose the rhythm.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned, feeling the precipice hit you again and making your legs quake in the process. You were suddenly overstimulated by the feeling and whined loudly as he chased his high.

“I’m there,” Jack repeated like a mantra. “I’m there, I’m there, baby—shit. F-fuck baby—”

Jack’s hand slipped from your grip and his hands planted themselves on your back as he rutted to stillness. His finish pushed into you with every thrust after it was over and he began to calm down his racing heart. The rush of his hands on your back soothed the overstimulation that continued to shake your legs.

Jack shushed you sweetly as he stayed buried inside.

“What the hell, Jack,” you mumbled almost incoherently into your arms.

He laughed but continued to rub your back. Around where his cock was softening, he felt a slow release of his ejaculation coming back and drip onto the floor between your feet.

He’d clean it up later.

“You okay?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you were still catching your breath. “I just don’t think I need my coffee anymore.”

“No?” Jack asked amused.

“Wake me up fully like this everyday and maybe I won’t ever need it again.”

His hands gave one more appreciative swipe at your body before he gently removed himself for you and you could stand up straight again. Jack tucked himself back into his scrubs and then helped you back into your shorts and robe.

Your dazed eyes met his.

Christ. You simply loved him… maybe a little too much.

A/N: shawn doing a quinn app story maybe MAYBE inspired the fact this takes place in the kitchen. MAYBE. like probably greater than 99%.

You hiss softly. It was already embarrassing enough that you both are going to be late to your own sister-in-law baby shower. But now you’re sure jack is patronizing you for buying some last-minute gifts, holding up nipple cream like it’s a crate of strawberries. 

“Put that back.”

“What! That’s genuinely what I hear.” 

Jack is a menace when you have to shop together, he’s almost as bad as a child. He’s looking up and down at the walls and then kicking imaginary rocks, bored out of his mind while you try to find last minute ideas from the registry.

There’s a nice felt organizer with handles in your cart. Some candy, and a tiny sound machine right next to it. You’re really going all out to be the best aunt. 

You throw in some pink and green pacifiers in before taking the cart and turning the corner to a plethora of baby clothes on racks.

“You— go over there and find some onesies, I’ll get socks and shoes.” 

Jack almost rolls his eyes. He stops in place and turns around to do what you said though. It’s clear he doesn’t really like stressful shopping (dose anyone?) but he’s doing it for you. 

Your eyes turn to the wall of little socks and shoes. At first it’s overwhelming, so many different choices and prices. But when you take a step closer you have to breath in deep, slow down. Stick with the pick and green color scheme and buy whatever’s cutest. Your wallet can cry later. 

There are tiny Mary janes front And center with a huge bow at the buckle, there’s so tiny to the point where you just want to coo “awww” at them all day long. 

There are other baby sized knock off converse. As if a baby would need something that fashionable, but it’s an adorable thought. 

The shoes are tiny. You can fit them into the palm of your hand and still have room to move around. It's almost unbelievable to picture a person so tiny, so pliant, and so uncaring.

You think about what it would be like if you had a life like that. A nursery to pick the colors of or small clothes to swoon over. And then of course a baby to actually dress, smooth skin and even smoother hair. But you couldn’t have any of that without Jack. 

There’s no one you’d rather have a baby with besides Jack. He’s your ride or die now, you’ve known each other too long to ever break up now. Not that you’d ever want to. Jack is as sweet as the last white blood cell in his body. He’d sacrifice everything for you so why not you him? 

You wouldn’t give him up just to have a baby. While the thought is appealing, a tiny, hardly controllable ball of flesh in his big arms. It’s hardly unlikely. 

And age— was only half the problem. Most people have kids around thirty, twenty— if they’re eager and forty at the latest. But fifty? At that point you should already have a sassy teenager daughter, or kids getting their first house. You can’t be seventy and go in to get an eye exam just to help your kids with homework. 

It’s not the matter of if Jack can have kids. It’s the matter of if he even wants them. 

You feel a tap on your shoulder and then immediately turn around. Jack looks at you with all wide eyes and white curls, he’s holding a few baby outfits by the hanger but mostly looking at you. 

“Where’d you go?” He asked softly. 

“Huh?” 

“You seemed out of it.” 

You shake your head, it doesn’t matter. You won’t let the extremely smallchance that Jack actually wants a baby to cloud your judgement of reality. And reality is guys don’t want to take care of children at fifty. 

“Honey. What the hell are these?” 

“They’re baby clothes!” 

“There’s a theme. We’re sticking with a theme and these are so ugly.” 

Jack picked out two sets of three onesies on a hanger. One just all solid colors— which were nice, but didn’t match with the color scheme, and then the other set with silly words on them. 

“These are terrible.” You laminate.

“What! You didn’t like ‘party at my crib later?’ That’s peak comedy sweetheart.” 

You roll your eyes, putting the baby onesies on the closest hanger and heading further into the thick Cotten baby clothes forest. 

“This is what we’re looking for.” 

You pick up a beautiful set of three onesie’s on a hanger. A cream colored one with strawberries all over it. A pink outfit with the words berry sweet printed on, and one with pretty flowery pastel green fabric. 

“See? All exceptional, I’d even consider that one with the jacket if you brought it to me.” 

“Fucks sake, would you be this picky with our kid?” 

His words meet your ears and then travel through your brain. It’s just an off-handed snarky comment but it fills your head with hope. 

“What?” You whisper out softly and plant the baby clothes you picked out in the cart. 

Jack hesitates; he thinks maybe he crossed a line. You don’t talk about children a lot and hell you’re dating him, an older guy. So he might be under the impression you just don’t want any. 

“Too much?” Jack rubs the back of his neck and you shake your head. 

“No— just, why would you say that?” 

“Sorry, guess it just slipped. Do you not think about it?” 

“I do.” 

Jack blinked in surprise. He’s seen you watch those silly nesting videos, or better alternatives to strollers. But he always thought it was for you to relay back to family or friends, never for future reference. 

“Really?” 

You look offended. “Yeah, really. Do you?” 

“Yeah.” 

And then your nose scrunched, like you don’t believe he can have baby fantasy’s too. 

“Woah— what the fuck was that?” 

“What the fuck was what?” 

“That little.” He gestured to your nose. “You think I’m lying?” 

“No.” 

You start to move the cart to a new section, like you’re a little embarrassed he caught your doubting. But Jack catches the handle of the cart to stop you, and he looks down into your eyes. 

“Then why’d you do that?” His bright brown eyes explore yours, his forehead pinched in confusion and you want to sooth that wrinkle before he thinks too hard. “You think I can’t have kids? Because I’ll have you know— fifty is not the cut off age. The sperm just gradually decreases slowly and—“ 

“I know.”  You cut him off before he can give you a whole lecture about fertility treatments in Walmart. “No, I just thought—“ 

You run a hand through your hair, letting out a little sigh. It seemed silly now that he had just admitted it to you he does want kids, and he thinks about it. Probably when at work and tired moms come in with feverish baby’s. 

“I don’t know…I just didn’t think you’d want to go to college graduations at sixty or something.” 

“That’s the best time to go.” 

A smile creeps up on your face as Jack slings an arm about your shoulder, he’s pressing a kiss to your forehead and then squeezing you tight. 

“Of course I want kids with you. No matter how old I get, I want the experience. Our baby would be beautiful just like you.” 

The thought is sickeningly sweet, suddenly there’s excitement that fills your body. You can dream about cribs and nursery colors freely now without the daunting thought that you might never have a kid float away. 

“And you know, if I die at seventy, let’s say the kids eighteen? At least they’ll inherit a nice chunk of cheese from me.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

Jack shrugs, though the thought is very real. There’s much to talk about. Like what the future holds and both your ideas of children. But not in the middle of Walmart and not when— 

“Shit. We’re gonna be late.” 

You quickly fumble to find a nice pastel-colored jacket and maybe some appropriate new born pjs. Honestly, you should just get a thing of diapers and get going. 

“This whole ‘best aunt’ thing really isn’t working out for you huh?” 

“I can be a bad aunt, as long as I’m a good mom.”

And Jack really likes the sound of that. 

"Shen, what the fuck, man?" Jack practically shouts into his phone as he paces back and forth in the bathroom.

"What's wrong? Shouldn't you be on your date?"

"Why the hell do you think I'm calling? You set me up with a child."

"She's 25, or 26? Somewhere around there. The spin studio we go to is adults only."

"A child, Shen. Born this century."

"Did you at least talk to her? She's really nice and super cute."

"If she's so nice and cute, Johnathan, why aren't you on this date instead?"

"Because she's born the same year as my baby sister and that's just weird."

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose while he leans against the sink, "Shen. She's a two decades younger than my baby sister, how do you think that makes me feel?"

"Exactly. So much younger that it circles back into being okay."

"That is not at all how that works. I'm putting you on abscess duty."

"No you're not I'm an attending now, you can't hurt me anymore," he laughs, "Just go out there and have one conversation with her. She's been texting me this whole time and if it makes you feel better she also has her reservations but she's willing to give it a shot. If you hate it then you can both just leave."

"I was married to an age appropriate woman, you know."

"And that is relevant in this moment, how?"

"It's not, I just need to remind myself that I'm not a pervert before I go out there."

"Atta boy!"

Jack hangs up.

He takes a minute to collect himself before heading back out. After all, his mother would kill him for abandoning you - after she killed him for dating someone half his age.

"Sorry about that," he smiles, sitting back down in his seat across from, "I was just checking in with Shen - John - to see if there was a mixup on account of the...you know age thing."

"I was doing the same thing, don't worry," you smile back at him, "I know PTMC is a teaching hospital so when he said he was setting me up with a coworker I thought he meant like a resident my age, or a nurse or something."

"John is an excellent physician but occasionally he does things that make me question how he manages to find his way out of bed every morning."

"See, I know John is a doctor, but I've seen him fall out of the stationary bike on three separate occasions so I just don't believe you when you say that."

Jack nods, he can picture it happening clear in his mind, "I believe it. I've seen him run himself over with a gurney - which is fairly difficult to do, by the way. But I will take it as a compliment that he thought I'd be in the same league as such a pretty young thing like yourself."

"I feel like you're selling yourself short, dude, you're hot as hell. And I don't mean 'for your age' I mean hot, period."

Jack sputters, feeling his face heat up, "Oh you don't have to say that just 'cause I'm sitting here."

"I'm not," you take a sip of your drink, smirking at him over the rim, "Those two women at the bar have been side eyeing us the whole time. I think they're waiting for me to get up."

Jack doesn't dare turn his head, "Yeah? Think they're jealous of you?"

"I would be. Probably hard to find guys with full heads of hair in their age demographic," Jack laughs at that, "And here I am being greedy."

"I'm starting to see why Shen said I'd like you."

You lean forward, "So, Jack, should I get up and let them shoot their shot?"

He will admit, he only knows what that means because most of the night shift nursing staff is young.

Jack heard your footsteps coming down the hall before he saw you. Sitting on the couch, a newspaper crossword and pen in hand, and a morning coffee across from him, he was spending his day off in all the quiet leisure he could. Perhaps later you two would go out for dinner, or catch an afternoon movie, but for now he was content. You rounded the couch, your hand tracing his shoulders as you did.

“Jack, do you know where my sweater is?” You asked sweetly, leaning on the arm of the couch.

He looked up from his page, shoulders softening under your still present touch. “Which one?”

“The green one.”

Jack gave you a look. “You mean my green sweater?”

You just smiled. “You hardly wear it.”

“Because someone stole it away…”

“So you stole it back? That's just mean.”

“I was doing a dark load this morning so I tossed it in the wash,” he hummed, looking at his paper again.

You groaned, dropping into the couch beside him. His arm easily wrapped over your shoulder, bringing you into his coffee scented warmth. “But now it won't smell like you.”

He raised a brow, lips softening into the kind of smile that always made your chest tighten.

“I have other sweaters, sweetheart.”

“The green one is the coziest.”

“Well it needed a wash. It was getting musky.”

“Yes, but it was your musk. I love your musk.” 

As if to emphasize your point, you pushed your face into his t-shirt, giving an exaggerated sniff. A small laugh rippled under your forehead, his chest buzzing with amusement. His hand brushed along your nape, tracing up and around your ear.

“I'm sorry, baby, but you'll just have to wait a little while for the green one.” He stroked your back as you sighed into his chest. “My Steelers sweater is on the back of the bedroom door, though.”

“I don't endorse sports, you know that,” you murmured, eyes meeting his in that teasing way he knew all too well from you.

He leaned in conspiratorially. “It hasn't been washed in maybe a week and a half.”

“Go team go,” you said, head perking up. You hurried onto your feet and to the bedroom.

He smiled and gently shook his head, flattening out the newspaper again. Fifteen seconds later you came padding down the hall again, snuggled into his Steelers sweater. He folded you into his side again when you got to the couch.

“Is it up to your standards?” He asked as he gave you a comfortably casual kiss to your temple.

You put your nose into the collar and breathed. “Perfect musk level.”

An exhale and a smile was his response, his arm tucking you closer. 

..........

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment if you want to read more, I really appreciate the feedback! If you want to request a fic for The Pitt, right now I will write for Abbot and Robby, so please feel free to send in an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

You sat beside Titus on the Danforth private jet. Across from you sat Ursula's assistant, Marissa, and Ursula right beside her. You and Marissa were coordinating the twins' schedules.

"You have the luncheon?" Marissa asks as she scrolls on her laptop, typing away, highlighting important time slots.

You nod, tapping away at your tablet, "The one with Barazzi?" You look up at the woman across from you. Her brunette hair tied up in a bun. She was donning a light blue cardigan, white blouse, and black slacks. You wore a white tank top with dark blue slacks. Titus' jacket over your lap as a blanket.

She looks up and nods, "Yes. Careful with him. His hands tend to...wander when you get too close," Marissa shudders and you grimace.

"Ugh. Okay, noted."

Titus leans in and murmurs into your ear, "You tell me if he touches you and I'll have him dealt with."

Ursula rolls her eyes, "He's our business partner, Titus"

Your boss shrugs, "So? He touches her and I'll make sure he doesn't have any more hands to touch her with."

You place a hand on Titus' arm, "That's unnecessary, but thank you, sir. I don't think I'll attend that luncheon anyway."

Titus immediately turns to you, "Why?" confusion written all over his face.

You shrug, "You don't need me there."

"Yes, I do. What if I forget something?"

"Ursula will be there." You gesture to the woman diagonal from you.

"I need you for emotional support."

You snort, "What am I, a dog?"

Titus smirks, "Well, you come whenever I call, don't you?"

You roll your eyes, "You basically just called me a bitch." You shake your head, "And no. I won't be attending. I already made a reservation to spend that time at the spa. I've been meaning to relax."

"Do I stress you out?" he asks with a teasing grin.

"Yes," you answer with a deadpan expression. You turn back to Marissa and see her trying to hold back laughter. You let out a deep breath, "Rissa, let's coordinate the schedules over here without any interruptions," you eye Titus and he looks at you with a smirk and a shrug.

Ursula shakes her head to herself as you and her assistant stand and move towards the seats in the back. Ursula then takes up the seat beside Titus, "You really need to rein it in, Titus."

"Rein what in?"

"Your infatuation with Y/N. She's your assistant for fuck's sake. Can you be any more stereotypical?"

"At least I'm not banging the nanny like dad did."

"Still. She's your employee. Do better," she hisses and rises from the seat, waltzing towards you and Marissa.

______________________________

You and Titus would be sharing a suite while Ursula and Marissa would be sharing another suite. Titus takes the bigger room, obviously. It's nothing new. Your room is down the hall from Titus'. It's slightly smaller but still significantly bigger than a regular hotel room.

You're quick to unpack your things, not wanting your clothes to form any wrinkles. Titus walks in as you're hanging up your outfits.

"Cocktail hour starts at five, right?"

"Yes, so I suggest you start brushing up on the notes I made for you, sir," you gesture to the desk where your tablet and several notecards are spread out.

You leave Titus to his own devices while you continue to unpack. You arrange your outfits in accordance to the day and what the plans are. You set your various heels, sandals, and shoes on the shelves below the racks. When you pull out your undergarments, Titus is right there beside you.

He snatches one of your thongs. He rubs the black lace between his fingers, "This a pair I got you?"

You yank the fabric out of his hands, "No, because I never kept any of those things you got me."

He pouts, "Why not?"

"Because it's inappropriate and I've told you, I have enough as it is."

He scowls. For years he's bought you various items of accessories and clothing as a thank you. You've kept everything except any lingerie he's bought for you. It's the one thing you refuse to accept and it drives him up the wall. He wants you to keep all of his gifts, but those ones especially.

Is it because he hopes you think of him whenever you wear them? Maybe. Is it also because it scratches the itch of possessiveness he has over you, loving the idea that you'd be wearing such an intimate item of clothing that he bought for you? Probably.

But you've always been very strong willed. And that's something Titus loves and hates about you. Because despite his persistence, you still don't budge.

_______________________

Titus was grumpy as soon as he woke up this morning. He was being a childish piece of shit. He tried to hide your tablet, he threw some of your clothes off the balcony. He made you call room-service several times because apparently he suddenly hated the breakfast he usually likes to have.

All because you wouldn't be with him at the luncheon with him.

You knew he could behave this way some times. He'd act out like an upset toddler when he couldn't get what he wanted. He's done it a handful of times since you started working with him. But like all the other times, just because he acts out doesn't mean you give in. So, before you left for your spa appointment, you reminded Titus of what should be discussed at the luncheon. Titus continued to pout on the couch in the living room.

You rolled your eyes, "You better fix this attitude because if it continues when you're at lunch, you know Ursula is going to bitch at you," you grabbed your things and walked out of the suite without another word.

____________________

Titus didn't speak much during the luncheon. He answered a few questions Barazzi had, but he left it up for Ursula a majority of the time. When Barazzi wasn't looking, she gave him a stern look, which he rolled his eyes at.

Eventually, Barazzi excused himself to the bathroom.

"Grow the fuck up!" Ursula hisses across the table to Titus.

"Or fucking what? You're handling things fine! I didn't need to be here!"

"We're supposed to be working together. Dad wanted us to oversee everything and make sure our investors are happy with the progress. If you piss Barazzi off and he pulls out, it's on you!"

"Fuck this!" Titus grumbles. He stands up and walks away from the table whilst Ursula whisper shouts for him to come back.

He doesn't.

Instead, he goes back to the sweet, hoping that maybe your spa appointment ended early or got cancelled. He calls for your name and doesn't hear a reply or patter of your feet.

He frowns and goes down the hall to your room, "Angel?" he calls out his usual nickname for you as he pushes open your door.

The room is empty, no sign of you or that you've been back in the suite. Titus frowns and is ready to back out of the room until something catches his eye. He sees the familiar black lace again, peaking out from your laundry bag.

He knows the the suite is empty, but he calls out for you again, "Angel, you in here?" he looks around in the room, back out into the hall. You're definitely not back yet.

Titus moves further into the room and stops at the laundry bag where you discard your clothes. The lace garment taunts him as it hangs from the edge. He slowly reaches out rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He gulps as he slowly lifts the garment. He lays it in his hand and he stares at it.

You wore this. It's so thin and hardly provides any kind of protective layer. When could you have worn-

Two days ago. You were wearing a deep red dress during dinner with the investors. It wasn't completely form fitting, but definitely did hug you more around the waist and ass area. He's certain you wore it then. That was also the night where you denied advances from one of the younger investors, claimed that Titus kept you too busy for you to have a personal life.

It's somewhat of a lie. Yes, Titus makes sure he takes up a lot of your time, however, when you ask for some time off, he does grant it to you...most of the time.

He brings the lace up to his face and he takes in long inhale, "Fuck," he mumbles to himself. He can actually smell you, smell your pussy and...it's fucking intoxicating.

Titus feels himself hardening with every whiff, every inhale. He immediately sits at the edge of your bed and undoes his pants. He pulls his length out and begins slow strokes.

He closes his eyes and his imagination takes over.

You're on your knees before him in only that black lace thong. You run your tongue up his length and suck at the tip. He grits his teeth, imagining how soft your lips would be around him. He imagines your head bobbing up and down his length. Your eyes staring up at his as you pleasure him.

He imagines one of your hands sliding into those lace panties, touching yourself. The thought of you getting off from giving him head...fuck.

The scene changes in his head. You're now laying on your back for him in the very bed he sits. You watch him in a lustful gaze as he slides those panties off you. Your legs easily fall open to him.

He imagines your pretty pussy, wet and waiting for him. He teases your entrance, sliding in just the tip and then pulling out, sliding in-between your slit.

"Titus, please," you beg and shit do you sound so pretty, begging for his cock, his name falling from your lips.

"I hear you, Angel. Such a good girl for me," he murmurs as he enters you.

He imagines how snug you must feel. So perfect around his cock. Titus loses himself in the fantasy. For fuck's sake, you'd be his undoing. He's fucking you so good that all you can say is his name.

His hand is working himself hard and fast now. He feels his orgasm building up and imaginary you is rambling off at him.

"Cum for me, Titus."

"Give it to me. I wanna feel you in me all day."

"You feel so fucking good. Want your cock. Only your cock."

"I love you, Titus."

That's what brings him over the edge. He's cumming over his hand and onto his pants with your panties pressed into his face. He's groaning, stomach convulsing at how hard this orgasm is hitting him.

When it subsides, he falls back onto your bed with a groan. Your panties still remain in his hand. He turns to it and shouts, "Fuck!"

He's quick to tuck himself back in. He marches into the en suite bathroom and washes his cum off his hands. He goes back into the bedroom and smooths out the duvet of the bed, making sure nothing is out of place.

He takes your underwear and walks it over to your laundry bag. He holds it over and pauses. A part of him wants to keep it. Surely you won't miss it. You have plenty more from what you've mentioned before.

No. He shouldn't.

He drops it into the laundry bag and immediately retreats to his own room where he takes a bone chilling shower to ease his body and mind.

______________________

When Titus emerges from his room now freshened up, you're just now entering the suite. You're wrapped in a dark blue fluffy robe, part of your bikini peeks through and Titus has to avert his eyes immediately.

"How'd the luncheon go?"

He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs, "I left in the middle of it."

You sigh and shake your head, "What? You-" you pinch the bridge of your nose, "What happened?"

"Ursula and I got into an argument. I was tired of it so I left."

"Mister Danforth-"

"I'm sure my sister did fine without me."

"And if she didn't?"

Titus scoffs, "You clearly don't understand my sister."

You clench your fists and take a deep breath, "I'm going to call Marissa and see how things went. If anything, I will call Barazzi and apologize on your behalf. I'll say you weren't feeling well or something."

He waves it off, "Fine, whatever. Did you enjoy your time at the spa?"

"Yes. I feel rejuvenated and less tense. The masseuse was able to get rid a lot of knots I had."

Titus' eyes narrows, "Was your masseuse a man?"

"You don't need to know that," you give him a pointed look.

"Fine. I'll be at the bar if you need me," he says as he pasts you, getting a whiff of lavender.