Baby Honey

(Y/N) remembered exactly when she got the email confirmation. 

She was in the middle of printing off a million copies at the printer for her boss when she felt her phone buzz. Any other time, she might just let it go, she’s working, but this felt important. (Y/N) knew what it was as soon as she read over the subject line. 

It was such a relief. Finding the place she did, during the time of year it was. She was just really hoping it wasn’t a scam. Her application was squeaky clean and the only reason she was even looking for a place to stay was because of her ex. The bastard. 

Really, it was just their time. Moving in together was a rushed decision but it was too late because all of her things were already neatly arranged beside Lucas’s and while that should’ve been a red flag, she didn’t bother mentioning it. They were good, she had a place to stay, someone who cared about her enough, there was no reason to complain and make everything complicated for everyone. She just tried to be grateful. 

The house was move-in ready. It had three bedrooms, a big backyard, a decent front porch, a fireplace, and its own washer and dryer. It was much more spacious than the tiny apartment she's been sharing with Lucas. It was a one bedroom in a tall building and none of the windows had a view. It felt like a prison sometimes even when she tried really hard to make it feel like a home. Despite her efforts, it never did. It just felt like a place she came to sleep and that was pretty much it. The new place, from what she can tell from the pictures, will be such a change from what she's been used to for the past three years. 

Lucas was nice enough to let her stick around while she found a new place. That didn't mean it wasn't awkward though. She would normally spend the night at her friend's but when that wasn't possible, she slept on the couch in the living room. He did offer up the bed, but she didn't want to get too far into his personal space since it was technically his apartment now. 

It took a month. It was grueling. And it caused her a lot of stress, trying to find something affordable and something that wasn't terribly far from her job. She ended up setting up an account on one of those roommate matching sites. There was no way she would've been able to pay for something on her own. Most of her friends either had their own place or roommates already. And the last thing she wanted to do was be a bother. So, she decided that matching with a stranger on the internet and at least being able to have her own space and bed couldn’t be worse than half-living out of her ex's apartment. The website guaranteed that everyone had been vetted with background checks and a whole list of other things that she barely skimmed over while hurrying to fill out the application on her lunch break last week. 

It felt like her only option. Just like when she moved in with Lucas in the first place. But she wouldn't let this time be a mistake. She got to put in several traits and lifestyle habits so that they could match her with someone who was similar. It felt simple. She would get matched with someone she was compatible with and there should be no issues at all. 

But if there is anything that (Y/N) knows for certain, it's that most things are never as good as they seem. With this though, she wants to be optimistic. She doesn't have to be fearful that she'll be matched with a roommate from hell. Or at least, she shouldn't be preparing herself for that. This has to be a good thing. A fresh start, a new beginning. 

She quickly pressed confirm, half-reading the email from the site, and shoved her phone back in her pocket once the printer stopped. Then, she hurried back to her desk with a stack of paper taller than her, feeling so very relieved that all this stress can be lifted from her shoulders. 

Lucas hovered the whole time she was packing her things for the last time. 

Like there was something he wanted to say. But (Y/N) really didn't want to have a heart to heart with him when she was leaving tomorrow. He wasn't going to change her mind either, if that was what he was going to attempt to do. He just watched, standing off to the side with a look on his face she was doing her best to ignore. 

Nothing between them went wrong. He felt more like a friend now if anything. Maybe she outgrew him. She's not sure but nothing is the same as it was. It was time, plain and simple. 

"Do you even know if that's a real website or not? Did you check the reviews or—"

"Of course, I did." She didn't in too much depth, but she did know that it was the better of the other roommate matching sites. "I already have her name and everything." That bit was true…ish. She only had a first initial and a last name, but that was good enough for her situation. 

There was an option for them to meet beforehand, after they'd been matched, but it was seeming like this was a rush for both of them, so she didn't mind skipping over that if it meant she could get off the couch in Lucas's living room. She'd have to go shopping for a new bed as soon as possible and whatever else she'd need for a room to herself would come in time. A bed of her own was all she cared to have right now. 

"Did you even talk to her? What if she's like, the worst or something? You can always come back if you need to." He stepped a few steps closer and she turned to him, tossing the shirt she was in the middle of folding on the bed. 

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm going to be just fine. It's really not your place to even care." (Y/N) could tell that hit him a little harder than she meant to, but it was true. She wasn't going to be worried about anything that Lucas was up to as soon as she shut the door behind her. 

He was very agreeable when she told him about breaking up, so she's not sure why he's feeling differently now that she's actually leaving. It has her a little suspicious, honestly. Like he didn't think she was really going to move out, but he wanted to break up? It confuses her, but she doesn't question it and hopes that he stops his worrying. 

"Fine. But you can move back in if things don't work out. Just call me." He offered once more before leaving his spot in front of her to go back to the living room. 

Her eyes rolled and she went back to folding the shirt she'd dropped a second ago. 

Tomorrow was Saturday and officially move-in day. She didn't have much to bring with her, so she didn't have to bother her friends to help her move all her things. It was really just clothes she had. Everything else, furniture-wise she was leaving for Lucas. This was a fresh start. She didn't want anything that reminded her of her time here. Not that it was bad, she only wanted a change of scenery. And with the way he's acting now, makes her want to forfeit her last night in their used-to-be-shared apartment. She wanted to call Raven and beg to spend the night there. 

She shot her quick text once she zipped her second suitcase shut. Raven responded with a few laughing emojis before telling her that she was welcome anytime. And that if she needed any help getting out, or if Lucas was being difficult, she'd be there in an instant. (Y/N) was hoping it didn't come to that, but she had a slight feeling that it was possible. Especially with how he'd been acting so far. 

Lucas caught her in the middle of a chuckle at Raven's texts and that same look overtook his face. Like he was a scared puppy who was afraid of getting kicked. She didn't feel bad for him, it just made things even more awkward and made her even more eager to get away from him. 

"I made dinner." 

"Oh." He'd never picked up a pot or a pan or anything the entire three years they lived here and now he's made dinner all of a sudden? "Raven's on her way to help me get my things now." She fibbed, quickly typing off a message telling her to be en route because this was just getting to be too much. 

"You don't move in until tomorrow. You're leaving now?" His voice switched to the whiny tone that she hated, but she tried not to show her irritation. She didn't know what he'd do at this point and she really didn't like the direction it was going. 

"Yep." She kept it short and pulled her stuffed suitcase from the bed and rolled it to the side so she could collect her other bags before she had to rush out. She grabbed the duffel bag and started toward the front door, dragging one of the suitcases behind her. Once those were placed by the door, she went back to the bedroom to gather the rest of her things. Lucas was still standing where he'd been when she slipped past him. Like he couldn’t believe she was leaving now. She really didn't know why he was making it a big deal, as if she wasn't going to leave the next day or something. But she was going to ignore that too and continue collecting her things so she'd be ready for Raven to come help her with her bags. One trip was the limit. She didn't want to have to come back. Not anytime soon, anyway. 

"We can have dinner first?" He followed her to the door this time, trailing behind her with a pitiful look on his face. "Just tell her to come in an hour and we can sit down one last time." 

"She's already on her way, Lucas. It's okay. Some other time." She waved him off, doing one last scan of the area to make sure she wasn't leaving anything behind that she really, really needed. 

"Okay. Can I help you with your bags at least?" So insistent. (Y/N) didn't know how else to word it. She's not sure why he's feeling so responsible for her when it was the opposite when they were together. But she nodded anyway. Maybe after this he'd leave her alone for good. 

"Fine. But hurry, she'll be here any minute." 

Just as Raven was pulling to the curb, Lucas was stopping beside her with her suitcase in tow. (Y/N) is hoping that this will be the easiest part of leaving because so far he's made it kind of difficult. 

Raven was out of her car the second she put it in park, walking around to stand next to her. 

"Ready to go?" She smiled, shooting Lucas a look as she assessed the situation between them. It probably wasn't hard to see that (Y/N) is practically running out on him. 

"Yep. My car's right over here." She started off in the direction of the building's lot and luckily, Raven stepped in and took the bag from Lucas before he decided to tag along. Unfortunately, he did anyway. The bags were kind of heavy, but they managed while he stood there and watched, another pathetic expression covering his face. 

"Well, that's that." Raven tapped the closed lid of the trunk. "Let's get going." 

"Are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to, I have plenty of room here for you, you know. If you're doing this just because we broke up, it's okay—"

"Lucas. Please, I'm done with this conversation, goodbye." There was no nicer way to put it. He didn't understand the subliminal messages she's been sending him for the past several months. Even when they were still together. That's a big part of the reason why they didn't work out too.

"Well, aren't you going to hug me goodbye?" He hurried to say when she started toward the driver seat. 

"Lucas, seriously? Lay off. Go ahead, (Y/N). I'll follow you." Raven waited until she got in the car and Lucas stepped far enough back before getting in her car, preparing to follow her back to her apartment. 

She turned right out of the lot, not daring to look back in the rear view mirror.

*****

Raven had to work during the time (Y/N) was supposed to be moving into the new place. She kind of wanted someone to go with her, just to scope the place out and meet her new roommate, but she didn't want to interrupt Raven's routine any more than she already had in the last two months. 

So, she reassured her that she would be fine and send a text when she was settled in. It doesn't have to be scary and if things do get weird, she'll just leave. And then try to find another place in the meantime. 

She did pay a deposit, so while it wouldn't be ideal, she still would if there was anything amiss about the house or the roommate. 

The site did give the option to meet with the person before accepting and signing the lease, but (Y/N) was too desperate. She signed, not even looking over the other person's profile or anything. The house looked good, rent was decent, it was in the perfect location. There was no reason to mess that up. So, she signed and decided to worry about who she was actually living with when it came to it. Which, looking back, was probably a huge mistake, but there was nothing she could do now because she had already parked outside the house, taking a moment to look around and to take a deep breath. She'd done it. Her hard work had finally paid off. This was her home now. 

It was a two story brick building. Like it was probably a really old house before they remodeled the inside. It looked nice. The door was painted a soft green color and the shutters matched. Three steps led to the top of the porch. There wasn't much as far as decor outside. No flower pots, nothing planted beside the stairs. She supposed that would be something they could work on. To make it feel more like home. 

(Y/N) finally pushed the door open and stepped out. The longer she waited, the longer she'd have until she could get settled in and meet her new roommate. She really, really hoped for the best. 

She knocked, one bag on her shoulder and the other beside her on the porch. She took another breath right as she heard movement on the other side of the door. Then, it opened.

And…it really was the last thing she expected. 

A man, appearing to be very unpleasant about her presence on the front porch, looked her head to toe, and then asked, "Can I help you?" 

It took (Y/N) a second because of his tone alone, like she was bothering him. Like opening the door for her was the last thing he ever wanted to do. She tried to compose herself. 

"Uh, yes, I live here." Maybe he's the landlord or her roommate's boyfriend. God, she'd heard so many horror stories about roommate boyfriends when she was doing all her research about the site she was using and living with people you don't know in general. 

"You live here?" His brow scrunched and his eyes narrowed as if he was having trouble with simple sentences. 

"Yes. I'm (Y/N). I live here. Who are you?" 

"I live here." 

"Looks like it." She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, exhausted already from holding it for so long. "Can I come in?"

"You're (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?" Like that was terrible. 

"Yes." She stressed this time, trying not to get irritated when she's just met him even though he hasn't said who he is yet. 

"I didn't know you were…" A sigh, quite dramatic. "Come in." 

He finally stepped aside and let her into the foyer. As soon as she let the bag drop from her shoulder, she heaved a relieving breath before looking around her, excited to see it in person. All of, what looks to be, the original wood flooring is intact and polished perfectly. There's a big staircase right in front of the door leading to the second floor. Off the the right of it is the living room and around to the kitchen. The left is what appears to be a dining room with a table too small for the space. There was definitely some work to do and that honestly excited her. To decorate her space for the first time sounded so good. Lucas barely let her put pictures up and he definitely wasn't going to let her paint anything because he wanted his security deposit back when he finally did leave the place. 

This would be a welcome challenge. As long as her and her roommate could compromise on a few things. 

"Wait, so, who are you again?" She spun around to face him, interrupting his silent scrutinizing of her from more than a few steps away, nearly toeing the line of the dining room. 

"I can't believe I didn't bother to check who was moving in." It almost offended her but she was feeling really confused all of a sudden. What on earth is he talking about. 

"What do you mean, you didn't check?" Her hand clutched onto the handle of her suitcase again, worried about what he means. Maybe she should've made Raven come with her, no matter how much of a nuisance it would've been.

"We matched, somehow. Even though I made sure to…" Another sigh. "I just wasn't expecting you." The you sounded like he was disgusted by the idea of her. It definitely wasn't a welcoming feeling like she was hoping for. 

"What do you mean? You're my roommate?" The dots started to connect. He was her roommate, there was no one else here, and they were so totally fucked by that website she feels like writing a review because she would have never in a million years signed up or been okay with living with a man. Not at this stage in her life. 

"Apparently. Are you sure you're at the right house? This could all just be a misunderstanding." 

"Am I sure I'm at the right house? Of course, I am!" She grabbed her phone from her back pocket and swiped to find the confirmation email. She read him back the address and when the look on his face turned even more grave, she spoke up again. "I didn't even think to read your profile, I was just happy to be approved, but I would never, ever, ever set myself up like this." She can air her grievances too. This is definitely not ideal.

"You didn't look over my profile? How stupid is that.” 

"You didn't look over my profile either!" 

"Well, I was too busy with my own stuff. I didn't ask to be paired with you." 

(Y/N) could feel the heat in her face. This was not what she wanted to have to deal with. This was supposed to be easy. The website was supposed to do all that for her, no worrying needed. That's what the tagline says anyway. But now she knows that's all bullshit. This might just be the worst possible scenario besides still being stuck with Lucas. 

"Maybe I can call the customer service and fix this." She scrolled to the bottom of the email, looking for the number to call.

"Fix it how? I paid to stay here, I'm not going anywhere." 

"I paid to stay here too! I just, I don't know what to do." She paid the deposit, she didn’t leave Lucas on a great note, and she definitely wasn’t going to ask Raven to hang out at her place until she found a different apartment. This has already been such a huge thing she thinks that she can just stay here for now. It’s not that weird. He is an unknown man who seems to have some kind of very deeply rooted annoyance with her for no real reason at all. While that will probably be difficult eventually, this is much, much better than staying with Lucas and having to deal with his theatrics. 

“That’s all you brought?” He pointed to the two bags she’d brought in, looking dissatisfied about that as well. 

“No. I have two more bags in the car. But yeah….that’s it.” 

“There’s not a bed upstairs so I don’t know what you’re going to do.” 

“Here’s an idea. I’m going to go buy one.” 

He looked as if he didn't know how to respond for a moment. He probably wasn't expecting her to snap at him like that, but he didn't seem too bothered by it either.

"Well. Good luck. Your room's at the top of the stairs." He said, before disappearing down the long hallway off of the living room. She hasn't even seen the whole house yet. She's argued with that man longer than actually looking around and taking the whole place in. 

That was almost four months ago.

Harry and (Y/N) have been civil. For the most part. 

There are times that (Y/N) considers packing her things and leaving without telling him. Like the time he watched her push her mattress in a box up the entire flight of stairs on its side, not once offering to help. He just stood there with his hands on his hips, seemingly very unimpressed by all of it. 

And the fact that she doesn't know anything about him. His name she figured out from a piece of mail. He never even directly told her. She doesn't know where he works, just that he leaves early in the mornings and gets back in the afternoon before she's home from work. 

She's tried to get him to open up. She's tried to ask questions. Like what his favorite food is. What kind of soda he likes from the store, anything. But most of the time, they eat dinner separately. They make different things at different times and one or both of them escape to their rooms so things don't get awkward. (Y/N) really wished she had a roommate that wanted to be around her, even if it is a guy. He's so disinterested, it almost hurts. 

He doesn't want to get to know her, he doesn't want to spend more than three seconds in the same room as her, and he won't even talk most times. He never says good morning or goodnight and he never tells her if he's going to be out all day. 

Not that they need to communicate so closely like that, but it sure would be helpful if they did. She never knows when or if she can have friends over because his schedule is scattered. And she can never ask because he can barely stand her presence for more than two minutes at a time. 

It feels unfair. Like she got unlucky with a roommate who hates her just because she rushed out on Lucas. Maybe if she hadn’t jumped at the first chance at getting out of there, she would be somewhere much better with a roommate that doesn't glare at her every time he sees her. 

"Harry!" Her panicked shout interrupted the still air of the house.

Regardless of how Harry truly felt about her, he always came rushing to her whenever she sounded in distress. Like the time she tripped the fire alarm from a pan being on the stove too long. She couldn't reach the button to shut it off, but he came and did it for her. Or the time her front tire deflated just enough for her to notice on her way to work and all she did was ask. And he got the tire inflator from the basement and had it fixed in minutes. He always comes, he just never sticks around long enough for a thank you.

Even if it's only for the teensy tiny spider on the bathroom ceiling. 

He was up the stairs in just three strides, standing beside her, trying to assess the situation. She was only in a towel, unfortunately, but he really didn't seem to even notice. 

"What is it?" Harry looked her over quickly, his gaze not lingering for even a second, he was just making sure she was immediately okay. 

"I'm trying to shower and there's that…thing up there." She pointed, seeing his shoulders drop from the corner of her eye. "I wouldn't even mind it if it was anywhere else, but they always have to be right over the shower, don't they?" 

When she turned back to him, his jaw was set. She knows she interrupted him for something that he doesn't care one bit about, but she honestly wouldn't be able to get in the shower until it was gone. And if it got to simply roam the house freely, that would freak her out even more. She probably wouldn't end up sleeping. 

"Are you kidding me?" He blinked a few times and then shook his head. 

"I know, it's silly, I just—"

"It's fine." He cut her off, shifting his gaze back to the spider that hasn't moved an inch. "I'll take care of it." 

"Thanks." 

He didn't bother with a response, instead he grabbed the glass she left in the bathroom from last night when she forced herself to drink some water before bed and reached toward the spider. He could touch the ceiling flat on his feet. It was almost impressive, though the ceilings weren't too incredibly high. 

(Y/N) watched from the hallway as he very, very gently brushed the spider into the glass. She gasped, taking another step back, sure that he was going to push it to the floor and have it run somewhere where neither of them could see it. But he didn't. 

It went right into the glass and he examined it before looking back to her. 

"Done." Was all he said before stepping around her and making his way back downstairs. She didn't call out another thank you, even though she would probably be forever grateful for just that. She started the shower and got on with her day, trying not to think too much about any of it. 

*****

There are a few things that (Y/N) has learned about Harry that she's not sure he's noticed. 

He has a secret stash of chocolates and sour candies in the cupboard that's too high for her to reach. She only knows because she was putting away the clean dishes one day when he wasn't there and had to actually get on the counter to reach the very top shelf. And that's where she found it. She really didn't take him for someone who would like sour candy or anything sweet, but apparently he does. It's nothing that she cares for, so she left it alone. But she kept that information in the file in her brain about Harry which is slowly collecting cobwebs from how little she actually knows. 

He watches the weather channel religiously. 

And she really didn't understand why he watched on the couch and looked so unsettled about it. The end of next week was bringing a downpour of rain. Scattered storms and above normal winds. Nothing out of the ordinary for this time of year, but Harry didn't seem too excited about it. She didn't ask though. Maybe he had plans for the weekend that were now going to be ruined by the rain. She didn't know and she really didn't care too much. But she was curious why he sits there and watches the same thing every day. 

Since (Y/N) and Harry have silently agreed to only coexist and are rarely ever in the same area at the same time, that means that she doesn't go anywhere near his personal space. His bedroom, the office right next to her room, his bathroom. She's not sure what's going on with the basement area, so she hasn't asked. But she doesn't want him thinking that she's being nosy and invading his space by allowing herself anywhere near those places. 

She is trying though. To loosen him up but not push it too far. She made lasagna one night while he was out. There was plenty left over after she had her fill, so she might have discreetly put some out for him. It wasn't obvious that it was for him, but it was obvious that it was up for grabs. He never said anything about it, but she did find that exact place stashed away in the dishwasher after being scraped clean. 

(Y/N) prefers to think optimistically, so she's telling herself that he ate it and didn't toss it in the trash before he went to bed, deeming her crazy for even thinking of cooking something and sharing it with him. So, she just tries to be as courteous as possible without ever really saying anything to him.

Raven was starting to get impatient about not meeting her roommate yet when it had been months. She explained that he really just liked to keep to himself and he barely ever talked to her unless she forced it out of him. Raven laughed for ten minutes when she told her her new roommate was a guy but then asked her if she felt comfortable with him and if things were going okay. And they were. Harry and (Y/N) barely spoke. If that's what kept this arrangement afloat, she'd continue. Even if she thought they could be really good friends if he allowed her to know him a little bit. 

It was a Saturday and Raven came to sweep (Y/N) up so they could do some shopping. There were still things she wanted to look for decor-wise and Raven had a free Saturday. So, they went to a few stores and found a couple things that (Y/N) just had to have for her space. 

Around one they decided to stop off and get a late lunch. It was nice to have things feeling normal again after she'd finally gotten away from Lucas. He was a big downer when it came to things she enjoyed doing. He thought she hung out with her friends too much and he never wanted to do anything she wanted to do. Meanwhile, Lucas was always out with his friends on a Friday night and always dragging her along to do things that she either didn't want to go to or had no interest in. But she just thought that was what a relationship was about. Trying to like the same things your partner likes or at least participating once before you decide to completely write it off. The same things did not apply to Lucas that applied to (Y/N) and it felt unfair. That was another reason why she started thinking it was best to end things. 

"Hey, there's this cute little pie shop around the corner. Have you ever been?" Raven had just polished off her drink and mentioned this to her. (Y/N) never knew there was a shop just for pies, but it sounded good, so she agreed. 

It was in walking distance so they didn't bother with the car. Maybe three blocks from the tiny bistro they sat in for lunch. (Y/N) didn't recognize the shop when Raven ushered her inside, but she assumes it's been here for a while without her noticing. Which is strange because a place like this, she would definitely know about. 

There were a few people in front of them when they got in line, so (Y/N) took that time to look over the very extensive menu. A lot of it was pies, but there was also other desserts. (Y/N) was really only interested in the pies at the moment and was stuck between lemon meringue and key lime. She was right in the middle of asking what Raven thought when she glanced over her shoulder and flinched at the sight of Harry sitting at a small table by the window, writing something in a notebook. 

At first, she had to double check that it was him. But it really didn't take her long to realize that he wasn't her imagination. He was right there, looking over a notebook, and marking things in it occasionally. He’s in his usual charcoal gray trousers and some type of graphic tee shirt, but this time under an unbuttoned blue and white pinstriped shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off the many tattoos that she rarely gets to see.

Is this where he goes when he leaves? She almost didn't know what to do for a second. He apparently hadn't seen her yet, but did she want him to know she was there? It felt like another invasion of privacy. And she figured he wouldn't be too happy if she went up to him to say hi, just because. 

"Raven." She tugged on her sleeve, trying not to draw attention to either of them. "Uh, Harry's here." Raven's eyes went wide and she quickly scanned the entire room in search of him. (Y/N)'s never really described what Harry was like, only that he wasn't too friendly and liked it better when they weren’t too involved with each other. 

"Aren't you going to say hi? Where is he?" She beamed at her like this was such an amazing thing that's happened. (Y/N) just thinks that Raven is extra curious because she's kept them away from each other for so long. 

"By the window," She pointed as nonchalantly as she could. "And no. I don't want to disturb him. He looks busy." 

Raven looked him over and raised her eyebrows when she met (Y/N)'s gaze. 

"No wonder you've been hiding him. He's hot." 

That comment made (Y/N) want to melt into the floor. Because she's never let that thought enter her brain because it didn't seem appropriate. He was just her roommate that could barely stand to be in the same vicinity as her. So she never even let herself get too carried away with ideas like that. Because although it might've been true, it might've been something that she observed when she first met him, it was instantly overshadowed by his attitude and the way he spoke to her sometimes. It was pretty glaring, but she never let her mind start to wander off too far. 

He was good looking. But the more she acknowledged that fact, the more she wouldn't know how to behave around him. And that just wouldn't do. 

"Raven, that's not—" She tried, but they were at the counter now, and Raven just started rattling off their pie order. The man behind the counter didn't seem to be the most enthused, but he was polite about it. 

Luckily, they were taking their pie slices to go, so (Y/N) was positive that she might be able to get out of here without him seeing her. It would just be better that way. 

Raven took the bag from the man and thanked him before turning to (Y/N) with a pointed look. 

"You have to say hi." 

"I don't think I do." She replied, taking a step in the direction of the door. Raven caught her arm. 

"Yes, you do. What if already saw you and he's waiting for you to come over and have a normal conversation? And you just leave instead? He probably thinks you don't like him." That sounded impossible. All (Y/N) had ever been was nice to him. How could he think she didn't like him? 

"Raven. That doesn't even make sense." 

"Just go. And then we can enjoy our pie in peace back at my place. You don't have to be scared of him." She teased, grinning at her. It wasn't that she was scared, she just didn't want to approach him in a public place when she would never do so in the home that they share. It sounded ridiculous but that's their current dynamic. 

"This is going to go horribly. I hope you know that." (Y/N) said over her shoulder before reluctantly making her way over to the table he was at. He hadn't noticed them at all it seemed, even though Raven was causing quite a scene over the whole thing. 

She wasn't sure how to announce herself. Should she just sit down in front of them like they’re best friends? Should she tap his shoulder? Should she just stand next to the table and wait for him to see her standing there? 

She really didn't have to do much because as soon as she was standing two feet from him, he was glancing up from his notebook and scrunching his eyebrows. 

"Hi." Her fingers tangled behind her back as she waited for him to say something. He just blinked at her before looking back to the paper in front of him. And then he looked back at her, more confused than the first time. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I was out shopping with my friend. We just had lunch and then came here for pie—" 

"Are you following me or something?" 

"No?” Following him? He must really think she has nothing better to do. “I didn't even know this place existed. Raven told me about it. We ordered and I saw you sitting here. That's all." She hurried to try to keep the tension out of his shoulders. He was relaxed and focused a few seconds ago until she came over and now everything is much different. She felt bad for disrupting him now, even if it was against her wishes. "Do you come here all the time?" 

"Yeah. Why?" His voice and expression went flat. She knew he hated questions just based on how he acted any other time. 

"I never knew it was here. I can’t believe I didn’t know this place was here. ." She tried to keep it light not ask too much of him. If he didn't feel like talking, that was fine. This still felt like progress. 

"Hm." His hand hovered over the calculator she didn't notice that was sitting next to the notebook, like he was itching to get back to what he was doing. "Crazy." 

"Yeah. It's really nice and quiet here, isn't it?" 

"It was." 

(Y/N)'s entire body deflated. She thought they were almost getting somewhere. He was answering nicely enough until he wasn't. 

"I just wanted to say hi. That's all. I'll go." Her voice shrank and she didn't want to get upset over this interaction but she couldn't help it. He didn't enjoy her presence anywhere. Even it was outside of the house and she was trying to be polite and say hello. 

She hurried back to Raven who was silently observing from next to the counter. (Y/N) didn't look back once and instead tried to keep her face from looking as hurt as she felt. If Raven heard anything he said to her, she would definitely give him a piece of her mind and (Y/N) just wasn't interested in dealing with that right now. So, she faked a smile for Raven and waved her toward the door. 

"What did he say?" She asked when they stepped outside and (Y/N) shrugged, leaning towards not telling how annoyed he seemed. 

"Nothing much. Just that he'd see me at home." She wished that was so. She's not sure why it hurt her feelings so much when she was fine with pretending he didn't exist. But this had deeply messed with her head for some reason. She guessed she'd been telling herself that he was tough to crack and that with time, he'd open up and they would be on good terms. But this almost proved that theory completely wrong. (Y/N) doesn't have much hope for it at all anymore. 

This is why she didn't want to come over to him. Saying hi to someone you see out was reserved for people that were friends. And Harry and (Y/N) probably never would be.

She lightened up a little when they got back to Raven's and had the pie, but when she was dropping her home and driving off, (Y/N) felt that same feeling all over again. 

Mainly, embarrassment. He could've been fake nice at the very least. She didn't know what he was doing there but she didn't think she deserved for him to act so irritated by her talking to him. 

But if that's what he wanted, she wouldn't do it again. 

She hurried to make herself something she could have for dinner and do whatever she needed to do to stay out of his way when he got home. She shut herself into her room just as she heard the front door opening. And she didn't leave make a single sound for the rest of the night. 

****

It had been two weeks since she saw Harry at the pie shop. 

And she hadn't seen him or spoken to him since. If he was home, she was in her room, hoping that she wouldn't have to leave there for anything while he was roaming downstairs. 

She wasn't trying to get his attention by doing that. He wouldn't wonder about her, she was certain. He probably liked it better that she was out of his way. It was like he lived alone, but the other half of the rent was paid mysteriously every month. 

It was still better than living with Lucas. She didn't feel the need to leave, even if she felt unwelcome here. She still had her own space and she could still come and go as she pleased, for the most part. But the lengths she had to go to avoid Harry was almost getting to be too much. That part started to get hard because he's everywhere all the time, except for in her room. He's in his office next door with the door slightly ajar, but he never says anything to her. He's on the couch, watching tv or a movie with the dinner he made for himself. 

So the best thing she could think to do was keep quiet around him. If he was there and she was too, she just wouldn't speak to him. Even if it felt super weird to not say hello to someone when you entered the house or a room. She just didn't. 

Even when another spider made its way to the ceiling in the bathroom. She just let it be, hurrying to wash the shampoo from her eyes and make sure it hadn't moved anywhere too close to her. It hadn't, but she had to be sure. 

By the time (Y/N) had finished her nightly routine and was ready to make her way to her room, she noticed that rain had started pounding on the roof. It instantly relaxed her. She would have a good night's rest with the sound of the rain. She did double check her phone to see that it wasn't supposed to storm tonight, just heavy rain. Either would be fine with her. 

She was just about to crawl into bed for the night when got the sudden craving for a hot tea. It would fit perfectly in with her getting ready for bed a little earlier than usual, with her favorite show playing on her tv, and the rain on the roof. And it would probably help send her off to sleep quicker. Now that the idea was in her head, she wouldn't be able to properly settle until she had a cup. 

Groaning, she dragged herself from the bed and made her way to the staircase after opening the door. She wasn't sure where Harry was, but she was going to be quick about it and do her best not to run into him. 

She crept down the stairs, cursing silently when she heard the tv on in the living room. But she would just do like she always does. Ignore him in the same way he ignores her. 

Except, (Y/N) doesn't think she's that great at ignoring him. Especially when he's hunched over on the couch, hands over his eyes, looking very unwell despite not being able to see his face totally. His hair is mussed from his hands and he's sitting very still. Maybe because he can hear her moving about, but she's not sure. She keeps walking though, into the kitchen to grab the kettle that actually belongs to Harry that she's been secretly using when he's not around. 

She tried to not glance over her shoulder at him while waiting for the kettle to heat, but she couldn't help it. He hadn't moved an inch. But she did notice his breathing was a little heavier. 

Rain was pelting the kitchen windows. She watched for a moment. It really was quite the downpour, but considering spring has just started, she knew the rain was necessary. It calmed her greatly, watching it run down the tall pane of glass in front of the sink. It was dark out, so there was really nothing to see beyond there since the rain was coming down the way it was. 

When she popped the tea bag in her mug of choice and poured over it, she took another glance.

She could've taken her tea right back to her room and forgotten about all of it. He would do it to her. But (Y/N) can't be that person even if she tried to be. 

She lingered behind the couch, trying to decide what to do, what to say. He probably won't react kindly if she does say something, but she does anyway. He already hates her. If he wants to hate her for checking in on him, he can. At least she did what she thought was right. 

"Harry?" His body tensed further than it was. She took half a step closer to the back of the couch. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah." He replied instantly. Like he barely heard her question. She knows he doesn't want to talk about it, so she shifted the conversation. 

"I made tea. Do you want some?" 

"No." Another clipped answer. Any normal person would probably leave it there and go back to their room, but (Y/N) wanted to push him just a little bit. 

So, she made him tea anyway. She doesn't know how he likes it or anything, but she made it the way she takes it, hoping that it would be good enough. 

She quietly made her way around the couch with both mugs in either hand and stopped for a second. She'd never sat on the couch with Harry. She never sat on the couch when he was home. It was here when she moved in so it was obviously his, she just didn't want to overstep. 

But she sat down a good distance away and leaned to set the mug on the table in front of him. 

"It's there if you want it."

Again, (Y/N) could've left it there. It was a nice gesture, making him tea when it seems like he's a little anxious. And if there’s anything she can do to sway his current ideas about her, she might try once. Or twice. 

She turned her attention to the tv. The weather channel. The sound was low, so she couldn't make out what they were saying but she could see the radar and judging by the map, the rain wasn't going to stop anytime soon. 

The rain outside picked up for just a few minutes and she saw Harry shove his face further in his hands from the corner of her eye. 

She grabbed the remote and changed the channel to something different. And turned up the volume a little more. 

(Y/N)’s not sure what his real problem is, but she has a tiny idea now that she's connecting some dots. Keeping quiet was probably the best thing though, so she just sipped her tea and focused on the tv. 

It was probably fifteen minutes into the show she was half listening to when Harry dropped his hands. She felt him glance over at her for a long moment before he spoke. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Drinking tea." 

"Why are you sitting here?" 

"I can't sit here?" She finally turned to meet his gaze and his eyes rolled like she knew they would. "In my own home?" 

"I didn't say that." He looked to the tv before looking back to her. "You just don't have to sit here right now." 

"Your tea's going to get cold if you don't drink it." She folded her legs, getting even more comfortable on the couch and went back to her tea. 

Harry seemed not to have anything to say as he stared at the side of her face for a beat longer before reaching for the tea. (Y/N) almost felt a sense of accomplishment but as soon as he sipped from the mug, his face soured. 

"You call this a cup of tea?" 

"It's bedtime tea. To go to bed." She could've guessed that Harry was very particular about his tea, and she also should've guessed that he would definitely let her know how it's not to his liking. 

"Yeah? Well, it's shitty." 

"I was being nice. You should try it sometime." This time, she rolled her eyes. It didn't surprise her one bit that he wasn't happy about her attempting to do something decent for him. She just thought he'd be a little kinder because he was obviously going through something difficult and she wasn't asking the laundry list of questions she had. 

"I don't need your help." He grumbled, settling back into the couch with the mug pressed to his mouth. 

"Never said you did." She muttered, trying to seem unbothered. It was silent for a few minutes. Almost peaceful with the sound of the rain. He hasn't run off to his room or said something hurtful enough for her to go back to hers. This could be normal. Eventually. 

"Why did you come to my job?" That had her turning her head. 

"Your job? When did I do that?" 

"The pie shop. I own it." 

"You own it?" That was why he seemed so startled when she walked up to him. He honestly thought she was following him. 

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Another long sip of the tea she made. She almost cracked a smile. "I was doing the numbers when you came over. I prefer to do it on paper first." A small detail that he shared. Even though it really didn't mean anything, he mentioned it on his own accord. 

"Oh. Makes sense." She kept it short, not wanting to scare him off when they're having their first real conversation since she's moved in. But she couldn't help it. "Why pie?" 

"Hm?" He hummed over the lip of the mug, meeting her gaze again. 

"Why a pie shop?" She tried not to get too excited about him letting her ask him a couple questions, but it really felt like they were getting somewhere. For the time being.

"I like pie." He answered simply, settling the empty mug on the edge of the table in front of him. 

"You must really like it." 

"I really like pie, then." 

(Y/N) slowed down for a second. He's getting slightly testy, so she wanted to draw it back a little bit. She can't mess this up right now, it's so good. 

"The key lime was great. It's my favorite kind actually." 

"Leave a review." His arms crossed and he leaned back into the couch again. He didn't seem pleased by the compliment when she really meant it. It was probably the best key lime she's ever had. But he just didn't want to hear it. 

"I'm gonna head to bed." She stood slowly and he didn't even look her way. "I hope you get a good night's sleep." 

She didn't pry even though she wanted to and went back to her room, shutting the door behind her. 

It would take time, but she's sure she can get Harry to open up a little bit. 

*****

It got more comfortable as time went on. 

Ever since that night, (Y/N) didn’t mind sitting on the couch when he was nearby. He never sat with her but she didn’t feel like she was in the way anymore.

Her journal had been in her lap for the past half hour. It felt good to just write out every thought she had. The good and the bad. No one was ever going to see it, so if she did write something that she’d be ashamed of later, it was only her that was going to be looking back and seeing how ridiculous she was being. 

A sour straw was hanging from her mouth as she tried to concentrate on the lines in front of her. Harry had just come in from the backyard. She’s not sure what he was doing, but she didn’t ask or go looking for herself. 

She felt his eyes on her momentarily before he went to the fridge and shuffled around in there. 

This felt peaceful. Like they had finally made it to a place where they could truly coexist in the same areas in the house. They didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to. She wouldn’t look at him either, if that made him a little more relaxed in her presence. So, she kept on with her journal, jotting down the smallest things about her day that weren’t all negative, although she was really tired when she got to work this morning. The coffee helped. 

“When did you get home?” Harry spoke up all of a sudden, pulling her from cursing the work vending machine for running out of the little cookies she liked. It was a real disappointment, she must say. 

“Not too long ago. ” She hadn’t quite looked up from the journal yet, but when she did, Harry was standing on the other side of the couch, just beyond the kitchen. Closer than he had been. 

“Hm.” He asked her a question. She tried to keep from smiling. 

“How was the pie today?” 

He was just about to step back into the kitchen when she forced herself to say something. She wanted to keep the conversation flowing. Maybe eventually this wouldn’t feel so hard to do if she kept slowly working towards getting him talking. 

“How was the pie?” He paused, shooting her a discreet look that she would’ve missed if it wasn’t for her undivided attention focused on him. 

“Yeah. What was your favorite you made today?” (Y/N) isn’t sure exactly how he runs his pie business, but he probably makes fresh pies daily. She’s guessing. She’s hoping that this is going in the right direction. He has to like to talk about pie, right? Has to be a little passionate about it to own an entire shop selling it. This seems like a safe topic. 

“Coconut cream.” 

“Really?” 

“No.” His eyes rolled and he turned his back to her, returning to the kitchen. She thought he was refusing to answer her easy question but instead he took a second. Like this was something he really had to think about. “The blueberry.” 

“Blueberry? That sounds so good.” (Y/N) can’t recall if she’s ever even had blueberry pie. She thinks she can guess what it’d taste like, but she doesn’t dwell on it for too long because Harry is getting too far away. 

“Of course it’s good. I made it.” She thought she heard him mumble. He wasn’t doing anything in particular in the kitchen. It almost seemed like he was lingering around just to see if she had anything else to say. 

“Do you want a sour straw?” She reached for the package next to her on the couch and held it up. “They’re cherry.” 

(Y/N) was a thousand percent sure he was going to deny her. He looked as if he was going to. Initially. And then he kept getting closer until he had the packaging in his hand. 

“Sure.” 

Harry always does the most unexpected things. Because she thought he was going to take one, maybe two at the most. But Harry walked away with the entire thing, not looking back once as he made his way upstairs and shut the office door behind him. 

(Y/N) was in complete shock for a moment. Did she make it sound like he could have the whole thing? She asked if he wanted a straw, meaning one or a couple. Not for him to rob her of the only sugar she had yet today. 

She let it go. Maybe that softened him up a little. Back to journaling, but nothing about that incident. Nothing about it at all. 

*****

Harry has been in his office for hours. 

He left work a little earlier than planned, got home, made himself lunch, and shut the door to the office behind him. 

There wasn't much to do because he'd done a lot of the paperwork he was supposed to do while he was at work, but he didn't know where else he could go in the house to be left alone. (Y/N) got home later in the afternoons and he just didn't feel up to being subjected to her right now. 

She was okay. Didn't ask too many questions. But there was something about her that bothered him. 

She was pretty much the perfect roommate. Her schedule complimented his nicely. She didn't stay out late, she went to bed at a reasonable time, she cleaned no matter who made the mess. She makes a killer lasagna. He didn't tell her that, but it was true. He would've finished the rest of the pan if he knew she wouldn't notice. 

She has an irrational fear of spiders. Even the ones you have to squint to see. He doesn't mind catching them for her, he just hates that she panics so much about one measly spider. 

He doesn't know much more than that about her. That's all he cares to know. He's not sure how long they're going to be living together. At least another six months with the lease renewing at the end of the year. 

He does wonder, however, where she was living before. Because she brought four bags. Four. Maybe she doesn’t have a lot of things, but four bags? No furniture? He’s interested to know, but not enough to ask. Just because it’s odd. And she was in such a rush she said when accepting the application. He wonders what happened. Not that it’s his business, but he can wonder.

Harry was shocked more than anything when she knocked at the door that day. He was hoping for and he thought he signed up to have a guy roommate. So, (Y/N) being there didn't make much sense. There must have been a mix up somewhere, but he didn't look too far into it after scouring the website, trying to find a way to fix it. 

And he wouldn't say she's grown on him because that wouldn't be true. He'd just say that they've come to an agreement of sorts that lets them live very separate lives in the same home. He doesn't care to be around her, he doesn't care that she gets that little dejected look on her face when he tells her as much. Having her in his space and speaking to him pushes him too far. But it seemed that (Y/N) knew when to back off a majority of the time.

He knew why he felt that way, but it wasn't something that he felt needed to be explained to her. (Y/N) kept at a distance would be the best thing for the both of them. So he didn't think he needed to know everything about her. Her likes and dislikes, her favorite pie. It was useless information that he absorbed for no reason other than she said it directly to him and he wasn't trying hard enough to ignore her. 

There was a knock on the closed door behind him and he huffed, wondering what she needed from him now. He never even said come in, she just pushed the door open and smiled at him with that same smile that made him want to stand up and shut the door back in her face. 

“Hi.” 

“Yeah?” He didn’t bother with a greeting. She’s here for a reason, he’s just waiting for her to get on with it. 

“Um. I was thinking about ordering in for dinner. Take out maybe. Or pizza. Not sure yet really, but do you want something before I call?” She held up the phone in her hand and smiled again. “Oh, and I was also thinking about doing a puzzle. Do you like puzzles? It has like a thousand pieces or something so it’ll probably take a while.” 

“I hate puzzles.” He said almost instantly, readying himself to watch all the hope of a decent night melt from her face. And it did. Her smile dropped along with her shoulders, like she’d given up on him. It was a good sign. Maybe she’d remember that next time she wanted to ask him something similar. 

“Well, do you want something to eat? I can just leave it for you.” 

He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who doesn’t get social cues like (Y/N) does. He wonders how she’s made it this far. 

“Nice of you. But no. I’m not hungry.” 

“Are you staying in here all night then? No dinner, no nothing?”

“Don’t know. If I did I’m not sure how that would affect you at all.” He wanted to make it clear, hopefully for the last time. 

“I was just asking. Did you have a bad day or something?” 

Harry also wonders why (Y/N) keeps on him. It’s no secret that he wants to be left alone right now but she doesn’t seem to understand anything he says if it’s not in plain words. 

“I wasn’t having a bad day until you showed up and started interviewing me, no. Anything else I can help you with before you go somewhere else?” 

“Yeah. Who’s that?” It was like she hadn’t heard a word he said and instead asked about the picture frame on the desk beside him. He’d forgotten it was there in view, but he didn’t think she’d even ask about it. He thought he could be mean enough and get her to go away before she really saw it. But, of course, (Y/N) exceeds all his expectations, always. 

“None of your fucking business.” He hurried to place the frame face down and this time he stood. If he had to physically get her out of the room, he would. That was just crossing the line. “I never said you could come in. I don’t want to eat with you, I don’t want to do a puzzle with you, I don’t even want to be around you. Just leave me alone.” 

“I was just—”

“You were just nothing. You shouldn’t even be in here.” Her expression crumbled and while he wanted to feel bad about being so harsh, he also knew she wasn’t respecting his space, even if it was in the name of being “nice.” She needed to learn quickly that he wasn’t an open book and she shouldn’t expect him to answer any of her questions. Especially ones like that. It just set something off inside him. 

“I won’t ask again then.” Was all she said before he could reach her at the door. She was shut inside her room before he made it to the hallway actually. 

The conversation might not have gotten here if she’d left it alone. But she had to ask about the picture on the desk and push him to his very limit, so it really is not anyone’s fault but her own. So, he doesn’t feel bad when he knows he’s clearly hurt her feelings. 

He shut the door before sighing into his hands. It has to be this way until she decides that she doesn’t want to live here anymore. And she will. If he cuts all the bullshit and never entertains her or her questions again, maybe then she’ll realize that living here isn’t for her. Maybe she already has. 

He sat back in the desk chair and replaced the frame how it was, letting his eyes run over it. It was a portrait style photo of a person he’d never see again. Probably the most beautiful and brilliant woman he’s ever met. He wasn’t ready for questions, he wasn’t ready to explain or talk about her when he was still grieving so deeply. 

He just wanted to be left alone.

*****

hiiii. as usual, tag list is crazy so lmk if i missed you! hope you liked!

tags: @c0mfortablesilences @brisworld12 @whateverali28 @thisandsomehole @loverofhsandallthings1d @sarahs-house @taraijbharper @bucketofsalmon @alaskansky007 @toosarcastic03 @outofthisworl-d @everyscarisahealingplace @forgetdelaney @laceystyles @dxnycast @stylesftcher @slutstachrry @angeldavis777 @caynonmoondreams @mema10 @in-omn1a-paratus @esposa-do-harry @harrystyleshotwife @pleasantearthquakecowboy @rhiannonworld24 @superbnightlove @caitrose88 @unabashegirl @harrystylesconcepts @sassamanda77 @witch-rry @triski73 @run-for-the-hills @contra-mondu

Every little sigh you let out—every dramatic shuffle of your feet in that stupid little tennis skirt, every half-whispered, bratty comment under your breath like you thought he couldn’t hear—was like a hammer to his skull.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, lining up his swing, jaw clenching tight. “Could you knock it the fuck off?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just shifted your weight again, and tilted your head with that faux-innocent look he hated.

“S’just boring, baby. Chasing balls in the grass? Really?” You made a face, voice syrupy-sweet with condescension. “Not exactly riveting.”

Topper snorted behind him. “Yo, control your girl, dude.”

That was it.

Rafe’s grip flexed around the club. Tension coiled in his jaw like a pulled trigger. That comment, paired with the way you were looking at him? Like he was some dumb rich kid dragging his pouty girlfriend around? Like you were better than this?

Better than him?

Nah.

He turned real slow.

Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. All sharp angles and a predator's stillness, he stepped in closer—close enough that your breath caught just a little. Good. You should feel it. That heat rolling off him like smoke from a fire about to catch.

“You got a real mouth on you today, huh?” Rafe’s voice was low, almost amused, almost gentle—if not for the mean curl hiding behind every syllable. “Keep pushin’ it. Go ahead. See what happens.”

You blinked, lips parting—but whatever you were about to say got swallowed in your throat. Didn’t matter. He was already shaking his head, laughing under his breath like the joke was on him for even trying.

“Y’know what? Go sit in the fuckin’ cart. Go do your little princess pout somewhere else.” He waved a hand, dismissive, like you were some spoiled dog he was sick of entertaining. “Can’t deal with your attitude and Topper’s dumbass in the same afternoon.”

You rolled your eyes with annoyance and adjusted your jaw, the crossed arms over your chest tightening by the second. You did a face at him, raising your brows and making it clear that you didn't care about him or what he thought about you. "Whatever, Rafe." You said with a tight tone, trying to hide the pout on your face. You can't give him the satisfaction of acting like what he was treating you as. A brat.

"I'm going to the bar, I can't... be here." The disgusted face you had on you as you gestured to the whole place, the scene around you just made it worse: the way too hot sun burning on your skin, it felt like no sunscreen was enough and that you would need a lot of aloe vera. The grass way too green for your sensitive eyes and your useless boyfriend (yes, that's what he is now) not paying attention to you like he usually does.

Just in time, like heaven sent, the moment you turned around to go sit on Rafe's cart, the bigger cart (or whatever it's called, you can't be bothered to learn the name), something along the lines of Golf shuttles appeared. It was taking everyone back to the facilities of the country club.

So, taking a look over your shoulder, making sure Rafe wasn't watching you, you raised your hand and stopped the lovely minibus, hoping up in it without hesitation.

Rafe saw the vehicle pass and didn't paid much attention to it. Until he saw you in it?! He almost broke his neck turning to get a second look.

"Hey—" He tried to scream at you. That wasn't the cart he told you to get on.

But he knew it was already too late, you were already gone and he couldn't bring himself to actually fucking care about it.

“Yeah, that’s it—walk the hell away, sweetheart.” His tone dripped with sarcasm as he saw you getting away with it. "Run off and pout in the clubhouse, that's what you do best."

Rafe just... stood there. Watched as you marched off, a bitter little pout on your face and those long legs crossed over one another in the little golf cart shuttles.

Normally, seeing your ass in that skirt would be enough to distract him from everything. But not today. Nope, today all he could see was you rolling your eyes and huffing about how goddamn boring it all was. That look on your face like you had more important things to do than be here, with him, on a beautiful, sunny day.

He watched you get onto the cart and roll away, the muscles in his jaw shifting in frustration. It pissed him off more than it should have—how easy it was for you. How little you cared.

Topper sidled up beside him, whistling under his breath. Laughing as he shook his head. "Oh, right, right." Oh, Topper was having a blast watching this happen. He remembers every single second of how Rafe used to mock him years ago claiming he was Sarah's bitch.

Rafe tsked at him, shrugging it with a gesture of his hand and pushing Topper away with a strong hand. "Shut the fuck up." He said, going back to what he came here to do. Golf.

He was going to golf even if he died doing it.

As the cart did its way back to the clubhouse, you felt instantly relieved that you were finally under something that wasn't the goddamn sun, it was literally burning through your skin so badly to the point of feeling it in your veins.

But Rafe didn't care, of course he didn't. He just wanted you there like you were a fucking price or something that wasn't allowed to have an attitude when it was obvious to anyone who saw you for more than a second that you were dragged to be here against your will.

You clung to your phone in your hand, sticky with sweat and an impotence as you got off the cart once you had arrived. You don't even want to see Rafe, he better not cross paths with you right now.

You walked inside the big remodeled house and felt immediately better as soon as you noticed the AC at its maximum power. Thank God for electricity power.

You clicked your way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools, feet hanging but heels not falling. You wouldn't go home mainly for two reasons, 1: you can't drive and 2: you don't really want to. C'mon, it's just fun.

All is fun until it's not.

Rafe slammed his club into the bag with a grunt of frustration because, goddamn it, he is indeed bothered. This whole thing was supposed to be a nice day. A goddamn relaxing day. Golf, the sun on his shoulders, the feel of a good swing, maybe a beer or two, you by his side looking hot in that pretty little skirt...

But no. You had to be a brat. Had to whine and pout and storm off. All because he'd wanted to show you off to the other rich assholes and their spoiled little girlfriends.

He snatched his phone out of the golf bag and tapped on your name.

The straw of an overly sweet margarita that has been obviously paid with Rafe's card was resting against your puffy and uncontent lips. You scrolled on your phone with pinched eyebrows and annoyance. Your sunglasses were pushed to the back of your hair, sending it out of your eyes.

Until you got a text from Rafe, obviously.

Rafe: Get your ass the fuck back here.

You scoffed at the text, it almost makes you laugh. Yeah, as if. You were not coming back to that place just to watch him play and be there like a nobody and give him the satisfaction of telling you what to do. Without taking the straw out of your mouth, all charged with that mighty and superior look on your face and still sipping your sweet cocktail, you typed back, manicured nails making noise against the screen of your phone.

You: as if.

As if.

Those two little words sent his blood roaring in his veins. As if? As if???

He could see you in his mind perfectly—sitting at the bar, sipping on one of those ridiculous fruity cocktails with the little umbrella and acting like you didn't have a care in the world. Acting like you hadn't just left him standing there like an idiot.

As if.

He wanted to throw his damn phone.

But what he wanted even more was for you to get your pretty little ass back there right goddamn now.

He sent the text and then glanced at Topper, who was busy watching another cart girl's ass go by after he ordered another drink.

After sending the text you went back to your very busy scrolling on Instagram, answering some DM's from people because you, somehow, had your fair amount of 15,000 followers and that entertained you most of the time.

Rafe: If you don't get your ass here in five minutes, I will.

You rolled your eyes again, it's like Rafe forgets who the fuck is he dealing with most of the time. Which you hate, because it looks like he doesn't know you when he does more, than you would like. So the mischaracterization always drives you completely insane.

You: the ride takes 10 mn, oops

You giggled. God, you love making him angry. It's always so funny to see him all crazy and seeing red because you can never do what he says.

You sent it without a single glimpse of remorse. You were not going back.

He stared at those words and felt his jaw clench. You were just sitting there, in the air-conditioned comfort of the clubhouse, sipping your damn drink and scrolling through your phone. Acting like you could take or leave the whole situation. Like he meant absolutely nothing.

He didn't realize he'd been gripping his phone hard enough to accidentally turn his phone off until Topper smacked his shoulder.

"Yo, you good, man?"

"Peachy." Rafe gritted through clenched teeth.

However, Rafe took his sweet fucking time before appearing again. If there's something he loves with his whole heart, is golf. He might as well love it more than loving you. He loves the idea of spending the whole day here... doing golf, like it was the most entertaining and enriching activity to ever exist in the goddamn world.

So of course, he took about 45 minutes (just to make you pissed off) before he barged the door of the clubhouse open. You rolled your eyes (again) when you heard it. You didn't even have to turn around, by the sound of it you knew it was him. At this point, you had one margarita, one strawberry and orange juice and one sandwich down. All in his name.

You counted down to five in your head, and in less than that, he was already by your side. Pressing his lips in a line and angrily pushing his tongue against his cheek.

Rafe slammed down on the barstool next to you, jaw clenched so tight it probably hurts. His body felt like a spring coiled taut, ready to snap. He'd been trying to cool off on the last five holes, but that stubborn little attitude of yours kept popping back into his head.

He watched you with a hard look, taking in every little detail. The way you sat there at the bar, perched on that stool like some spoiled little brat. Just sipping away at that fruity-ass drink like you hadn't a care in the world.

"Having fun?"

You took five sweet seconds before deciding to turn your head to look at him. You put your phone down and left your drink to the side. You raised your brows, giving him an unimpressed look as you waited for whatever speech he was about to give you.

You feel like you're completely entitled to act the way you're acting. You asked him yesterday to spend the day together. He has been working a lot and you haven't done anything (anything) in almost three weeks.

And his great idea was golf...? With Topper...?

Like, seriously? You wanted to spend the day with him and this is what he comes up with? You don't miss the way he rages you, the way you have been holding back from making stupid comments as you watched him hit mini balls with a stick a few feet away from you.

"Excuse me?" You said the same way someone had the audacity to disturb your peace. Which is exactly what he's doing right now.

Rafe had to bite back a scoff. Excuse me?

Jesus. The attitude on you. He could practically feel the annoyance radiating off you, and it only made that tight little coil in his gut wind up even more.

Yeah, he had been working a lot, but he also owned a construction company. He wasn't going to just drop everything because you were bored.

He gave you a cold look, gaze sweeping over that little skirt and that perfect face and that bratty expression you wore so goddamn well.

"Yeah, excuse you," He bit back, yeah he knows how to match your attitude. "Did you have to leave like that? Did you have to be so fucking annoying the whole day?"

You scoffed offended, crossing your arms over your chest as you propped yourself up with stubbornness and the desire to be right. "What did you want me to do, huh?" You defied. "You told me to go sit in the fucking cart. And that's what I did. I sat down on the fucking cart. Just not yours."You gave him a simple shrug that showed just how much you have not been corrected in your life. Yeah, you lacked boundaries.

But so does he.

"I came here. Why would I stay there with you?" It was so obvious for you.

Rafe's jaw clenched tight at your answer. God, you were infuriating. He wanted to grab you, bend you over his goddamn knee and—

Whoa, where the hell did that come from?

He shook his head, trying to clear out the images that had just popped into his head. He was here to argue, not to daydream about bending you over something and—

"Because you're my goddamn girlfriend," he snapped. "You could've stayed by my side and not been a pain in my ass all day."

This has always been his pet peeve.

I bet you know the signature gesture by now: rolling your eyes. Along with that, you touched your forehead, as if signaling him to use his goddamn brain. "When I asked to spend the day together this wasn't what I meant." You couldn't believe he was missing such an obvious fact and you were sure making him feel like an idiot about it.

"Golfing? And with Topper, seriously?'' You said his friend's name with a disgusted face, very mighty.

Rafe sighed heavily, pulling the last inexistent strings of patience he has. You were acting like a damned brat and it was driving him crazy. Acting all holier-than-thou and spoiled, just because he had dared to golf with his best friend instead of spending the whole day drooling over you.

"What, you think I should drop everything just so you can spend the day clinging to my arm?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm a businessman, princess, not your personal entertainment. I have responsibilities."

He knew how much you hated being talked down to, but damn if it didn't feel good to do it when you were being so bratty.

You tilted your head at the stupid reflection of yourself he was making you see, almost forcing you to see yourself in front of those amusement park mirrors that distorted how you looked. You know you're not like that.

He's obviously just misrepresenting your words on purpose to make you look bad.

"I haven't seen you in days, Rafe. I didn't realize that spending time with my fucking boyfriend required calling to his assistant for a fucking appointment." You groaned and grabbed your drink again, hoping the fruity flavour would calm you down.

Rafe's jaw was so tight it looked ready to cut something. All this bullshit because he hadn't had enough time for you? Because you're a spoiled little princess who can't handle going a day without being pampered and adored?

He leaned forward, his voice low and dark as he met your gaze. "I have a company to run, sweetheart. I can't always be there to hand feed you attention," he said sarcastically. "You gonna pout every damn time I have to work, or just today?"

"What about never again with you?" You said with a fake smile, the same one you give to your mother when she's pissing you off.

You attempted to get up from your seat on the bar and leave. "I just wanted a day with you, Rafe." You complained while crossing your arms over my chest again, the Swarovski bracelets he had given to you ringing against each other, crystals making almost a lulling sound. The reminder of a status. "But you had to be selfish and drag me to something you know I don't like."

This is what happens when you two trust fund babies start dating: arguments with world disconnected details are over the roof.

The exasperation was getting to you and you were even more annoyed by that. You sighed frustrated. "And if you did that and it was just the two of us it was one thing but you had to bring Topper?" You scoffed. Damn, you really had it against Topper. Whatever, he's an asshole. "What part of a 'day together' didn't you understand?"

He watched as you pushed back from the bar, those little bracelets on your wrist sparkling under the lights. He'd bought them for you last month, and you'd worn them every damn day since.

He watched those crystals glimmering against your skin, the way your arms crossed so petulantly over your chest. It just made him want to—

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the stupid thoughts again.

"You didn't have to come at all, princess." He said sarcastically, gesturing around the bar, the country club, the situation in general. "You could've stayed home and moped around like you're doing now."

He leaned even further, getting in your space. "You wanted to come."

The incredulous look on your face was a work of art he would've been up to paint and recreate in different circumstances. As if the reason that you were here for wasn't fucking obvious. "Yeah, because I wanted to be with you. It was supposed to be our day." You shook my head again when he didn't understand you and missed your point, again.

"But no, I'm selfish, I'm a brat for not pulling up with your bullshit." You chuckled humourlessly to make his blood boil.

The way you were looking at him—that haughty little frown, that defiant tilt to your head, that pouty lip—it was maddening. He wanted to grab you, shove you right back up against the bar and—

Rafe clenched his jaw. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was wrong with him today?

He didn't want to admit it, but you had a point. He'd just dragged you out here with him and expected you to be happy about it, without even considering what you really wanted.

But he'd be damned if he apologized for it.

"Our day," He repeated sarcastically and you internally already prepared yourself to be annoyed by whatever he was going to say. "As if every goddamn day isn't already ours. You're at my place every damn night, in my bed, in my arms. You're on my phone all day long, whining when I can't answer. You have me wrapped around your damn finger, princess. So, excuse me if I wanted to spend one day with my friend playing goddamn golf and not being at your beck and call like a fucking puppy."

Huh.

Alright.

His words have inevitably gotten to you, like always. Despite your confident and mighty front, Rafe's words always have mattered to you, more than it should've. And you know it.

Your immediate reaction is biting the inside of your cheek, the spice that you feel in your eyes goes momentarily ignored as you recomposed yourself. You nodded, jaw clenched and hard look on your face.

"If you wanted to spend the day with your friend that's fine, but why did you even say we could spend the day together yesterday? Why are you acting like this was all me?"

You're at his place all the time because he calls you, in his bed, in his arms because he wants you there. The clinginess he mocks is the same need he created — the same one he feeds every time he says he misses you, every time he calls at midnight just to hear you breathe.

He watches you, jaw tight, that stubborn pout blooming — and it takes everything in him not to reach out, not to smooth that frown away with his thumb like he always does after he breaks you a little.

He knows you’re right. Of course you are. But he’s too damn proud to let you win.

He watched you bite your cheek, that pout growing even more pronounced, and it took everything in him not to reach out and rub that stubborn little frown away with his thumb.

He knew you were right, but he was too damn stubborn to admit it. He didn't want to let this argument end with you winning.

"I said we could spend the day together because I assumed you could handle not being the center of attention for a few hours." He countered, the sarcasm dripping from every word. "How stupid of me. Clearly, that's asking a lot from you."

Your eyes, which had been fixed on the bartender’s slow ballet of mixing a cocktail, anything to avoid looking at Rafe, snapped back to him. His tone cut through you, clean and humiliating. That awful, familiar heat built behind your eyes— the kind that isn’t rage, not yet, but something smaller and crueler: powerlessness. "Fine, how about this?" You started, clearly angry. "Have the whole day without me, the whole week, the whole month, even the year, huh?" The resentment dripping of your words like hot honey.

"Go and have the fucking time of your life, Rafe." The bitterness slid out of you before you could stop it, a sharp little blade dressed in sarcasm.

You turned on your heels, the sound of them against the marble louder than you meant it to be— a declaration, a retreat, both. You didn’t bother to hide the hurt carved into your face as you walked out of the country club, spine straight, heart in ruins, pretending that leaving first meant you'd won something.

He watched you walk away, those damn heels clicking against the marble like a heartbeat fading.

And for once—just once—Rafe felt something sharp twist in his chest. Not anger. Not annoyance.

Guilt.

You didn’t look back. You never do when you’re truly hurt, which until now in all these months has ever really happened. No dramatic pause, no glance over your shoulder to see if he’d chase. Just gone.

He stayed frozen on the barstool for three seconds before his body finally caught up with his brain and moved.

"Fuck." He muttered, shoving off the stool and storming after you. He knows he fucked up.

The doors swung shut behind him as he stepped into the blinding afternoon sun, eyes scanning until they landed on your retreating figure—the sway of that stupid little skirt, your shoulders tight with pride even as you walked away like you didn’t care.

But he knew better.

He always knew when you were faking it. He sadly (for you) knew too well.

You hear his aggravating voice behind you, exactly what you didn't want right now. There's no reason why you should stay with him.

"Baby, wait—" You heard him calling out for you.

Ha, now he's calling you baby?

When one of his rough and big hands reached for any of your arms and was able to touch you, you pulled away like he was made out of bleach.

"Leave me alone, Rafe." You guys have never gone this far and it shows. "You left your little bitch Topper alone, I bet he's fucking crying without you by his side. So, go back." You were not one to bark but you were sure a damn dog right now.

You keep saying that.

You never called him that, even when you were mad at him. You always called him 'babe'. He wasn't Rafe to you.

He clenched his jaw, his own anger flaring in response. He reached for you again, rougher this time, gripping your arm in his tight grip.

"Stop walking away from me, damn it." He demanded.

You groan — annoyed, overstimulated, his hands everywhere they shouldn’t be. He’s doing all the things he knows will get to you. The ones that push, prod, unravel. He knows exactly where the nerve ends are, and he presses them anyway, he's digging his own grave. But then again, that's how it’s always been between you two — chaos as foreplay, irritation as affection.

“No.” You breathe erratically, tugging away. “I wanna go home.” Your phone’s already in your hand— Uber app glowing against your face if you want to not be bothered on your way home or your dad's contact if you feel like putting on sad music on the ride.

“Because, you know,” You add, words tumbling fast with anger and hurt, but you're trying to make them look as irony. "I’m always at yours. So I’m gonna go home. And I’ll stay there forever—"

It’s not even what he said — it’s how he said it. Like it’s a burden; Rafe always has trouble communicating anyway. It's like you’re some furniture in his house he forgot to move when he bought it. Like you’re the one crowding his space, calling too much, caring too loudly.

“Don’t.”

The word came out rough, raw—like it tore out of him. He saw the phone in your hand, saw you already opening the Uber app like you were actually going to leave and just stay away, and something in his chest cracked.

He stepped forward, slow this time. No grab, no grip. Just him closing the space between you until he was close enough to feel the heat of your skin even through the air thick with silence.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, voice lower now—no sarcasm left, no bite. Just Rafe. The real one underneath all the bullshit.

“You know I didn’t.” His eyes dropped to your lips for half a second before snapping back up.

"No, but you did, Rafe." You said his name like a punishment; you know how much he hates being called that way by you.

With a tight grip in your voice, you looked away from him and pushed down from your wrists the bracelets he had given you and cleaned your eyes with the back of your hand, not wanting to cry because of him. "You said all of those things, you've been thinking about it. And that's fine, guess we're not meant to be if I'm so annoying." But it was so hard to keep your eyes dry when you're saying things like this, standing up for yourself.

The mere idea of not being with you makes his organs burn with pain.

"Are you trying to punish me right now?" He asked, voice sharp and defensive. Fuck, he doesn't get it.

"Not everything is about you, Rafe." You corrected him not with the charming tone you usually use on him, it was with the sharp tongue he always knew you had, you just never really used it against him.

"I'm choosing what I wanna do right now. And since you clearly don't want my company anymore—"You chuckled humourlessly even tho nothing was funny right now.

"I'm taking it somewhere else."

He did want your company. He always wanted your damn company. He could be halfway across the damn world and he'd want you by his side, nagging in that perfect bitchy tone and making that cute little pout when you were mad.

"You're being ridiculous." He said roughly, dark eyes locked on your face.

"And you're being straight out mean!"

You turned around, freeing yourself from his grip as your eyes got watered immediately with the raw emotion you always tried to keep under control.

"Why are you even with me if I'm so annoying, so needy, such a brat that doesn't let you breathe for five minutes?" You took a deep breath, this takes more out of you than you could've ever planned. "I just wanted a day with just us because you are always too tired to actually talk to me these days—"

“I am with you!" he snapped, voice cracking like a whip—then immediately faltered when he saw the tears.

He's always with you. What's the fucking part you don't understand?

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He hated this. Hated that he made you cry. Hated that you thought—actually believed that he didn’t want you.

“You think I let just anyone sleep in my bed every night? That I’d let anyone text me five hundred times a day and not block their ass?” His voice dropped, rough and low. “You think I tolerate this shit with anyone else?”

"I'm working!" He snapped again, tired of trying to sugarcoat whatever he said (not that he was very good at it). "Because you're high maintenance and I don't fucking care about it because my job allows me to give you whatever the fuck you want and see you fucking happy. That's why I'm tired."

He sighed, calming himself down and taking a break if he actually wanted to keep his girlfriend.

His hand reached out slowly this time—not grabbing, just brushing his thumb over your wet cheek.

God, you were infuriating. Stubborn and bratty and proud and impossible. He could deal with the pouting and the fighting, that was fine, that was expected. You were fiery, and that was probably why you'd hooked him in the first place.

But this—this feeling in his chest that was tightening with every damn word that left your mouth?

That was new and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

You wrapped your arms around your chest, phone sticking against it, holding onto anything that you could handle right now.

"You make me feel fucking stupid, Rafe." A few tears soft as feathers fell from your eyes, damping your cheeks and glistening like an expensive champagne. This has never happened, he never made you cry like this in all the months you've been together.

"Like you just tolerate everything I do, like I'm so hard to put up with or something—"

"You are hard to put up with," He bit back with authority. "You're stubborn and demanding and you act like a goddamn brat when you don't get your way. You whine and sulk and make that pout that you know makes me give in—"

"Might as well kill myself, Rafe—" You try to interrupt.

His jaw tightened and continued. "But you know damn well that every time I come home, I can't wait to see your face. You're the reason why I can't concentrate in the day, why I'm checking my phone every goddamn minute." he growled, stepping in again—this time cupping your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him. His thumbs wiped the tears roughly, almost angrily.

"Look at me. Look at me." His voice dropped, low and intense. "I don’t tolerate you, baby." A bitter laugh slipped out. "I want you. I promise I do. I want every second of it—the texts, the pouts, the way you hog my bed and leave your shit all over my bathroom."

His grip tightened slightly. "You think I’d let anyone else get away with half of what you do?” His voice dropped low, almost dangerous. It is a goddamn privilege, anyone else would be dead by now. "I get short sometimes. What do you want me to do?"

"To not treat me like I'm.... a burden or something—"

There it was. The forbidden word.

The word itself was hard to say. You've struggled with feeling like this your entire life and he knows it.

But Rafe never made you feel like it. Maybe that's why it stings so much now. It's the first time it ever happened.

"You're not exactly easy to deal with either." The defensive pout on your face was helpless. "I'm at your house 'cuz I thought you wanted me there—" Your lips trembled.

Rafe froze.

Because you were right.

And not the kind of oh yeah, okay, fair right—he felt it deep in his ribs like a punch he didn’t see coming.

You weren’t a burden. You’d never been. And he knew—he fucking knew—how much those words would cut into you. Because you’d told him before, late at night when the world was quiet and your voice got soft: “I just don’t want to be too much.”

And now here he was, being exactly what he swore he wouldn’t be.

His hands dropped from your face slowly, guilt settling in like a weight on his chest.

“I don’t…” Rafe exhaled sharply, running both hands through his hair. “I don't want you to think that.” He muttered, voice rougher than before—not with anger this time, but something quieter. “Jesus.”

He looked at you—really looked—and saw the way your arms were wrapped tight around yourself like you were holding broken pieces together. Saw the tears still clinging to your lashes and how hard you were trying not to cry more.

“You’re not too much,” he said firmly. “You’re never too much.” A beat passed before he added under his breath: "I'm too damn selfish sometimes."

"You're not a burden," Rafe said low, almost growling it out like it physically hurt him to say. "Never. That’s not what I meant. You think I'd let someone I didn't want stick around half this long?"

He exhaled hard through his nose. "I don’t even let Topper into my house without begging for an hour."

A weak huff escaped you—almost a laugh.

He'd called you plenty of things in his mind before. Dramatic, spoiled, even bitchy when you were being really difficult. But never a burden. God damn it all, he didn't want you to ever think that. He never, never wanted you to feel like you were anything less than the most important thing in his life.

But he'd pushed you here, hadn't he? He'd made you feel that way because he was tired and frustrated. Again.

"You think all of this?—" He gestured between you two, the tie you have between each other, it's impossibly tangled and secured with fire. It's never breaking apart. "—it's easy? You drive me absolutely insane every day."

He sighed deeply, completely wrapped around the magic touch of your puppy eyes. He can't never resist or not fold into them, anything that involves those eyes involves a 'yes' out of Rafe.

"*I'm sorry.*" He said quietly, to make sure you're listening to him. "I'm so sorry, baby. You're right." He leaned down, crunching down to touch your cheek with lips, his favorite place. "I was such a fucking dick, you're right. I should've never drag you here, I'm sorry."

Ugh, he knows, he knows this is literally the only activity you don't like. Anything else that involved him? You're always up for it. You're so good to him and he's such an asshole.

"I'm sorry I made you feel like that.You're not a burden." He said it so firmly you might as well think he was scolding you.

"It's okay—"

"No, it's not. Don't say that." He frowned, leaning down, searching for those fiery eyes that have disappeared after you drowned in the sadness he brought you. "You never fold, don't do it now. I was a bitch."

He wrapped his arms around your middle, fingers touching and rubbing comfortably any piece of skin he could reach from your adorable golfing outfit. Even tho you hated this, you still prepared.

He hooked his chin on your shoulders, allowing you to touch him however you want right now as he talked next to your ear. "And don't you dare say we're not meant to be. We are." He affirmed.

"And I'm gonna ask you to marry me in a few months, y'know it already. So don't say things like that." He asked nicely enough but still impatiently.

You gasped against his ear as if you didn't know it already. Sure, you wanted to be with Rafe forever and you know that a relationship as long as this one for him is a miracle. Of course he's securing you with a ring.

"Rafe—" You still said surprised.

"Shut up," he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours again, voice rough but unsteady with nerves now. He can't believe he has someone he actually wants around for the rest of his life. "Don't act so surprised. You know it."

Of course you do. He hasn't gifted you so many rings just because, he's searching for the perfect size.

His thumbs brushed under your eyes, wiping tears like he could erase every bad feeling if he just touched you enough.

"You want a day together?" His voice dropped lower. "Fine. Tomorrow. No golf, no Topper, no fucking company calls. Just me and you—wherever you want to go." A pause. "I love you, baby."

You rested your hands on his broad chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath your palm like the perfect summer song, you want it on repeat. You hummed with a smile, brushing your nose against his.

"Say it back."

You laughed softly, amused and happy your angst is soothed. "I love you."

He gruffed. "Hm, that's what I thought." He said before leaning down, smashing his lips against yours. He always claims and claims and claims.

There's nothing casual about him.

Which is why he obviously had you moving in with him two weeks later. He gave you his whole closet because he felt like it, and he had the privilege of watching you doing your pilates routine next to your dog and your cat on the living room.

He doesn't mess with you anymore. He had enough of it.

Yeah, this is the good life.

The thing looked like it had survived several natural disasters and maybe a small war. The black paint was chipped and fading, revealing patches of dull metal underneath. One of the adjustment knobs was held on with what appeared to be electrical tape, and the eyepiece was so scratched up you wondered if it was even possible to see anything clearly through it. Someone had abandoned it here next to a cooler full of warm beer and sandy towels, probably after reaching the same level of frustration you were currently experiencing. 

By now, it had to have been nearly fifteen minutes you’ve spent tinkering with the old thing that looked like it was on its last life. Your knees were aching from crouching in the sand, there was grit working its way into uncomfortable places, and the sweat was beginning to bead along your hairline despite the breeze. You’d tried every combination of knobs and adjustments you could think of, following the water-stained instruction manual that was written in what might’ve been English but to you, read like a foreign language.

The thing was mocking you at this point. Every time you thought you’d figured something out, peering hopefully through the eyepiece, you were met with the same blurry mess of nothing. Streetlights, maybe some stars… possibly just your own eyelashes—it was impossible to tell. 

Twisting something—you weren’t quite sure what it was supposed to do, but it was the only knob you hadn’t tried in the last five minutes—you were about to give up and walk away when you heard a voice behind you. 

“You struggling?” No shit.

“What does it look like,” you replied without turning around, voice maybe a little sharper than intended.

The boy behind you hummed, somehow managing to convey more understanding than judgment, and you heard footsteps in the sand as he came closer. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him crouch down next to you, close enough where you could smell beer and sunscreen and something else—laundry detergent, maybe. Or just the general scent of someone who had their life together.

“Mind if I?” he asked, setting his beer down on one of the towels with a soft thunk.

You looked at him then, really looked, and felt thrown off. He was attractive in an effortless way—broad shoulders, strong jaw, the kind of strewn blonde hair that looked intentional even when it definitely wasn’t. But it was his eyes that caught you off guard. They weren’t laughing at you or looking at you like you were some poor incompetent girl who needed rescuing. They were just… intrigued. 

Huffing, you started to stand. “Have at it,” but he made a small noise of protest.

“Where are you going?” His face scrunched up as he looked at you, and you paused halfway to standing. Looking at him, you watched as he struggled to find the words. His cheeks were flushed, though whether from the alcohol or the weather, you couldn’t tell. “Give me a second.” His tone left little room for argument. You stood there begrudgingly, not filled with nearly as much interest as you’d held in the beginning. The whole stargazing thing had seemed romantic and mysterious when you’d first spotted the telescope by itself, but now it just felt like another thing you were failing at. 

The lake stretched out before you, dark water reflecting the lights from the party behind you and the distant flow of the campus. It was actually pretty, you had to admit, even if you were too frustrated to appreciate it properly.

You could hear him making small adjustments, the soft scrape of metal against metal as he turned various knobs and shifted the telescope’s position. His movements sounded confident, like he actually knew what he was doing rather than just randomly trying different combinations like you had been. It was probably going to work for him on the first try, and then you’d have to stand there and pretend to be grateful while internally dying of embarrassment. 

“How long were you fighting with this thing?” he asked without looking up.

“Dunno.” You tried to keep the irritation out of your voice and mostly failed. “Long enough to question my intelligence.” Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to look like you weren’t desperately hoping he’d fail just as spectacularly as you had.

He hummed before going back to work. After another minute, he leaned down to look through the eyepiece one final time, was quiet for a second, and let out a short laugh. 

“Okay,” he said, sitting back on his heels and gesturing toward the telescope with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “Come take a look.”

Uncrossing your arms, you reluctantly walked over, preparing yourself for another round of disappointment.

But when you looked through the telescope, your breath caught.

Stars. Actual, real stars, vibrant against the dark sky, arranged in patterns that actually made sense instead of the blurry mess you’d been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, not pulling away from the eyepiece. “I can actually see them.” “That’s the Big Bear constellation,” he said, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Ursa Major. The brightest part there is what most people call the Big Dipper.”

You finally pulled back to look at him, your earlier irritation completely forgotten. “How do you know that?”

Something changed in his expression at your question, like he was deciding whether or not to tell you something. “I’m kinda into space,” he said almost sheepishly. “Have been since I was a kid.” “Really?” You saw him tense slightly.

“Yeah, I know it’s probably weird—” “No, that’s actually really cool.” You found yourself leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious now. “I mean, I’ve been trying to figure this thing out for half an hour and you fixed it in like five minutes. That’s pretty impressive.”

His whole face changed when you said that, relaxing in a way that made you think he’d been expecting you to laugh at him. “Most people think it’s boring.”

“Most people are idiots,” you said mindlessly, then feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I mean…”

“No, you’re right.” He was grinning now, and it completely transformed his face. “They are.”

You smiled back, the first real smile you’ve had all night. “So what else can you see with this thing?”

Joe, as you learned his name was, guided you through different constellations over the next twenty minutes, or at least the ones you could successfully make out from your spot on the beach. He explained that the telescope was, as you’d suspected, ancient—probably from the seventies and definitely not designed for serious stargazing. But he made it work anyway, pointing out Cassiopeia and showing you how to find the North Star, his voice taking on an enthusiasm that was completely different from how he first approached. 

“You come here alone?” he asked eventually, after you’d spent a few minutes in comfortable silence just looking at the stars. 

“Not exactly.” You glanced over toward where your friends were still scattered across the beach. “My friends are here, they’re just… busy socializing. And I’m apparently too busy sulking to join them.” He laughed, and it was a nice sound. “Sulking? On a night like this? Finals are over, its summer, you’re on the beach. What’s there to sulk about?”

You probably should’ve shrugged it off, maybe laughed, that way you wouldn’t regret this tomorrow. But, this was a stranger, someone you’d never see again. And you needed to get it off your chest. Ariella was too busy playing house with her boytoy of the month to actually listen, and Iris and McKenna were stuck in that only child rhythm where the second you say anything even remotely messy, they tilt their heads and go, “Oh… so you’re not happy for him?” “My brother got engaged last week,” you finally spoke. “And now my dad’s calling every person he’s ever met to tell them how Michaels got it all figured out—perfect job, perfect girl, perfect future.” You picked at a loose thread on your shorts. “Meanwhile I’m failing organic chem and apparently need help just pointing a telescope at the sky.”

“Ah.” Joe nodded like he understood completely. “The ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.” “Is it that obvious?” “Only because I know the feeling.” He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. “My brothers both played football. Good at it too. But they decided college was more for academics, less sports. Now they’re both doing well, have good jobs… families.”

“And you?”

“And I’m here playing football and hoping it turns into something.” He shrugged, but there was almost a defensive manner in the gesture. “They built something substantial, you know? Something reliable that’ll last. They’ve got real jobs, real paychecks, real life figured out. And I’m still chasing something that might not even work out.”

“Football’s real,” you said, though you weren’t sure why you felt the need to defend his choices. 

“Is it though?” He looked at you then, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “Like, what happens if I don’t make it past this? What if I get hurt, or I’m just not good enough? My brothers, they had backup plans. They’ve got skills that transfer to actual careers. And I’m just… stuck in this weird gray area where I’m not building anything concrete, but I’m also not ready to give up on this dream that might be completely unrealistic.” The tone of his voice made your chest feel tight. “The whole ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.”

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Sometimes I think they had it right all along. Maybe I should have just focused on school, picked a major that actually leads somewhere.”

“But you love it,” you said, guessing really. “Football, I mean.” “Yeah, I do.” He was sure of his answer before he spoke. “Which is probably what makes it worse. Like, at least if I hated it, walking away would be easy.” You hummed in understanding, then felt a clouding wave of embarrassment wash over you. “God, sorry for dumping all that on you. You definitely didn’t come over here for all that.”

He laughed, and it was genuine this time. “Are you kidding? This is better than listening to my friends argue about whether—”

“Hey!”

The shout cut through his sentence, and you both turned to see McKenna jogging toward you across the sand, looking frantic and slightly out of breath.  “There you are! Jesus, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She stopped in front of you, breathing hard. “We have a situation. Ariella’s about to make a very questionable decision with that guy from her psych class, and she’s not listening to Iris or me. We need backup, like, now.”

You were already getting to your feet, brushing sand off your legs. “Sorry,” you called over your shoulder to Joe as McKenna grabbed your arm and started pulling you away. “Thanks for the telescope thing!”

And then you were jogging across the sand, McKenna filling you in on exactly what kind of questionable decision Ariella was about to make, leaving Joe sitting in the sand next to the ancient telescope. You didn’t even get his last name, and Ohio State was big enough to ensure you’d probably never see him again.

June 25th, 2017

A nice, relaxing beach day is exactly what you needed after the week you’ve had. Professor Klubertz’s final grades are still making your stomach twist, but at least out here with the sun on your skin and the sound of summer, you can almost forget about organic chemistry. 

“Can you put sunscreen on my back?” Ariella asks, flopping down on her towel next to you. “I’m already burning and we’ve been here like twenty minutes”

You squeeze a generous amount of SPF 30 onto your palm and start working it across her shoulders, half listening as McKenna and Iris debate whether they should walk down to the docks or just stay put. The beach is packed today, weekend crowds claiming every available spot on the sand. Coolers, towels, and umbrellas create a maze of temporary territories. 

A couple minutes later, you’re stuck in that perfect lazy state where the sun is making you drowsy and the conversation around you fades into background noise. Your book is open next to you, but you haven’t turned a page in how long. 

The group of guys your age playing volleyball to the left have been at it for a while, their game adding shouts and laughter to your background noise. Then the noise gets louder, more excited, and you glance over to see what the commotion is about. 

A few new people have joined their game, making it all the more competitive. One of them is jumping to spike the ball, his whole body stretched tall and powerful against the blue sky.

When he lands and turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of his profile. You sit up a little straighter, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it. The guy rotates to face your direction as he sets up for the next set, and your breath catches.

Joe.

You’d almost forgotten about the telescope guy from the party you spilled your heart to—it’s been over a week, and between family stress and helping Ariella through her crisis, he’d faded to the back of your mind.

But seeing him now, wearing board shorts that hang low on his hips and nothing else, it’s weird how different he looks in daylight. More… real, somehow. You find yourself watching as he moves around the makeshift court, and you have to admit he’s clearly athletic. Really good at volleyball, actually.

You look away, try to pretend you’re suddenly interested in your book or your friends’ conversation, but your eyes keep drifting back. It’s just curiosity, you tell yourself. You barely know the guy, but there was something nice about the conversation you had.

Every time he pushes off the sand with a small grunt, laughs with his friends, lifts his hat to run a hand through his sweaty hair, you feel… something. But it’s probably just recognition.

You barely know him—you shared one conversation over a broken telescope and a mutual spiral, and now you’re acting weird, stealing glances across the beach like some stalker.

But then Joe serves the ball, a perfect arc that his opponents can’t return, and his team erupts in celebration. He’s grinning, that same easy smile from the night you met him, and when he turns to high-five one of his teammates, his eyes sweep across the beach.

And land directly on you.

For a second that feels like an hour, you both stare at each other across the sand. You’re very aware that you’ve been caught red-handed watching.

Then Joe’s face breaks into a wider smile, more knowing. He lifts his chin in a small nod—casual but somehow intimate, like you two share a secret—and you can’t help but smile back before quickly looking down at your book, pretending you were reading all along.

Your heart is racing, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are burning, but mostly you just feel embarrassed. He remembered you. He seems happy to see you. And unless you’re completely misreading the situation, he definitely caught you staring. 

“Oh my god, look at that one,” McKennna says suddenly, and you glance up to see her pointing (not so subtly) towards the volleyball net. “The tall one with the backwards hat.” You follow her gaze straight to Joe, who’s now setting up for another serve, and try to keep your expression neutral. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“Okay?” Iris looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Are we looking at the same person?” “I think I’m gonna introduce myself,” Ariella announces, already sitting up and adjusting her bikini top.

“No,” you blurt quickly, then catch yourself. “I mean, he’s probably busy. They’re in the middle of a game.”

“Since when do you care about interrupting boys?” McKenna asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you nervous. Does she remember? She couldn’t. “Wait… do you know him?”

Or not.

Before you can answer, you hear someone calling out your name questionably, and you look up to see one of Joe’s teammates jogging toward your group. He’s tall and blonde with the kind of all American good looks that probably got voted prom king, and he's grinning like he knows something you don’t. 

“Hey, I’m Derek,” he introduces himself. “My buddy over there thinks he knows you guys.” He jerks his thumb toward the volleyball net, where Joe is very obviously trying to look like he’s not watching this interaction while still absolutely watching it.

“Which buddy?” Ariella asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

Derek laughs shortly, “the one kicking our asses. Joe. He wanted me to come over and ask if you girls want to play.” Derek scratches the back of his head and you look behind him at Joe. “We could use some more people, make the teams more interesting.”

You feel all three of your friends look at you, and you know you’re probably burning up again. This is it—the inevitable moment where you either have to admit you know Joe or pretend you don’t and hope no one figures it out.

“Oh, I don't really play volleyball,” you say.

“We’d love to,” McKenna cuts you off, already getting to her feet. “Right, guys?” “Absolutely,” Iris agrees, closing her own book with a snap.

“I’m really not good at it,” you protest, but Ariella is pulling you up by the arm.

“It doesn’t matter, it’ll be fun. Come on.” And before you know it, you’re being dragged across the sand toward the volleyball net, where Joe is waiting with a shit-eating grin that makes you want to hide behind your friends.

“Hey,” he greets when you get close enough, and his voice is welcoming and warm like you’re old friends instead of near strangers who had one conversation nine days ago.

“Hi,” you manage, noticing how little clothing you’re both wearing, how the sun is catching the sweat droplets falling down his neck, onto his chest.

You look around, glad to be able to hide behind your sunglasses. “I was hoping I’d run into you again,” there’s something shy about the way he says it that makes your stomach flutter. “Were you?” You tilt your head trying to look unimpressed.

He nods his head and he’s still grinning, but there’s friendliness underneath it that puts you at ease. “You left before I could even get your number.” 

The comment is casual, teasing, but there’s definitely a question buried in it. 

“Did I? I don’t really remember that.”

A complete lie, and from the way Joe’s grin widens, he knows it.

“Really? Cause I definitely remember you running off with your friend like there was some kind of emergency.” “There was an emergency,” you say, fighting to keep a straight face. “My friend needed help.”

“Right, of course. Very important emergency. And here I thought maybe you were just trying to escape before I could ask for those digits.” “Why would I do that?” “I don’t know. Maybe you’re one of those girls who’s too cool for guys who know about telescopes.” “Maybe I am,” you say, but you're smiling now, and you can see in his eyes that he knows you're full of it.

"Burrow!" one of his teammates shouts from the other side of the net. So that’s his last name. "We playing or what?"

Joe glances over, then back at you. "You playing?"

"I don't really—"

"She's playing," Ariella announces, patting your shoulder as she walks past you.

“Actually, no,” you say quickly, taking a step back from the group that’s already organizing themselves around the net. “I’m good just watching. Really.” McKenna gives you a look like you’re being ridiculous, but then she’s just as quickly caught up with one of Joe’s flirting friends to argue. You grab your towel—thank god you managed to snag it before they dragged you over here—and look around for somewhere to sit.

The guys have their stuff scattered in the sand nearby, a collection of water bottles and t-shirts and flip-flops, so you settle down there. The sand is warm against your skin as you spread your towel out, and you take your time smoothing out the corners, brushing away the grains that have already managed to find their way onto the fabric. 

The sun feels good on your shoulders, and you’re actually starting to relax again when you hear the soft thud of someone dropping down next to you. 

You glance over to find Joe settling beside you. He’s got that same grin from before, and he’s looking at you like he’s planned this whole thing. “Had to sit out,” he says simply, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Even the teams out.”

You look over where everyone is playing, also where there are clearly uneven teams now that he’s abandoned the game. “Joe, that makes no sense. Now they're completely lopsided.”

“Really? I’m terrible with numbers,” he's completely shameless about his ridiculous excuse. This face tells you he knows exactly how bad his logic is, yet doesn’t care even a little bit. 

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his complete lack of effort. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’ve been told that before,” he jokes again, then falls quiet. “About that emergency from the other night.” “What about it?”

“Was it really that urgent or were you looking for a way out?” You consider lying, keeping up the pretense that you barely remember him or that night, but something about him makes you want to be honest. “Cause if I’m reading this all wro—”

“It was real.” You cut him off quickly. “My friend was having a complete meltdown.” “And you’re the designated crisis manager?” “Something like that.” You focus your attention ahead, suddenly feeling exposed under his full attention. “What about you? Do you always abandon your friends to sit with girls you barely know?” “Only the interesting ones,” he says without missing a beat. “And for the record, I don’t think we barely know each other.”

He got you there. 

“So,” Joe continues, settling more comfortably in the sand beside you, “tell me what you’ve been up to for the past week and a half. Besides avoiding giving cute guys your phone number.” “Did you just call yourself cute?” “I was talking about Derek,” he says with mock seriousness, but then his nose twitches and he smiles. “But if you think I’m cute too, I’m not gonna argue.”

The rest of the afternoon unfolds easily. Conversation with Joe comes naturally, slipping between stories and quiet moments that don’t feel awkward at all. He tells you more about football—his teammates who think astronomy is weird, the pressure of growing up in a small town where everyone knows your name and keeps track of what you’re doing.

You find yourself opening up without meaning to, talking about childhood memories, the classes that drained you this semester, even Ariella’s latest boy drama. Joe grins at that part, leaning in like he’s genuinely invested, asking for more details than you probably should share—but he makes it hard to say no. There’s something about the way he listens, like whatever you’re saying is worth it. Like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

The sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting everything golden, and you realize you’ve been sitting there for hours. Your friends are still playing, or pretending to play while mulling around with Joe’s friends, but you haven’t thought about them once. 

At some point, Joe shifts closer, a gradual drift that brings his knee within inches of yours. When he laughs, he leans in, and you notice his eyes are really blue when they’re caught in the sunlight. His fingers trace absent minded patterns in the sand between you as he talks, spirals and lines that you find yourself watching before catching yourself and looking away. You shouldn’t be thinking about—nope. Just sand and patterns. Nothing more.

Eventually, McKenna waves from across the sand with the sort of urgency that means it’s time to go. There’s a reluctance in the way you both move when you finally stand, like breaking this conversation may mean you can’t get it back.

Joe pulls out his phone without a word, and you take it, fingers still dusty with sand as you type your number in. When you return to your group, your friends are already gathering their things, chattering about dinner plans and who’s driving, but it all feels strangely far away, like the tide’s pulled something softer around you that hasn’t quite let go.

You start to follow them, the sand cooling beneath your feet, the sky turning a deeper shade of amber—and just before you leave, you glance back. He’s still there, standing where you left him, hands in his pockets, eyes on you, smiling like he already knows he'll be seeing you again soon.

And maybe, maybe, you want him to be right.

June 28th, 2017

Your head is buzzing pleasantly from the two beers you nursed during the game, and you’re still giggling about the drunk guy who kept trying to order nachos from the hot dog vendor. The stadium lights fade in Joe’s rearview mirror as he navigates the busy streets.

Earlier tonight, you’d spent an eternity in front of your mirror trying to figure out what “casual but cute” meant for a baseball game. Iris had finally intervened, tossing you a pair of denim shorts and a fitted Reds tank top while McKenna painted your nails a soft pink.

They’d been buzzing with excitement ever since yesterday, when Joe had texted you about the Cincinnati Reds after you’d mentioned during your conversation that you’d never been to a professional baseball game—not even minor league.

The invitation had come out of nowhere. One minute you were planning out summer bucket lists, and the next Joe was texting you about a game today. Ariella caught you staring at the message, formulating a reply, and intervened before you could even think about saying no. 

“I still can’t believe he thought she was his ex-wife,” you sink back into the passenger seat and turn to face him. The alcohol has made everything feel softer around the edges, more relaxed. You don’t even like beer normally, but something about sitting in those stadium seats with Joe had made you nervous enough to order one, then another.

“The way he kept calling her Linda,” Joe shakes his head grinning. “Poor woman was just trying to sell hot dogs and this guy’s in his own world.” “And you bought nachos for him!” you point out, laughing. “Like that was going to help the situation.” “I felt bad for him! He looked so confused when she didn’t recognize him.” Joe’s fingers tap against his leg as he stops at a red light, and you find yourself watching the movement. “Plus, he seemed pretty harmless. Just really, really drunk.” You tuck one leg up under you, getting more comfortable in the worn leather seat. The truck smells like him—that clean, warm scent you’re starting to associate with Joe—mixed with the lingering smell of stadium food. “I thought baseball was supposed to be boring.” “Who told you that?” “Everyone. Every movie, every TV show. It’s like the universal symbol for boring American pastimes.”

Joe glances over at you as the light turns green, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, those people are wrong. Baseball’s only boring if you don’t understand what’s happening.” “Or if you don’t have someone explaining why the pitcher keeps shaking his head at the catcher.” “That’s calleds strategy,” he says matter of factly. “Very sophisticated communication.” You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. The truth is, you enjoyed tonight more than you’d expected. Not just the game itself, but the way Joe had explained things without being condescending, how he brought you back a hamburger despite you saying you weren’t hungry, the way he seemed genuinely interested in what you thought about the experience. 

“What was your favorite part?” Joe asks, turning down your street. “Besides drunk Linda guy, obviously.” You think about it for a moment, watching the familiar college houses pass by. “Honestly, the seventh-inning stretch. When everyone was singing and you knew all the words.”

“You didn’t sing along.” “I didn’t know the words,” you laugh. “But you looked so happy to be there.” Something changes in his expression. “I was happy. It’s more fun when you have someone to share it with.” The way he says it makes your stomach flutter. The truck slows as Joe pulls into your driveway but leaves the engine running. The porch light casts a warm glow across the front of your house and you can hear crickets chirping in the background.

“So,” Joe drawls, turning to face you properly, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “What’s the verdict? Would you go to another game or was this a one-time experiment?” 

The way he’s looking at you makes the easy atmosphere shift slightly. The truck feels smaller, more intimate. You can see the way his hair is still messy from when he’d run his hands through it during a particularly tense inning, the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “I might be convinced,” you muse, then add more honestly, “it was actually really fun. Even if I still don’t understand why everyone gets so excited when a guy just… runs really fast.”

“He wasn’t just running—” Joe starts and then catches your expression and laughs. “You’re messing with me again.” “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There’s something softer around the edges of his eyes now. The dashboard light casts everything in a muted glow, and you can see the way he's looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. 

You turn away and reach for the door handle, needing some distance from the intensity of his gaze, but you pause with your hand on the cool metal. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for tonight. Inviting me, I mean. And for explaining everything. I’m glad you remembered about me never going to a game.”

You turn to face him again and watch as his eyebrows furrow slightly, like he’s surprised you think he might’ve forgotten something like that. “I remember everything you tell me.” The admission hands in the air between you, heavier than it should for something so simple. To you, it’s not just about remembering—it’s about the fact that he was listening in the first place, that what you say matters enough for him to file away for later.

“I should go in,” you finally say, though you don’t move.

He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look away. There’s something building between you, some invisible thread that’s pulling tighter with each conversation, each shared laugh, each moment like this one. You can feel it in the way he’s looking at you, in the way your heart is beating just a little too fast.

The moment stretches between you, full of potential and unspoken questions. Finally, you force yourself to open the door, the cool night air rushing in and breaking whatever spell had settled over the cabin of the truck.

“Text me when you get home?” you ask, hopping down onto the pavement. “It’s like a five minute drive,” Joe points out, amused.

“Still.”

His smile softens. “Okay. I will.”

You climb out and he waits, engine idling, until you’re safely through the front door. Through the window, you watch as his tail lights disappear around the corner, your stomach in your chest from whatever just happened.

July 4th, 2017

The gravel crunches under McKenna’s tires as she pulls into the driveway of Derek’s family lake house, and you can already hear music and voices carrying from the backyard. Your skin is tight and warm from a full day in the sun, in desperate need of more moisturizer, yet a pleasant exhaustion that comes from hours of doing absolutely nothing productive settles over you.

You’d spent the morning sprawled on towels at the beach with the girls, nursing hangovers from last night with greasy gas station breakfast sandwiches and too many lattes. By noon, the mimosas Iris had smuggled in a water bottle had you all buzzed and giggly again, splashing each other in water and taking turns rating the guys who walked past.

Joe’s text came through around four, letting you know about the lake house and the barbeque followed by fireworks they had planned. Ariella immediately said yes when you showed the message, making a joke about how she could use some company tonight.

McKenna, who had opted out of drinking nearly two hours ago now, gladly agreed to make the drive a little ways north, excited to see Derek. And now, two hours later, you’re climbing out of the car with sandy feet and sun-drunk smiles, following the sound of voices toward the back of the house.

The lake house is beautiful in a lived in way. Weathered wood siding and a wraparound porch. Sitting on top of a hill that may be a little dangerous to balance on a couple drinks deeper.

“Holy shit,” Iris murmurs as you round the corner to the backyard, and you have to agree. The property stretches down to the water, complete with a dock and what looks like a pontoon boat tied up beside it. There’s a fire pit set up near the water’s edge, and closer to the house, a few guys are manning a massive grill while others lounge in deck chairs with beers in hand.

You spot Joe immediately—he’s on the lawn with someone else, tossing a football back and forth with easy precision that reminds you he's actually good at football. He’s wearing a different pair of swim shorts than you last saw him in with a faded t-shirt. When he catches the ball, he turns slightly in your direction from the impact.

“There’s your boy,” McKenna says under her breath, nudging you with her elbow.

“He’s not my boy,” you protest automatically, but you’re already walking toward him, drawn by some invisible magnet. 

Joe looks up as you approach, and his face breaks into a smile you’re starting to know by heart. “You made it,” he calls out, jogging over with the football still tucked under his arm.

“Thanks for inviting us,” you say shyly despite the fact that you just saw him two days ago when you’d dragged him to the farmer’s market downtown after he mentioned he’d never been to one. It was your turn to play tour guide, and you loved watching his face light up at the honey vendor’s samples, the way he was genuinely fascinated by the woman explaining how she had her own beehive.

He followed you around like a curious little kid, asking questions about everything and insisting on carrying your canvas tote when it got heavy with peaches and fresh bread. You spent two hours wandering the stalls, him marveling at things you took for granted. The morning felt domestic in a way that surprised you both, especially when he insisted on buying you sunflowers from the flower stand, claiming it was payment for the “cultural education.” 

“Course.” He spoke, drawing you back to the present. “How was the beach?” “Sandy. Hot. The usual.” You gesture to your slightly disheveled appearance.

“You look good,” Joe says simply, and it makes heat bloom within you that has nothing to do with a sunburn.

“Joe!” Derek calls from the grill. “Stop flirting and come help me with this before I burn everything.” “I wasn’t—” Joe starts but Derek’s already laughing, and you can see the tips of his ears go red.

“Go,” you say, giving him a little push toward the grill. “We’ll find our way around.”

You and your friends come to learn that Derek’s family has clearly hosted many times before. There are about five coolers full of beer scattered around the yard, a whole setup of lawn games, and enough food to feed a small army.

The evening flows easily from there. Dinner happens around a long picnic table that’s been dragged onto the deck, everyone squeezing together on benches and mismatched chairs. The food is simple but perfect—grilled burgers and hot dogs, three different kinds of pasta salads, and corn on the cob that drips butter down your chin.

Laughter and stories circled the table, someone telling a story about a camping trip last year gone wrong, McKenna describing her internship, Derek explaining how his family ended up with this place.

You find yourself actually contributing to the stories instead of just listening from the sidelines like you usually do around people who aren’t your girlfriends. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant somehow. Usually you’re the one who laughs at everyone else's jokes and nods along, but tonight words are coming easier. It crosses your mind how different this is from family dinners, where Michael always dominates the conversation and you face into the background. Here, people actually seem interested in what you say.

The lakehouse reminds you of the places your family used to vacation when you were younger, before your dad got himself too caught up in work to take proper time off. There’s something about the wood siding and the casual elegance that brings back memories of summer weeks spent reading on docks just like this one. You wonder if Michael remembers those trips the same way you do, or if he was already too focused on impressing everyone even then.

After everyone’s satisfied and the table’s been cleared, the competitive spirit emerges. Someone suggests a cornhole competition, and suddenly everyone is picking partners and trash talking each other's abilities. You end up paired with Iris, facing off against some of Joe’s friends who are, annoyingly, taking this way too seriously. 

You’re somewhere between your second win and a losing streak that’s picking up speed when you feel someone step in behind you. “Your forn is terrible,” Joe says, close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath on your neck.

“My form is perfect, thank you very much,” you shoot back, lining up for your next throw. “Not all of us can be freakishly good at everything we do.”

“Here, lemme show you.” Before you can protest, Joe’s stepping up behind you, his chest almost touching your back as he adjusts your arm position. “You want to keep your elbow steady, like this.”

His hand covers yours on the bean bag and you realize this is the first time he’s touching you. Every nerve in your body seems to light up at the contact, and you’re remembering that several people are watching this interaction. 

The rational part of your brain is screaming about how this looks, about how obvious you’re being, but the rest of you doesn’t care. His hand is warm and steady, and standing this close to him makes your heart race in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

“Got it?” He asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You manage a nod back, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to anymore. Joe steps back and you throw the bean bag, which sails cleanly through the hole in the board.

“See? Perfect form.” Joe says with a grin, and you roll your eyes but you’re smiling too.

The cornhole tournament continues for another hour, you and Iris getting kicked off the next game despite Joe’s assistance. Eventually, as the sun starts to set, people begin gravitating toward the water. Someone finds a speaker, and soon there’s music mixing with the sound of waves lapping against the dock.

You end up sitting on the edge of the pier with your feet in the water, watching Joe and a few others attempt some sort of diving competition off the end of the dock. Someone attempts a backflip and belly flops spectacularly. Another tries some kind of twist and ends up hitting the water sideways.

“That was definitely a belly flop,” Ariella judges from beside you, and the victim surfaces with a wounded expression. 

“Those underwater swimmers do the same shit!”

“But yours was painful to watch,” you laugh, and Joe smirks at the interaction before swimming closer to where you’re sitting. Ariella excuses herself, hopping up with her empty cup. You watch as she makes her way to the coolers that are set up near the firepit.

Joe plants himself right between your dangling legs, arms folded on the dock, looking up at you with water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “Think you could do better?”

Your breath catches slightly at his position, and you instinctively scoot back just an inch on the dock. But you can’t look away from his face—the way his wet hair is pushed back, how a single droplet of water clings to his bottom lip before falling onto his hands where they rest against the dock. 

“Absolutely not. I’ll stick to my choice of sitting in the audience."

“Smart choice,” there’s something in his voice that makes you never want to look away from him. His eyes are a mesmerizing shade of blue this close up, and there’s water still dripping from his chin, and you realize you’re staring but you can’t seem to stop.

Joe stays there for another minute, but when he finally does push back from the dock to rejoin, his hand finds your ankle first, fingers wrapping around it in a gentle squeeze that sends fire crackling through your skin.

The touch lasts maybe two seconds at most, but your skin burns where his fingers were long after he’s swimming away.

“So,” Ariella settles down next to you with a fresh drink. “When exactly is he going to ask you out officially.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply back, but your eyes are glued to Joe as he surfaces from his latest dive, shaking the water from his hair. “Right. And I’m sure the way he’s been hovering all night is just friendly concern.” You glance around and catch Joe looking in your direction. When your eyes meet, he flashes you a cute smile before diving back under the water. “We’re just friends,” you insist, but even you don’t sound convinced anymore. 

A month ago, you were dreading three months of nothing, of being stuck while Michael got engaged and your dad pestered you about plans for next year. Now, you’re sitting here with people you actually want to spend time with, teetering on the edge of uncharted territory with a boy you’ve just met.

When someone mentions that the fireworks should be starting soon, people heave themselves out of the water and towel off. Someone runs inside to grab more blankets, another person emerges with s’mores fixings for after.

As the fireworks start blooming over the lake, you find yourself sitting next to Joe on a blanket he spread out on the grass for the two of you. The heat has finally cooled down, and there’s something grounding about the way the colors reflect off the water, the sound of everyone’s oohs and ahhs mixing with the distant boom of the explosions. 

“This is perfect,” you say softly, thinking out loud. 

“Yeah,” Joe agrees, but when you glance over, he’s not looking at the fireworks at all. He’s looking at you.

Somewhere during the finale, as you’re both leaning back on your hands watching the sky, his fingers find yours against the blanket. It’s subtle at first—just the lightest brush of skin against skin—but then his fingers slowly intertwine with yours.

By the time the show ends, people are yawning, checking the time, debating whether anyone’s sober enough to drive. The unanimous decision emerges quickly—everyone’s staying. Derek’s family (not so surprisingly) was prepared for this. There are various air mattresses and extra pillows scattered around the home, and people are already claiming spots on couches and in spare bedrooms.

“You guys can take the last guest room.” Derek offers to your group, but McKenna waves him off.

“We’re fine wherever. This couch looks perfect,” for added effect, she bounces down on the couch with a smile on her face. 

You somehow (through the plotting of your friends) end up on the floor with Joe, tucked into a cloud of pillows, other’s laying around in various states of exhaustion and lingering drunkenness. People begin to drift off to sleep, and the room grows quieter, but you and Joe keep talking in hushed voices about everything and nothing. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the Star Wars movies,” Joe whispers, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you cried during Marley and Me,” you whisper back.

“That dog dies! It’s devastating!”

You’re both trying not to laugh too loudly and wake everyone up, but the effort is making you giggle even more. Eventually, your eyelids start to feel heavy, the combination of sun and alcohol and Joe’s warm presence next to you lulling you toward sleep.

The last thing you remember is the steady rhythm of his breathing and the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. 

When you wake up, the early morning light is filtering through the windows, and you’re completely wrapped up in Joe. Somehow during the night, you shuffled until you were practically lying on top of him, your head on his chest, his arms around you, your legs tangled together. He’s still asleep, his face relaxed in a way that makes him look younger, and for a moment you just lie there, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.

For a second, it feels perfect. Natural. Like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Like all those careful boundaries you’ve been maintaining were just getting in the way of something that was always meant to happen.

Then reality crashes over you in seconds. This is Joe. Your friend Joe. Who you’ve been telling everyone is just a friend, who you’ve been trying to convince yourself is just a friend. But friends don’t wake up like this, all wrapped around each other. Friends don’t feel this safe and right together.

Panic flutters in your chest as you carefully extract yourself from his arms, trying not to wake him. Around the room, everyone else is still passed out, and you’re grateful no one else is awake to witness this.

July 16th, 2017

The lookout point spreads out before you like something from a postcard, the city lights of Columbus twinkling below in the warm summer darkness. Joe’s truck is parked at the edge of the gravel lot, tailgate down, both of you sitting with your legs dangling over the side. A bag of fast food is shared between the two of you, the taste of a chocolate milkshake still sweet on your tongue.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the Fourth of July. Nearly two weeks since you woke up tangled around him and panicked your way out of the house before anyone could see. You’ve been keeping your distance since then, not obviously, but carefully. 

Responding to his texts hours later instead of minutes. Finding excuses the couple times he suggested hanging out. It’s not that you don’t want to see him—that’s exactly the problem. You want to see him too much, and that scares you more than you’re willing to admit.

The last time you felt this way about someone was junior year of high school, when Marcus Solomon asked you to homecoming and your dad somehow found out. The lecture that followed still makes your stomach twist when you think about it—you needed to focus on your future, a career, not get distracted by boys who would just derail your (his) plans. 

Marcus had stopped calling after your dad “had a conversation” with him, and you learned to keep your feelings to yourself after that instance. 

But Joe, for one, makes it hard to maintain that distance. When he called two days ago, his voice was warm albeit a little confused, asking if you were okay because you seemed different lately, you almost caved. Instead, you made some excuse about being busy with family stuff, and he’s suggested tonight. Just us two, he said, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no.

Now here you are, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

“My nephew turned six,” Joe is saying, grinning at some memory from his weekend. He went back to Athens in order to spend time with family at said nephew’s birthday party. “Kid’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Spent the whole party roaring at everyone who tried to talk to him.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you smile back. The way he lights up when talking about his family makes you feel warm. “Did you survive the attack?” “Barely. He informed me that I was being eaten by a T-Rex at least four times.” Joe takes a sip of his Coke, and you find yourself watching the way his throat moves when he swallows. “But I bought him some triceratops thing, so I’m officially the coolest uncle again.”

“Smart strategy.” The two of you jumped around from talking about his family to yours to random observations of the city sprawled out below. He tells you about driving through his hometown, how everything looks smaller than he remembered, how his mom still makes him sit through sunday dinner even though he’s twenty years old.

You tell him about spending the past weekend at the mall with Ariella, how she made you try on exactly eight dresses before finding one she deemed acceptable for some party you didn’t even want to go to.

It was comfortable, this back and forth, but there’s an awareness beneath it that wasn't there before—or maybe it was always there and you’re just noticing it now. The way he looks at you when you laugh, how he leans closer when you talk, the careful space he maintains between you that feels both respectful and somehow charged.

“What else did you do while you were home?” you ask, settling back on your elbows and looking up at the sky. “Besides surviving dinosaur attacks.”

Joe is quiet for a moment, and when you glance over, there’s a change in his expression. More serious. “Talked to some people. About football stuff.” “Oh.” You sit up a little straighter, sensing a shift. “Good conversations?” He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “Some coaches from different programs. People wanting to know what I’m thinking long-term.” “And? What’d you tell them?” “That I’m focused on this season first.” His voice has a deflective quality to it that you’ve never heard from him before. “It’s all hypothetical anyway.” You want to push, to ask more about what these conversations meant, whether they were about transferring or the draft or something else entirely. But something in his posture warns you off, tells you this is territory he’s not ready to explore with you. So instead, you just nod and let the subject drop.

Joe hums after a moment, clearly eager to change the subject, “whatever happened with your brother and all that engagement stuff?”

You exhale a short laugh, the sound more bitter than intended. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of planning. Talks about flowers and venues and all the things that apparently require months worth of discussions.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about it.”

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” you sigh out the words you seem to repeat day in and day out. “Michael deserves to be happy and Sarah’s nice enough.”

You trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated knot of emotions you’re tangled between every time someone brings up the wedding. “But?” 

“They tried to get me to be a bridesmaid. Sarah’s idea, I think.”

“But you said no?”

“Dad helped me get out of it,” you admit with a  slight laugh. “Which is probably the first time in my life he’s actively helped me avoid something involving Michael.”

“Why’d you want to avoid it?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Michael and I aren’t exactly the close sibling type. More like polite roommates who happened to grow up in the same house.” You fiddle with the rings on your fingers. “Standing up there pretending we’re best friends would’ve been weird for everyone involved.”

You make a face. “Plus, can you imagine me in some pastel bridesmaid dress? Dad saved everyone from that disaster.”

Joe laughs at that, and you’re thankful he doesn’t dive deeper into it. Maybe it was payback for the football thing. “Fair enough,” he mumbles in response.

The air is warm against your skin, breeze carrying the scent of summer grass and wildflowers. You two are sitting so close it would be easy to lean against his shoulder, to let yourself have that comfort. But something holds you back—maybe the memory of waking up wrapped around him. Or could it be the fear of wanting more than he’s willing to give?

“Look,” Joe says suddenly, his voice filled with excitement. “Shooting star.”

You follow his gaze upward, scanning the dark sky, but you don’t see anything. “Where?”

“There,” he says urgently, and before you can look where he’s pointing, his hands are on your shoulders and pulling you back toward him. “Gotta see it before it’s gone.”

Before you can process, you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest. His hands are gentle but firm as he handles your head toward the right part of the sky. “See it? Right there above that really bright star—”

And then you do see it, a streak of light so brief you almost miss it, burning across the darkness before disappearing. “Oh,” you breathe, genuinely amazed. “I saw it.”

“Make a wish,” Joe says softly, his voice close to your ear.

But you can’t think about wishes right now because everything else is clouding your mind. The warmth of his body behind you, the way his hands are resting lightly on your bare shoulders, how his breath stirs the hair near your ear. Your heart is beating too fast, and you wonder if he can feel it through your shirts.

“Did you make one?” you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you lie, just to please him.

July 23rd, 2017

The night is thick with humidity clouding the air and the lingering smell of fried food from the street festival you both just left. Your head is pleasantly fuzzy from the drinks you shared—overpriced cocktails served in plastic cups that tasted more like sugar than alcohol, but somehow still managed to leave you both giggling at everything and nothing. 

Joe is in the middle of telling some story about his teammate who got stuck in a porta-potty earlier, accentuated with exaggerated gestures that nearly send him stumbling into a streetlight. You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the kind of deep, uncontrollable laughter that only comes when you’re tipsy and everything seems funnier than it actually is.

“I’m serious,” Joe insists, steadying himself against your shoulder as you both pause under a streetlight to catch your breath. “Derek had to literally push the thing over to get him out. Everyone was watching.”

“Stop,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “That’s horrible. The poor guy.” “He deserved it.” Joe shakes his head in mock disgust, and you dissolve into another fit of giggles.

You’re about to respond when something catches your eye—a non sign buzzing in the window of a narrow storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a late-night diner. ‘INK & STEEL TATTOO PARLOR’ flickers in electric blue cursive, and through the window, you can see the glow of fluorescent lights and the dark silhouettes of people inside. 

“Joe,” you point at the shop. “We should get tattoos.”

It’s meant to be a joke. You expect Joe to laugh, make some joke like about how you should get a dog from the shelter further down the street next—something silly. Instead, his glazed over eyes sharpen with interest, and before you can process, he’s walking toward the door.

“Joe,” you call after him, your laughter dying in your throat. “Joe, wait. I was kidding.”

He stops with his hand on the door handle and turns back to you, his eyes somewhere between hopeful and uncertain. “Were you joking?” he asks. “Cause if you were, that’s fine. But if you weren’t…”

You stare at him, taking in the way the neon lights cast blue shadows across his face. “What would we even get?” you hear yourself asking, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or genuine curiosity that makes the words tumble out. “I dunno,” he hums, eyes flickering around your surroundings until they stop suddenly, looking up at the sky. “A star,” comes his next answer without hesitation. 

A star. Because of course it would be a star. 

“That’s…” you trail off, considering. The sober part of your brain is screaming that this is insane, that you barely know the guy, that getting matching tattoos with someone you’ve known for five weeks is the kind of decision you’ll regret for the rest of your life.

“Okay,” you surprise yourself when the word slips out. “Okay, but something small. Really small.”

Joe’s face breaks into a grin so bright it could power the neon sign behind him. “Really?”

“Really. But if we hate it tomorrow, I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Deal,” he states, pushing the door open.

The inside of the tattoo parlor is neat with black leather chairs and art covering every inch of wall space. You’re not sure if it's the steady buzz of a tattoo gun buzzing, or the air smelling like antiseptic and ink that almost makes you back out. 

The woman behind the counter looks up when you enter, her expression shifting from a professional welcome to barely concealed skepticism as she takes in your slightly unsteady gaits. She’s probably in her forties, with intricate sleeve tattoos and the kind of seen-it-all expression that comes from years in a business. 

“We’re about to close,” she says slowly, glancing between you and Joe with wariness.

“We just want something small,” Joe says, pulling out his wallet as if to prove you were serious. “A star each.”

The woman—her name tag reads Diana—studied you both for a long moment. There’s a maternal aspect of the way she looks at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to send you home or let you make what might be a terrible decision. “You two sure about this?” She asks finally. You and Joe both look at each other, smile, and then back at Diana, giving her a reassuring nod. 

Diana sighs, but she’s already moving toward her station, decorated with scribbled drawings, torn out from different pages. Her art is good, looking at it assures you that she should have no problem doing a star... at least you hope.

“Alright. But I’m making them tiny, and you’re both signing extra waivers. What kind of stars are we talking about?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re watching Joe extend his right wrist to Diana, his right hand gripping the larm of the chair as the tattoo gun starts buzzing. The design is simple, just a small, delicate outline of a five-pointed star, no bigger than a dime. But watching it take shape on his skin makes something flutter in your stomach.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning forward in the chair beside him.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth, though his knuckles are white where they’re gripping the leather. “Just feels weird.” “Big tough football player can’t handle a little needle?” you tease in order to distract him.

“I’d like to see you sitting here instead.”

“You will in about five minutes.” Diana speaks up from the other side of him. The thought makes your stomach flip. You’ve never wanted a tattoo before—never saw the point in permanently marking your body with some generic design that didn’t mean anything to you. But this feels different, like it means something, even if you can’t quite articulate what. 

Diana works quickly and efficiently, cleaning the fresh tattoo and covering it with a clear bandage before turning to you with an expression that suggests she’s still not entirely convinced this is a good idea. “Your turn, honey.”

You settle onto the padded table, extending your right wrist the same way Joe had. Turning your head away from Diana, because if you watch you know you’ll back out, Joe immediately crouches down next to the table so you’re at his eye level. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” you reply, surprised by how steady your voice sounds. “I want to.”

Diana preps your sin with the same clinical care she’s shown with Joe, and then the tattoo guns tarts buzzing again, you instinctively reach out and grab Joe’s hand.

“Shit,” you breathe as the needle makes contact. It’s not unbearable, but it’s definitely more intense than you’d expected—like a sharp, persistent scratch that seems to vibrate through your entire arm.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is soft, grounding. “Look at me, yeah?” You focus on his face, the way his eyes are completely locked in on you, the small scar above his left eyebrow you’ve never noticed before, the way his thumb is tracing gentle circles across your knuckles.

“What do you think our friends are gonna say about this?”

You laugh despite the discomfort, picturing their faces when they see the tattoo. “Ariella and Iris are going to think we’ve lost our minds. McKenna’s probably gonna be jealous she wasn’t here to watch.”

“Mine are gonna say I’m whipped,” Joe adds in with a grin.

“Are you?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. His face hardens, something that makes your heart skip even as the tattoo gun continues its steady patterns. “Maybe.”

“What about your dad?” Joe continues, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Is he going to be thrilled about his daughter coming home with a tattoo?” “Oh god,” you groan, the reality of that moment hitting you. “He’s gonna lecture me about ‘permanent decisions’ and ‘thinking about my future.’ I can already hear it.” “Worth it though,” Joe says, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something in them that suggests he’s not just talking about the tattoo.

Diana’s voice cuts through the moment. “Alright, you’re all done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You look down at your wrist, the small start that now matches Joe’s. It’s tiny, delicate, but somehow feels significant in a way that’s completely disproportionate to its size. “It’s perfect.”

After Diana bandages you up and gives you both care instructions (which you’re definitely too out of it to fully absorb), Joe pays for both tattoos despite your protests. Outside the shop, the reality of what you’ve done starts to settle in. 

“We actually did that,” you breathe, staring down at the bandage on your wrist.

“We actually did that,” Joe agrees, but there’s no trace of regret in his voice. “Can I see it again?”

You lift your arm up, revealing the small star etched into your skin. Beneath the bandage, it’s slightly red and tender, but the clean lines of it are clearly visible. Joe reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around your forearm. 

He studies the tattoo with an intensity that doesn’t match the gravity of what he’s looking at. It’s the same exact tattoo he has, after all. His thumb moves without conscious thought, brushing over the bandage where your fresh tattoo lies underneath. 

“Ow,” you gasp, instinctively jerking your wrist back as pain shoots through the tender skin.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Joe says immediately, his eyes wide with concern as he gently catches your wrist again, more carefully this time. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Before you can say it’s okay, that it’s fine, he’s lifting your wrist to his lips and pressing the softest kiss just bedie the bandage, on the unmarked skin of your inner wrist. The gesture is so delicate that it stops your breath entirely. 

“Better?” he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel the word more than hear it.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare down at him as he holds you like something precious, lips still hovering near your skin.

Because in this moment, standing under the flickering non light with your fresh tattoo throbbing and Joe’s mouth pressed against your pulse point, you finally understand what you’ve been trying so hard to deny.

You don’t see Joe as a friend anymore.

You can’t.

Maybe you never really did, if you’re being honest with yourself. Maybe all those careful boundaries you constructed, all that insistence that you were just friends, all those moments of pulling back when things got too intense—maybe it was all just an elaborate defense against this exact realization.

You’re falling for him. Have been falling for him, probably since that first night with the telescope on the beach. Every shared laugh, every moment together, every time he remembered something you told him or looked at you like you were the most interesting person in the room—it’s all been leading here, to this moment where you can’t pretend anymore. 

The matching tattoos aren’t just ink under your skin. They’re a promise, a declaration, a permanent reminder that whatever this is between you has moved far beyond friendship into a territory that pulls you in with a force that’s equal parts fear and desire.

And as Joe finally pulls back to meet your eyes, his hand still cradling your wrist like he doesn’t want to let you go, you realize that you don’t want to fight it anymore.

You don’t want to be just friends.

You can’t be just friends.

Not anymore.

July 30th, 2017

The past two days at home had been a special kind of torture—the sort that comes wrapped in well-meaning family obligations and thinly veiled disappointment. Your dad has spent most of Saturday morning talking to you about “summer productivity” while pointedly ignoring the new scar on your wrist, though you caught him staring at it more than once.

Michael has been worse, somehow, Fresh off his engagement high and apparently feeling generous with unsolicited life advice, he’d cornered you during brunch on Friday to ask if you were “taking advantage of your opportunities” at Ohio State. The implication being, of course, that you weren’t. That while he’d graduated summa cum laude, and landed his dream job while finding his perfect fiancé, you were drifting through college without an endgame.

helpppp me, you’d reached for your phone under the table and texted Joe. michael is giving me the when i was ur age speech again

His response had come back within minutes: Tell him when he was your age people were still jerking off to cave paintings

You nearly choked on your orange juice, covering it with a cough that made Michael pause his monologue about networking and five-year plans. For the rest of the meal, you’d felt lighter, like Joe’s ridiculous jokes created a little bubble of shared understanding that your family couldn’t penetrate. 

The texting had continues throughout the weekend. Little observations about your dad’s obsession with lawn maintenance (he’s had the gardeners back like three times already), updates about Michael’s wedding planning (apparently that are exactly seventeen different shades of ivory and they all matter), complaints about their shared passive aggressive comments about your “summer lifestyle”.

Joe had responded to every single one, sometimes with jokes that made you snort in the middle of family dinner, sometimes with questions that showed he was actually listening, actually cared about the small details of your weekend home. When you texted him Saturday night about feeling suffocated and ready to go back, he’d called instead of texting.

By the time you did finally escape, the first thing you did was text him that you were free, and he immediately suggested joining him and his friends at some pool party. 

You spent the afternoon in and out of the backyard pool, floating on inflatable loungers with Ariella and Iris (McKenna was too busy flirting with Derek), while the guys played games of pool basketball. Joe was in his element, with his friends, occasionally catching your eye across the water.

Around nine, when the party was reaching that perfect point in the night, someone had suggested moving the event to the beach. Most people had been too lazy or too drunk to make the move, but the idea sparked something in both you and Joe.

You caught each other’s eyes across the group, some wordless communication passing between you, and before you knew it, you were gathering your things and making excuses about wanting to see the stars over the water. 

“You two are so weird,” Iris has called after you, but she was smiling, that knowing look in her eyes suggesting she understood exactly what was happening even if you didn’t. 

Now, running across the sand toward the lake with Joe beside you, the wind whipping through your hair, you feel more alive than you have all weekend. The beach is completely empty, and the moon is bright enough to turn the water silver.

“Last one in is buying breakfast tomorrow,” Joe calls out, already pulling his shirt over his head as he runs.

“That’s not fair! You have longer legs,” you’re protesting, but already reaching for the hem of your sundress and pulling it over your head as you sprint toward the water’s edge.

You’re grateful you’d kept your bikini on under the dress from the pool party earlier—a simple black two piece that’s nothing special, but makes you feel confident enough to not worry about it. Joe’s already in his swim trunks from earlier, and in the moonlight, you can see the lean lines of his torso, the way his shoulders move as he crashes into the waves.

You hit the water a few seconds after him, the lake unusually warm from the day’s heat. “I totally won,” you declare, splashing toward him.

“You absolutely did not,” Joe laughs, turning to face you as you wade deeper. “I was in first.”

“By like half a second, which doesn’t count because you’re basically a gazelle.”

“A gazelle?” He raises and eyebrow, grinning. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Fine, you’re like… a really tall and athletic giraffe.”

“Better.”

You splash water at him in retaliation, and he immediately splashes back, starting a water fight that quickly escalates into full scale warfare. You’re both laughing so hard you can barely breathe, diving under the surface to escape each other’s attacks, coming up gasping and immediately launching new offensives.

“Truce, truce,” you finally call out, wiping water from your eyes. “I’m drowning over here.” Joe stops immediately, “you good?” “I’m fine,” you assure him, but as you try to find your footing, you realize you’ve drifted father out than you thought. Your toes barely brush the sandy bottom, and you have to treat water to stay afloat. “Just deeper than I expected.”

Joe moves closer, and you can see that the water only comes up to his chest. Of course. Even in the water, his height gives him an advantage. “Can you touch?” The playful teasing from his voice is gone. You try again, stretching your toes downward, but you shake your head. “Not really. You?” “Yeah,” he says, taking another step closer. “Here, come here.”

There’s no time to second guess his words, his hands are on your waist, coaxing you effortlessly to him through the water. The space between you disappears, water slipping around your bodies as your skin brushes his beneath the surface.

Your legs hook around his waist, pulled there by the slow drag of water and the closeness of him. Fingers find balance against his chest, steadying yourself. He;s solid beneath your palms, skin warm and slick from the lake, his heartbeat thudding beneath your touch.

You feel bashful under his gaze because his hands stay exactly where they landed—low on your waist with no intentions of letting go. You blink once, twice, then look up toward the stars instead, pretending that the sky is the reason your breath caught.

“Look at the stars,” you whisper, voice barley audible over the gentle lapping of the water. “They’re so bright tonight.” You scan the sky, searching for the constellations Joe had shown you that first night together. There’s the Big Dipper, clear as day. Cassiopeia, that distinctive W shape. The North Star, a constant anchor. Successfully spotting each one feels like a small victory for yourself.

“I am looking at them,” Joe murmurs, voice low and rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. The tone of his voice draws your eyes back down, and when you do, you find his eyes are fixed on your face, not the sky at all.

The realization crashes into you, his eyes aren’t on the sky, they’re on you, and they haven’t moved once. Not when you tilted your head back or spoke softly in the dark. Not when you searched the stars for something to hold onto. He’s been looking at you like maybe you’re the only thing up there worth finding. 

You’re his star. 

The thought lands low in your stomach, fluttery and bright and a little impossible. It steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with something lighter that makes you lightheaded. Your fingers twitch against his chest, your thighs tighten slowly around his waist like your body’s reacting before you’ve even caught up.

“Joe,” you breathe, but it comes out weightless. He’s looking at you like you’re something miraculous, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. One of his hands moves from your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin.

You lean into the touch before you even think to stop yourself—because you decided not to care anymore. And when he bends toward you, closing the last bit of distance, you meet him without hesitation.

The kiss is soft. Like exhaling. Like being found. He tastes like lakewater and breathless hope, like every almost that led to this moment, and you melt into it—your arms around his neck, his hand holding the back of your head, the gentle roll of water cradling you both. It’s not urgent, nor is it desperate, but it is inevitable. 

Joe kisses you like he’s afraid of scaring you off, and you kiss im back like you’re afraid he might stop.

When he finally pulls back, leaving just enough space to breathe, his forehead finds yours like he can’t stand to let you go completely. Your eyes are still closed, chest still rising and falling too fast. And beneath the surface, your legs are still wrapped around him, holding on like you haven’t quite figured out how to let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admits quietly.

Your fingers slip into the hair at the base of his neck, threading through the wet strands carefully. “Yeah?” you whisper back.

His throat works as he swallows, pupils dilating the smallest bit. “Since that night after the baseball game. Maybe even before that.”

Hearing those words feels like a breath let go. Your chest swells, and suddenly it’s hard not to smile. Your cheekbones ache from how wide your grin is, it feels ridiculous, it feels perfect. “Me too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And then he’s kissing you again, and you’re kissing him back, and you think that maybe some things are worth all the risk in the world.

August 7th, 2017

The past week has felt like living inside a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

Every morning started with a text from Joe—sometimes just a simple “morning pretty girl,” sometimes a photo of his breakfast plate with a message about how his pancakes didn’t taste like the ones you make, with a sad face. You’d started setting your alarm fifteen minutes earlier just so you could lie in bed and read his messages, smiling like an idiot at your phone while McKenna got ready in your shared bathroom.

Tuesday, you’d gone back to the farmers market, and Joe still carried your canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder without being asked. He’d looked slightly ridiculous—this tall, broad shouldered football player carefully cradling a bouquet of flowers in one hand while holding yours with the other—but he seemed completely unbothered by the picture you two painted.

When the elderly flower vendor had assumed you were a couple, and Joe didn’t correct her, you felt a warmth bloom in your chest.

“These are the same ones from last time,” he said as you walked away, nodding toward the flowers. “You want different ones next time or are these okay?” “I like those. They’re pretty,” you assured simply, but what you meant was: I like that you remember what I like. I like you paying attention to details that don’t matter to anyone else.

Wednesday night, you’d driven out to the lookout point again, but this time you spent more time kissing than stargazing. Joe spread a blanket in the bed of his truck again, and you laid there for hours with your head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles against your tattoo while you pointed out constellations and he pressed kisses to the top of your head for each you remembered correctly.

When you’d finally driven home around one in the morning, your lips were swollen and your hair was a mess, and you felt drunk on the sort of happiness you only thought existed in movies.

Thursday, he surprised you by showing up to your house with takeout from that Italian place you mentioned liking, even though it was completely out of his way. The two of you are sitting on your living room floor, sharing tiramisu straight from the container for dessert while some movie played unwatched in the background.

Your roommates came home to find you both asleep on the couch, your legs tangled together, Joe’s arm thrown protectively around your waist. Ariella sent the picture to the group chat with approximately eight heart eye emojis.

Friday had been perfect in its simplicity—just a lazy afternoon at Derek’s place, floating in his pool on inflatable loungers, Joe’s hand trailing in the water between you so his fingers could brush yours. You’d felt so content, so settled in a way you’d never experienced before. Like all the anxious energy that usually buzzed under your skin had finally gone quiet.

The tattoos on your wrists had healed beautifully, the small stars just a permanent reminder of that night when everything changed. Sometimes you were able to catch Joe absently rubbing his thumb over his own tattoo when he assumed you weren’t looking, and it made your stomach flutter each time.

You started leaving things around his own home without meaning to—a hair tie on his nightstand, a book on his coffee table, one of your hoodies draped over his desk chair. And he started doing the same at yours, his Ohio State water bottle appearing in your fridge, his extra phone charger plugged in next to your bed. 

But underneath all the bliss, there had been this awareness of an approaching deadline. August seventh. The day football training officially started back up, when Joe would shift back into athlete mode and you’d have to figure out how to fit into his newly restructured world. 

You tried not to think about it, had focused on instead memorizing the way he looked when he laughed at your terrible jokes, the sound he made when you kissed that spot just below his ear, the careful way he would willingly brush your hair when you were too tired to do so yourself. But the date had loomed anyway, circled in red on some invisible calendar in your mind.

Now, sitting on Derek’s back patio with McKenna and Iris, nursing a beer that’s gone warm in the afternoon heat, you can’t shake the feeling of unease.

“He’s two hours late,” McKenna observes, an unkindly reminder as she glances at her phone screen. “Isn’t that kinda weird for him?”

You shrug, trying to look unbothered even if you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes for the past hour. “First day of training. I’m sure it ran long.”

“You okay?” Iris asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you squirm. “You seem anxious.” “I’m fine,” you lie, then immediately feel guilty about it. These are your best friends—you should be able to tell them that you’re worried about how the season is going to change the perfect way things have been going for the two of you. But putting those fears into words makes you teeter between feeling like it’ll give them powers, but also clingy. You’re not even dating him.

Derek emerges from the house carrying a cooler of fresh beers, followed by a couple of his teammates you’ve met in passing. The guys immediately launch into a discussion about the new offensive coordinator, speculation about the upcoming season, and complaints about the conditions drills that apparently nearly killed them today.

“Burrow looked like he was about to pass out,” one of them says, popping open a beer. “Dude pushes himself more than anyone else there.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of Joe.

Another twenty minutes pass before you hear the familiar rumble of Joe’s truck in the driveway. You resist the urge to immediately look toward the sound, instead focusing intently on McKenna’s story about the last day of her internship, but you’re listening to every sound—the slam of his truck door, his voice greeting someone inside the house, the sliding door opening behind you.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is flat as he steps onto the patio, and when you turn to look at him, your chest constricts with concern. He looks drained in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion. His hair is still damp from what you assume was a shower, his shirt clings to his skin, and there’s rashes of turf burn on various spots of his body.

“Hey,” you say softly, standing up to greet him. “How was—” “Long,” he cuts you off, moving past you toward the cooler without his usual kiss hello, without even really looking at you. “Really fucking long.” The dismissal stings more than it should, and you feel heat creep up as everyone else notices the tension. You sink back into your chair, trying to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

Derek hands Joe a beer, and he drains half of it in one go before finally acknowledging the group. “Went longer than expected, sorry.”

“Heard it was brutal,” Derek says carefully. “You good?”

Joe shrugs, settling into the empty chair next to you. The conversation gradually picks up again, but you find it hard to focus on anything other than Joe. When Iris makes a comment about how tan everyone’s gotte this summer, Joe glances around the group before his eyes land on you for the first time since he arrived.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when people have no real priorities,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes you want to crawl under your own skin.

You know he’s tired, know he’s had a rough day, but the casual cruelty of it takes your breath away. Around you, the conversation falters as everyone processes what just said, the uncomfortable silence stretching until it becomes unbearable. 

The exact moment Joe realizes what he’s done, his face changes.The defensive anger melts into horror as he takes you in, the way you’ve physically recoiled, the hurt and confusion that must be written all over your face. 

“Shit,” he says quietly, sinking down into his chair. “I didn’t… that came out wrong.” You stare at him for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of Joe who’s been leaving you good morning texts and buying you flowers. The one who held you while you watched the stars, who kissed everything better, who made you feel more wanted and valued than anyone else ever has.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” you say finally, voice controlled as you drop Iris’s hand when you stand up. You need distance, a moment to college yourself before you can say something you’ll regret.

“Wait,” Joe stants too, his voice hushed and urgent. “Can we—can I talk to you for a second?”

You want to be petty and say no, let him sit with the weight of his words, but his devastated expression stops you. Despite what he said, you can’t stand seeing him like that when he clearly knows he’s done wrong.

“Fine,” you say, but you don’t make it easy for him, you don’t move toward the privacy of the house. If he wants to apologize, he can do it here. 

Joe steps closer, his voice dropping so the others can’t hear. “I’m sorry. That was… I’m being an asshole and you don’t deserve that.” “No, I don’t,” you agree, watching him flinch at the coolness of your tone. 

“It was just a really bad day,” he continues, desperation creeping into his voice. “With everything—I feel like I’m walking into another year of hell, and I’m not looking forward to it. But that’s not your fault. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You study his face, taking in the genuine remorse there. You understand the pressure he’s under, have listened to him talk about his fears and doubts enough to know how much this means to him.

“Football’s really important to you,” you say finally, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe too important.” “And it’s probably going to get harder from here, more demanding.” “Probably.” His jaw tightens. “Almost definitely.” You nod slowly, processing this new side of things. The Joe from the past week—attentive, present, completely focused on you—that version might become harder to find as the season progresses. But the Joe standing in front of you now, apologizing for his mistakes, trying to be honest about his struggles… Maybe that’s the new version you need to learn to work with. Because you would—will, for him. “Okay,” you say finally. “But if you’re going to be stressed and taking it out on people, it can’t be me.”

“You’re right,” he says immediately. “You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He steps closer again. “I really am sorry. Today was just a reminder I guess. About what this season is going to be like.”

You reach out and take his hand, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders when you do. “I get it.” Your voice drops as you guide him a couple steps away from everyone else. “But we need to figure out how to make this work, Joe. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief that crosses his face makes everything within you settle, because you know he was worried about that. He didn’t want to lose you. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I don’t want you to.”

And despite everything, despite the sting of his earlier words and the looming specter of a difficult season ahead, you find yourself believing him.

August 10th, 2017

The past few days had been a delicate dance of adjustment, both of you trying to find your footing in this new reality where football had reasserted its claim on Joe’s time and attention.

You’d spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday preparing for the upcoming semester—ordering textbooks that made your bank account weep, organizing your schedule around the classes you’d managed to get into after your academic probation scare, trying to mentally prepare yourself for organic chemistry round two.

The familiar anxiety about the upcoming school year had settled in your chest like a stone, made worse by the uncertainty of how you and Joe would navigate his increasingly demanding schedule. But Joe has been making an effort; a real, tangible effort that showed he’d taken your conversation at Derek’s to heart.

Tuesday evening, he showed up to your house still in his practice clothes, but carrying a bag of Italian takeout and wearing that apologetic smile that made it impossible to stay distant. He sat on your bedroom floor while you organized your class materials, occasionally reaching over to run his fingers through your hair or press a kiss to your shoulder as you worked.

Wednesday, he texted you during what you knew was a brief break between practice and film study. The message was simple, something about wanting to see you again that night, but it carried you through the rest of your day.

That night, he’s fallen asleep in your bed again, his head in your lap while you studied all your upcoming professors. You spent an hour just watching him sleep.

Thursday morning, you’d woken up to find he made coffee and left a note on your kitchen counter: Good luck with your advisor meeting today :) 

Now, lying in the bed of his truck under a blanket of stars with Joe’s lips moving against yours, you feel like maybe you’d been worrying for nothing.

The lookout point has become sacred ground for the two of you, a place where the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you and him and the vast Ohio sky. Tonight feels different though, full of something that makes your skin hypersensitive to every brush of his fingers, every shift of his body against yours.

You’d never gone further than heated makeout sessions before. Hands wandering under shirts, breaths coming fast against each other’s necks, urgent touches that left you both frustrated and wanting more.

“Missed this,” Joe whispers against your lips, his voice hoarse in a way that has nothing to do with practice and everything to do with the way your hands are threading through his still damp hair. “Missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” you point out, but you’re smiling, breathless from the way he’s looking at you. 

“Wasn’t enough,” he says simply, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time.

The kiss doesn’t ask for permission, it sinks into you as if he’s trying to speak through the shape of your mouth. Like he’s telling you everything he hasn’t found words for yet. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm fingers splaying across your lower back like he wants to feel every inch of you he’s missed.

You arch into his touch, breath hitching as his palm moves up, mapping your ribs in slow strokes that leave heat in their wake. Your own hands find their way beneath his shirt, fingertips gliding over damp skin, still warm from the shower he must’ve taken before picking you up.

His muscles twitch under your touch, and he grains softly into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through you like a string pulled tight. “My pretty girl,” his mouth bites at yours. “Don’t know what you do to me,” his lips brush your jaw now, then your neck, moving like he can’t stop.

You tilt your head and give him more access to yourself, chest rising fast beneath his as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. One hand travels lower, gripping the back of your thigh and guiding it around his hip.

“Joe,” you whisper out, barely audible, but it's all you can manage at the moment. He lifts at that, eyes finding yours in the dim light spilling from the sky. The air shifts. His breathing is uneven. Yours isn’t any better.

He watches you with something new simmering behind his eyes, as if he’s waiting for the signal. Like he doesn’t want to push it but also doesn’t want to stop. Luckily for him—you don’t want him to either.

So you reach for him.

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, fingers sweeping lightly over the short scruff he forgot to shave this morning. Joe exhales hard through his nose and kisses you again, messier this time. His hand slides back down the expanse of your thigh until it finds the curve of your ass and squeezes, pulling you flush against him. You feel him, all of him. Hard and pressing into you through layers that suddenly feel far too thin. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans in response, like he’s been waiting to hear that sound. “Lift this,” he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. 

The fabric peels away and the breeze is licking at your skin, but it barely registers. Not when Joe’s mouth is moving down your throat, not when his hands are skimming your bare skin, not when he kisses between the swell of your breasts like he’s been dying to.

He covers your body with his own, bracing his forearm beside his head. His other hand finds your opposite thigh, guiding it around his waist so both your legs are parted, bent around him in a way that feels possessive. 

You whimper when his hips rock into you, a soft, instinctual grind that spends sparks shooting through your stomach. “I know baby,” he chokes out, nose brushing against your cheek. “Just let me touch you.

You nod, a jerky movement more than anything. His fingers trail down your torso, dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts slowly, enjoying the way your body tenses. His knuckles graze the inside of your thigh and then he finds you.

And god—the noise that comes from him when he feels how wet you are is something feral that does more to you than anything else thus far. He curses under his breath and kisses you had, like he’s thanking you for it. 

“Look at you,” he mutters against your mouth, fingers moving lower to stroke you over your panties, coaxing another shiver from your spine. “So fuckin’ soft.” You arch into him as his touch grows more purposeful, his thumb brushing a tender circle through the damp fabric, teasing you through it. You feel like your whole body is pulsing toward his hand, your hips chasing the rhythm without meaning to.

He helps you work fully out of your shorts, tossing them aside, and you suddenly feel grateful for the privacy of your spot. You feel more exposed than ever, but not nervous. Not with him.

Not when Joe’s eyes find yours and stay locked there as he pushes your last bit of clothing to the side and slides one thick finger into you.

That first night you met him, you remember his hands with the telescope. How they completely dwarfed the adjustment knobs, how his fingers seemed to wrap around everything twice. Now you understand why even just one feels like so much.

You inhale sharply, the stretch of it feeling like too much and not enough at the same time. Joe’s expression tightens in response. “Fuck,” he presses his forehead against yours. “My girl—feel so good wrapped around me.” Your body clenches around him, muscles fluttering, and his tumb finds your clit, stroking it slowly while his finger works in and out of you in measured movements, testing what you like, what makes your mouth fall open.

In the moment, you can’t find it in yourself to stop staring at him. His jaw will flex, then his eyes flick down to watch what he’s doing, how your body reacts to him, then back to your face.

“Want another?” he teases with a small grin. You nod, desperate for more, and feel the second finger press in beside the first. It burns in the best way. Fills you.

Your hips jerk, and he catches you with his other hand, splayed across your lower stomach, holding you steady. Joe leans down and kisses you again, but it's slower this time as his fingers are working you open.

“Don’t stop,” you beg against his lips, feeling more alive than you have in months wrapped around him like this.

“Not planning to.” And he doesn’t. Joe keeps his rhythm steady, curling his fingers and pinching your clit every now and then, enjoying the way it makes you squirm from under him. Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, body rolling into his hand as much as his hold on you allows.

It builds like a slow flame, heat winding around your spine, climbing behind your ribs, and when it finally breaks—when you cry out and clamp around his fingers, back arching—Joe swallows hard and kisses you through it.

You’re still shaking when he finally pulls his hand away. He kisses your shoulder, your jaw, your temple. And then he whispers, with the softest kind of pride, “told you I missed you.”

September 9th, 2017

The roar of the stadium is deafening, but somehow it feels muted as you scan the sidelines looking for number ten. When you finally spot him, you tense with a mixture of relief and heartbreak.

He’s there—standing with the other quarterback, headset around his neck, clipboard in his uninjured hand—but he looks like a shadow of himself. Even from your seats up high in the student section, you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself apart from the celebration happening around him as the team scores another touchdown. 

He’s focused, locked in, but there’s something hollow about it. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being present while being somewhere else entirely.

It’s the first game since he’s been cleared to return to practice, though “return” feels like a generous word for what’s actually happening. He’s not playing. Hasn’t played a single meaningful snap since the injury. 

You know he’s watching Dwaryne Haskins take the snaps that should’ve—should—be his, watching his opportunity slip further and further away with each game.

“There he is,” Ariella says, following your gaze and pointing toward the sideline.” How’s he doing with all this?” You don’t know how to answer that question because you’re not sure you know anymore.

The call had come from Derek three days after that perfect night at the lookout point when you felt closer to Joe than ever before. You were in your room, trying to make sense of your class syllabi, when your phone rang.

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” the usual upbeat tone of his voice was long gone. “Joe’s in the hospital. He broke his hand at practice today.” The papers had slipped from your hand, pages fluttering as they hit the floor. “What? Is he okay? How bad is it?” “He had surgery on it. It went well, but…” Derek had paused, and you could hear muffled voices in the background. “Look, I found out from one of the guys on the team. Joe hasn’t called anyone yet, and I think… maybe it’s best if you don’t show up here.”

The words stung, but deep down you had to remind yourself that Derek’s reasoning made sense in the cruel way logical things often do. You texted Joe right after that call and stared at your phone for the rest of the night, waiting for a response that never came.

The next day passed in a haze of worry and checking your phone obsessively between classes. By Tuesday evening, you’d managed to convince yourself that maybe Joe’s phone was broken, or he was staying off it to focus on his health. There had to have been a reasonable explanation for his silence.

Then, finally, a short text came through. Just stating that he was fine, thanks for checking up on him.

Friday, after class, you’d driven to his house carrying homemade cookies you and your friends spent last night baking, his favorite drinks, and a stack of movies you thought might distract him. The Joe who answered the door was someone you barely recognized—pale, visibly exhausted with his right hand wrapped in a surgical case that made your stomach twist with sympathy.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, but stepped aside to let you in.

“I wanted to,” you assured, following him to the couch where he’d clearly camped out for days. “How are you feeling?” “Like shit,” he said bluntly, settling heavily into the cushions. “Four to six weeks recovery, minimum. Fall camp is basically over, and I missed all of it.” You tried to find the right words, some combination of sympathy and optimism that might help, but everything felt inadequate. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ll be back before the season really gets going—” “Will I?” The sharpness in his voice had made you flinch. “Haskins has been taking all the reps I should have been taking. By the time I’m cleared, he’ll have the backup spot locked down. Do you know what that means?” “It means I’ll be third string. Maybe fourth. It means I’ll spend the season holding a clipboard and watching other people play my position.” His jaw had clenched, and when he looked at you, his eyes were harder than you’d ever seen them. “How many years of work, and it’s probably over because of one stupid play in practice.”

The next few weeks were a careful dance around his moods. Joe, thankfully, softened somewhat after that first brutal conversation. He’d even apologized for being “a dick” when you were just trying to help. But the intimacy you’d built over the summer felt fragile now, strained under the weight of his frustration and the uncertainty of his future.

Classes were going full swing, and you’d thrown yourself into your coursework with determined focus. The professors were every bit as brutal as you’d feared, and between studying and trying to be supportive to Joe without being overwhelming, you felt stretched thin in such a way that left you exhausted by Friday evenings.

Joe was cleared for light practice two weeks ago, but you could see it in his face every time you asked about it—he was going through the motions, but the spark that had always defined him on the field was dimmed. He talked about football differently now, with a wariness that hadn’t been there before, like he was afraid to want it too much.

Now, watching him on the sideline as Ohio State dominates their opponent, you can see all of that frustration and disappointment written in the set of his shoulders. He’s not sulking—Joe would never sulk during a game—but you can see him balancing on the edge of something close to the sort.

“He looks good though,” McKenna offers, clearly trying to be positive. “I mean, healthy.” “Yeah,” you agree, though you’re not sure that’s entirely true. Physically, maybe. But the way he’s holding himself speaks to a different kind of injury, one that won’t heal as cleanly as broken bones. 

The crowd erupts around you as Ohio State scores another touchdown, but your eyes stay on Joe, willing him to look up into the stands, to find you somehow in the sea of scarlet and grey. He doesn’t, of course. He’s too professional for that, too focused on doing his job even when that job has been drastically reduced. 

But for just a moment, as the team celebrates around him, you see him glance toward the student section. It’s brief, probably meaningless, but you choose to believe he’s looking for you too. 

After the game, you text him: looked good out there. proud of you.

His response comes hours later, after you’ve already changed out of your game day clothes and started on your homework while your friends were out at some party. Thanks. Doing what I can.

October 15th, 2017

“—and I don’t want to hear excuses about being busy. Every other student manages to balance their coursework with preparing for the future. What makes you so special?” Your dad’s voice crackles through your phone speaker, sharp with the particular brand of disappointment you’ve grown up fearing. You’re sitting cross legged on your bed, homework spread around you like a defensive barrier, though it’s doing nothing to shield you from the familiar sting of his words.

“Dad, I know I should’ve applied already, but this semester has been really intense—” “Intense?” He cuts you off with a bitter laugh. “You think the real world cares if school is intense? You think employers are going to be impressed that you couldn’t handle basic time management as a student?” You close your eyes, pressing your fingers against your temple where a headache is building. Through your room window, you can see other students walking across campus in the October afternoon sun, looking carefree in a way that feels impossible foreign right now. “I’m not saying i couldn’t handle it, I’m just explaining—” “You’re making excuses. Just like with your grades last year. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was when Henderson asked how you were doing in school and I had to explain that my daughter was on academic probation?”

The words hit hard, and you have to bite your lip from saying something you’ll regret. You want to tell him about the sixty hour weeks you’ve been putting in this semester, about the study groups that run until midnight, about how you’ve been struggling to balance everything while also being there for Joe through what may be the worst period of his life.

But you can’t mention Joe—can’t explain that you’ve been splitting your emotional energy between organic chemistry and watching the person you care about most spiral into depression and self-doubt. 

Your dad would just see it as another excuse anyway. Another sign that you’re not serious about your future. “I’ll start applying this week,” you say finally, your voice smaller than you hoped. “I promise.”

“You’ll start applying today. And you’ll have at least five applications submitted by Friday, or we’re going to have a very different conversation about who’s paying for your education.” The threat hangs in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating. You know he means it—your dad doesn’t make empty threats, especially when it comes to money and what he considers your lack of direction.

“Understood.”

“Good. And next time I call, I expect to hear about interviews. No more sob stories about how hard your classes are. Michael never had these problems.” Of course he brings up Michael. Perfect Michael with his perfect grades and his perfect internships and his perfect trajectory toward everything your father considers success. Michal, who’s never had to worry about academic probation or disappointing anyone because he was apparently born understanding exactly what was expected of him.

The line goes dead without a goodbye, leaving you staring at your phone screen in the sudden silence of your empty house. Around you, your homework waits patiently—chemical equations that need balancing, reaction mechanisms that need memorizing, problems that have clear answers if you just work hard enough to find them.

If only everything in life were as straightforward as organic chemistry.

You set your phone aside and try to refocus on your textbook but the words blur together as hot tears begin to well up in your eyes. The worst part isn’t even the lecture itself, it's the way your dad manages to make you feel like you’re fundamentally failing at life. Like every choice you make is evidence of some deep character flaw.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are making excuses. Maybe you should have applied for internships weeks ago instead of spending so much energy worrying about Joe. Maybe caring about someone else’s problems is just another form of procrastination, another way of avoiding your own responsibilities. 

The knock on your door startles you out of your spiral, and you quickly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s probably McKenna coming back from her sociology seminar, or Ariella returning from her date with the latest guy she’s convinced is “the one.” Iris, though, is always the one who forgets her key.

“Coming,” you call, your voice only slightly hoarse as you climb off your bed and pad to the front door in your socked feet. But when you open it, Joe is standing in your doorway.

He’s looking better these days, still tired but more present. His hand is free of the bulky cast, replaced by a simple brace that allowed him more movement. He’s wearing an Ohio State long sleeve you always said looked good on him. 

For a moment, you stare at each other. You’re aware of how you must look—wearing shorts and an oversized shirt, eyes probably still red-rimmed from crying. He studies your face with careful attention you haven’t seen from him in months.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes your throat tight with fresh tears.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, stepping back to let him in even though every instinct is telling you to close the door and deal with this alone. “Just family stuff. It's fine.”

Joe follows you inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “It doesn’t look fine.”

You’re already walking toward your bedroom, hoping he’ll take the hint and let it go, but you can hear his footsteps behind you on the hardwood floor. When you reach your room, you settle back onto your bed among the scattered homework, picking up your pen and pretending to focus.

“Seriously, it’s nothing,” you insist without looking up. “My dad being… you know. My dad.” Joe lingers in your doorway for a moment before stepping into your room properly and you can feel his eyes on you as you try to work. The numbers and letters on the page swim together, your brain too scattered to make sense of even the simplest reactions.

“You’ve been crying,” he observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

The mattress dips under your weight, and despite everything, you feel some of the tension in you ease at his proximity. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s been fully present like this. “I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice cracks on the words, betraying you.

And that’s when you lose it.

The tears you’ve been fighting since the phone call spill over, hot and fast and completely beyond your control. Your pen slips from your fingers as your shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, and you press your hands into your face in a futile attempt to hold yourself together. 

“Hey,” Joe says softly, and then his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest in the first real embrace you’ve shared in months. “Hey, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. Nothing feels okay. You’re drowning in school, your own dad thinks you’re a failure, you’ve been watching Joe struggle while feeling completely powerless to help, and now Jow is being kind to you for the first time in weeks and it’s making everything so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” you cry into him. “I’m such a mess right now.”

“You’re not a mess,” he assures, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs gentle circles on your back. “You’re just having a hard time. There’s a difference.”

The tenderness in his voice breaks something open in your chest, and suddenly all the words you’ve been holding back come tumbling out. You tell him about the phone call, about your dad’s threats and the internship applications you’ve been putting off.

You tell him about feeling overwhelmed by school and scared about the future and guilty for caring more about his problems than your own responsibilities.

Joe listens without judgement, without trying to fix anything, just holding you while you finally let yourself fall apart. When your tears eventually slow, he tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face raw with emotion. “I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I haven’t been there for you. That’s not fair.”

“You’ve been dealing with a lot—”

“So have you,” he interrupts. “And I should have noticed. I should have been paying attention.”

There’s a bit of silence where you just look at each other, and you can feel something changing, some wall that’s been up since his injury finally crumbling. “I missed you,” the admission slips out before you can stop it.

“I missed you too,” he says, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “So fucking much.”

And then he’s kissing you, soft and esperate and full of months of pent up longing. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all your frustration and fear and love into the connection between your mouths. 

What happens next feels inevitable, like the natural conclusion to these past months of building tension and denied feelings. Joe’s hands frame your face as he kisses you deeper, and when you tug at the hem of his shirt, he helps you pull it over his head. 

Your homework scatters to the floor as he lays you back against your pillows, forgotten in favor of the feeling of his skin against yours, the weight of him above you, the way he looks at you.

His mouth drags over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth that sinks deep into your bones. You whisper out his name when his hips press down, the thick line of him already hardening against your thigh through your thin sleep shorts.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “I’ve thought about this every night,” his voice is rough and almost disbelieving. “You know that?”

You shake your head, and he licks his lips. “That night… in the truck. When you—” His eyes flick down your body, a dark flush rising up his neck. “Went home and fucked my hand so many times to the thought of you like that. Been living on that memory for months."

Your breath catches, a bolt of heat shoots through your belly at the admission. You close your eyes and picture the image of him alone in his room, desperate for you.

You pull him down by the back of his neck, kiss him with everything you’re feeling—the missing, the anger, the apology, the wanting that’s never gone away.

His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up, and you raise your arms to let him take it off. The moment you’re bare to him, he drags his mouth down your chest, kissing the soft swell of your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue warm and eager.

Your back arches. You feel dizzy with how much you want him, how much you want this to mean something. “Joe… please,” you breathe out, the word slipping from you like a secret. You rock your hips up into him and he groans, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

He pulls back, eyes blown wide, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “You sure?” he rasps. “Baby, you tell me now—”

“I’m sure,” you say without hesitation, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “I want you. I’ve wanted you.”

Joe kisses you so deeply you feel it in your stomach, one big hand trailing down to slip under the elastic of your shorts, pushing them down your hips. You squirm out of them, all clumsy and breathless, and when you’re finally bare, he pauses and looks at you. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, stroking a hand up your thigh, spreading you open for him. “So perfect.”

You whimper when his fingers slide through your folds, finding you already soaked for him. His forehead drops to yours, “god, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Laughing shakily, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You’ve already ruined me.”

His answering smile is small, crooked, almost shy. Then he’s tugging his pants down enough to free himself, and your eyes widen at the sight of him—thick, flushed, the head wet where it presses against your thigh.

He strokes himself once, twice, your slick coating his hand, before lining up with you. The tip nudges your entrance and you tense, hips rolling forward instinctively. “Breathe for me, baby,” Joe soothes, voice gone soft.

He kisses you through the stretch as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. It’s nearly too much—the burn, the way he fills you so completely. Your nails bite into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Good girl… that’s it. Doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

When he bottoms out, your whole body trembles. You feel him everywhere, inside you, over you, in every frantic heartbeat that drums behind your ribs. 

You open your eyes to find him already watching you, gaze molten and tender all at once. His thumb brushes against your cheek again like he needs to make sure you’re real. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Want you to remember this.”

He pulls back, the drag of him sending a shockwave through your core, then rocks back in, slow at first, testing the give of you, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Your hips roll up to meet him, desperate for more friction, and Joe lets out a broken sound that goes straight to your core. He braces one hand behind your knee, pressing it up toward your chest you open you wider, sink deeper. 

“You feel so good,” he groans. “Been losing my mind thinking about this. About out.” “Me too,” you whimper, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop, Joe, Please—”

“I’m not stopping,” he vows, fucking into you harder, the headboard knocking against the wall with each trust. “Never would.”

Your whole body coils tight, pleasure winding sharp and sweet inside you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his pace growing rougher as your name falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when you come—when it finally breaks—you clutch at him like you’ll drown in it without him, his hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge, buried so deep you swear you feel him in your throat. 

Afterward, he doesn’t move right away, but before he does, he reaches for your right hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the small star etched into your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours.

November 28th, 2017

November had been a month of almosts. Almost like the summer you’d fallen in love with. Almost the way things used to feel between you and Joe. Almost enough to convince yourself that October had been the turning point you’d hoped for.

But almosts weren’t quite enough, and you spent the past few weeks existing in the uncomfortable space between hope and disappointment, never quite sure which Joe would show up when you were together. The good days were really good. Joe would pick you up from his afternoon classes, drive you to get coffee at that place near campus you both loved, and for an hour or two, it would feel like summer again.

He’d listen to you talk about your struggles with classes, ask follow up questions about your professors, steal bites of whatever pastry you’d ordered while pretending he didn’t want his own. Those moments felt like proof that whatever changed between you could change back, that the connection you built wasn't completely lost.

But then Saturday would roll around, and you’d be reminded that football was still the thing that defined Joe’s emotional state. Game days brought out a version of him that was sharp edged and distant, focused entirely on what was happening on the field. You learned to give him space on those days, to not take it personally when he barely responded to your texts or when his kisses felt more perfunctory rather than passionate.

He was better than he had been the past couple of months—less prone to the kind of bitter comments that had stung so badly at Derek’s—but there was still something guarded about him that hadn’t been there during those perfect summer weeks.

The weekend you’d gone home to visit your family had crystallized in your confusion in a way that left you more unsettled than before. You’d been complaining about having to make the drive alone, how they’d ask why you looked so tired, whether you were taking care of yourself, when Joe looked up from the textbook he was reading.

“I could come with you,” he said casually like he was suggesting grabbing lunch rather than meeting your family. “Might be fun to see where you grew up.”

You stared at him, completely blindsided by the suggestion. Meeting family felt like a relationship milestone, the kind of thing people did when they were serious about each other, when they were ready to integrate their lives in meaningful ways.

But the way Joe said it, so offhandedly without any apparent awareness of the significance—had left you completely unsure whether he was joking or not.

“You want to meet my family?” 

“Sure, why not?”

The comment left you spending the entire three hour drive home and whole weekend analyzing his tone, trying to figure out if he was serious. Did he want to meet your family because he saw a future with you, or was he just being friendly? Was this his way of telling you he was ready to take things to the next level, or had it genuinely been a throwaway comment with no deeper meaning? You returned to campus more confused than when you left, and when Joe asked how the weekend went, you were too embarrassed to bring up his offer again. 

Then, there were the mysterious absences. Three different times this month, Joe had cancelled plans with vague explanations about “meetings” or “taking care of some stuff.” When you asked for details, he’d been evasive in a way that wasn’t quite suspicious but wasn’t entirely reassuring either. 

“Just meeting with some people,” he claimed when you pressed him about missing your study date the previous Tuesday. “Nothing interesting.” But Joe’s definition of “not interesting” was usually things like mandatory team meetings or academic advisory check-ins—things he’d normally complain about in detail. The fact that he was being so deliberately vague made you wonder if something bigger was going on, something he didn’t want to share with you.

Maybe it was nothing, maybe you were reading too much into normal college guy behavior, letting your own insecurities turn innocent omissions into evidence of him pulling away. But the doubt had taken root anyway, adding another layer of uncertainty to everything between you.

Through it all, you'd been trying to navigate the increasingly demanding second half of the semester. Organic chemistry had somehow gotten even more brutal, and you'd been spending most of your free time in the library, surrounded by reaction mechanisms and molecular structures. 

The internship applications your dad had threatened you about were finally submitted, but the constant pressure to stay on top of everything academic while also trying to figure out your relationship with Joe was exhausting in a way that left you drained by the end of each day.

Now, sitting at your desk trying to make sense of a particularly complex synthesis problem, you feel that familiar weight settling in your chest. The late afternoon light is already fading outside your room window, and you have a stats problem set due tomorrow that you haven't even started.

You're so absorbed in the chemical equation in front of you that the knock on your door makes you jump. McKenna and Iris are both at work, and Ariella is at her boyfriend’s place, so you're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it entirely—you really need to finish this homework, and unexpected visitors rarely bring good news.

But the knocking comes again, more insistent this time, and you reluctantly push back from your desk.

Joe is standing in your doorway holding a bouquet of wildflowers—the same mix of sunflowers, daisies, and those little purple flowers whose names you never learned that he used to buy you every week at the farmers market. They're slightly wilted around the edges, clearly picked up at the end of a long day, but they're beautiful in the imperfect way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," he says, and there's something almost shy about his expression, like he's not entirely sure how this gesture will be received.

"Hi," you echo, stepping aside to let him in. "What's this for?"

"Last farmers market of the year was today," he explains, following you toward your room. "Figured you might want these."

The simple explanation warms you. You'd completely forgotten that the farmers market season was ending, had been so caught up in homework and relationship uncertainty that you'd lost track of the small rhythms that had once structured your weeks with Joe. But he'd remembered. He'd gone without you, had thought to buy the same flowers he always bought you, had shown up at your door because he knew it would matter to you.

"You went without me?" you ask, settling onto your bed and watching as he sets the flowers on your nightstand with careful attention.

"You've been swamped with that organic chemistry stuff," he says, sitting down beside you. "Didn't want to bother you."

It’s like he's trying not to make you feel guilty for being busy, but also maybe like he's gotten used to doing things alone that you used to do together.

"You should have told me," you say softly. "I would have made time."

Joe looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment his expression is so open and vulnerable that it takes your breath away. "I wanted to surprise you," he admits.

He leans over and kisses you then, gentle and sweet and tasting like the promise of better days ahead. When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing in a gesture that feels both familiar and new.

"I have about an hour before I need to get back for team dinner," he says. "Want to put these in water and tell me about your chemistry homework?"

You laugh, surprising yourself with how natural it feels. "It's organic chemistry, and it's terrible, and you're going to be so bored."

"Try me," he says, and for the first time in weeks, it feels like maybe he really means it.

As you get up to find a vase for the flowers, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your dresser. You look happier than you have in days, lighter somehow, and you realize that maybe Joe was right. Maybe this—the flowers, the honesty, the simple act of showing up—was exactly what you both needed.

December 17th, 2017

Can I come help with Christmas shopping tomorrow? Joe's text had come through the night before, when you were sprawled on your childhood bed dreading the inevitable mall chaos.

you want to drive 3 hours to go Christmas shopping? you'd texted back.

I want to spend the day with you. The shopping is just an excuse.

You'd fallen asleep smiling at your phone, and this morning you actually put effort into getting ready, choosing your favorite jeans and the sweater that makes your eyes look brighter. Your dad had left for work an hour ago, giving you a pointed look and reminding you that he'd be home by five.

Joe arrives right on time, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a white hoodie, carrying two coffee cups and wearing that slightly nervous smile that means he's more invested in this going well than he's letting on.

"You actually came," you say, stepping outside and accepting the coffee that you know without looking will be exactly how you like it.

"Told you I would," he says, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Ready to fight some crowds?"

Joe follows you through store after store with the patience of a saint, offering opinions when asked and staying diplomatically quiet when you're clearly overthinking things. At Williams Sonoma, he finds the perfect grilling set for your dad without you even having to explain what you're looking for.

"How did you know?" you ask, watching him examine the stainless steel tools with the kind of confidence that suggests he actually knows what he's talking about.

"My dad's got the same setup at home," Joe says. "Guys love this stuff. Makes them feel professional."

He insists on carrying all your bags, even when you protest that you can handle them yourself. At Bath & Body Works, he patiently waits while you agonize over scent combinations for your cousin, occasionally making comments that are surprisingly helpful for someone who probably hasn't set foot in the store before today.

"This one," he says, picking up a lotion. "Smells like you."

The observation makes your cheeks warm, especially when you realize he's right—it is similar to the perfume you usually wear.

Lunch is at the food court, which should feel like a strange place for what's essentially a date, but somehow doesn't. Joe seems genuinely interested in your stories about growing up here, about the summer job your dad made you get at the pretzel stand when you were sixteen, about the movie theater where you had your first kiss with Tommy Martinez in eighth grade.

"Should I be jealous of Tommy Martinez?" he asks, stealing one of your french fries.

"Probably not. He had braces and tasted like popcorn."

"Good to know I'm an improvement."

The afternoon continues in the same easy rhythm. Joe helps you pick out a scarf for your aunt, talks you out of buying the obviously overpriced earrings you're considering for your cousin, and somehow makes waiting in the endless gift-wrapping lines feel less like torture and more like an excuse to stand close to him while Christmas music plays overhead.

"Thank you," you say as you walk back to his truck, arms full of perfectly wrapped presents and shopping bags. "For driving all the way here just to help me shop for people you don't even know."

"I wanted to see where you grew up," Joe says, loading the bags into his truck bed with careful attention. "And I like doing things like this with you. Normal stuff."

The word 'normal' hits you in a way you don't expect. Because this does feel normal, domestic in the best possible way. Like something you could get used to doing together.

The drive back to your house is quiet and comfortable, Joe's hand finds yours across the center console while some Christmas song plays softly on the radio. The winter sun is already starting to set, casting everything in that golden light that makes even the suburbs of your hometown look magical.

"My dad might be home," you say as Joe parks in your driveway. 

"Is he going to give me the intimidating father talk?" Joe asks, but he's smiling like the prospect doesn't really worry him.

"Probably just the intimidating father stare," you say. "He's not much for talking."

Joe gathers your shopping bags from the truck bed, insisting on carrying them even though you could manage them yourself. You're still protesting when you open the front door and freeze.

Your dad is sitting at the dining room table, but he's not alone. Michael is there too, along with his fiancée Sarah, all of them looking up as you walk in with Joe behind you carrying an armload of shopping bags.

"Hey," you say awkwardly.

Your dad's expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the way his eyes take in Joe's presence, the shopping bags, the obvious fact that you've spent the entire day together. There's something in his posture that reminds you of every lecture you've ever gotten about focusing on your future instead of getting distracted by boys.

"Dad, this is Joe," you say, stepping aside so Joe can set the bags down. "Joe, this is my dad. And my brother Michael and his fiancé Sarah."

Joe steps forward with the kind of confident politeness that you know comes from years of meeting coaches and boosters and other people whose opinions matter. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad stands up and shakes Joe's hand, his grip probably firmer than necessary, his expression giving away nothing. "Joe."

"And you must be Michael," Joe continues, turning to your brother. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Thanks," Michael says, and you can see the moment he makes the connection. "Wait, Joe Burrow? Ohio State football?"

Something changes in Joe's expression, a subtle shift that you probably wouldn't notice if you hadn't been watching him so closely. "Yeah," he says quietly.

"That's awesome, man. You have plans for next season? I heard this one wasn’t the one for you."

The question hangs in the air, and you watch as Joe goes slightly pale, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "I'm not sure yet," he says, his voice carefully even. "Still figuring things out."

There's something in his tone that suggests this is territory he doesn't want to explore, and you feel a sudden protective urge to change the subject. But before you can say anything, your dad speaks up.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Joe," he says, his tone polite but distant. "I assume you'll be heading back home soon."

It's not quite a dismissal, but it's close enough that you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Joe, to his credit, doesn't seem fazed.

"Yes sir, probably in the next hour or so. Don't want to drive too late."

The conversation continues for a few more awkward minutes, your dad asking polite but pointed questions about Joe's major and his plans after graduation, Michael making small talk about football that seems to make Joe increasingly uncomfortable. 

Finally, mercifully, Joe glances at his watch and announces that he should probably get going.

"I'll walk you out," you say quickly, grabbing your coat and following him outside before anyone can object.

The December air is sharp and cold, but it feels like a relief after the tension of your family's dining room. "That was fun," he says dryly, but he's smiling in a way that suggests he's not entirely put off by the experience.

"My dad's just protective," you say, even though you know it was more than that. "And Michael... he doesn't really know when to stop asking questions."

"It's fine," Joe says, but you can see something thoughtful in his expression, like he's processing more than he's saying.

"Are you okay? About the football stuff, I mean. You seemed—"

"I'm fine," Joe cuts you off gently, but firmly. "Just not really something I want to get into right now, you know?"

You nod, even though you have a dozen more questions you want to ask. Instead, you step closer to him, close enough that you can see your breath mingling in the cold air.

"Thank you for today," you say softly. "For driving all the way here, for helping me shop, for being so patient with my family. It was perfect."

"Even the awkward dinner table interrogation?"

"Especially that," you say, and when he laughs, the sound makes something warm bloom in your chest despite the cold.

Joe reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "I had a really good day," he says. "I like seeing you here. In your space."

"I like having you here."

He leans down and kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like the hot chocolate you shared at the mall. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

"Drive safe," you whisper.

"Always do," he says, stepping back toward his truck. "Text me when you get the rest of those presents wrapped."

"That's going to be a very late text."

"I'll wait up."

January 18th, 2018

The coffee shop near campus buzzes with the familiar energy of the first full week back from winter break—students catching up on holiday stories, comparing spring schedules, and settling back into the rhythm of campus life. You're sitting at your usual table by the window, the one that gets good sunlight, watching for Joe through the glass while absently scrolling through your phone.

The past week has been a whirlwind of syllabus collection and textbook purchasing. Your schedule is packed this time—organic chemistry II, advanced statistics, two psychology electives, and the internship seminar that goes along with the position you'd finally landed over break. The internship your dad had been pushing you toward since sophomore year.

When you'd gotten the acceptance email three days after New Year's, you'd immediately thought about telling Joe. Not just because it was good news, but because it felt like the kind of thing you'd want to share with someone who understood how much pressure you'd been under.

Joe pushes through the coffee shop door at exactly two-thirty, scanning the crowded space until his eyes find yours. He's wearing the navy blue henley you bought him for Christmas, the one that makes his eyes look even more blue than usual, and his hair is slightly messy from the January wind. When he spots you, his face breaks into a genuine smile, and for a moment it feels exactly like it used to—like summer, like possibility, like everything is exactly as it should be.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the chair across from you and shrugging out of his jacket. "Sorry, meeting ran long. Coach is really pushing hard this off-season."

"It's fine," you say, and you mean it. You've learned to build extra time into any plans involving Joe and football. "I ordered for you—medium black coffee with one sugar. That's still right, isn't it?"

"Perfect," he says, and the grateful look he gives you makes something warm bloom in your chest. 

You talk easily about surface things at first—smaller details about your respective winter breaks went, complaints about professors who assigned textbooks that cost more than your monthly grocery budget, the way campus feels different in January with all the fresh snow and new semester energy. 

Joe tells you about the team's winter conditioning program, about Derek's New Year's party that apparently got so out of hand the neighbors called the police, about his mom's attempts to feed him enough food over break to last the entire spring semester.

"She sent me back with like six containers of leftovers," he says, laughing. "I'm pretty sure she thinks the dining halls are trying to starve me."

"Moms are like that," you say, thinking about how your own dad had lectured you about eating enough vegetables.

There's a natural lull in the conversation, and you find yourself fidgeting with your coffee cup, turning it in slow circles on the table. The news about your internship feels too big to keep to yourself, but you're also nervous about how Joe will react. Not because you think he won't be happy for you, but because good news sometimes highlights the uncertain areas of your own life, and you're not sure where Joe fits into your post-graduation plans.

"I got some good news over break," you say finally, unable to contain your excitement any longer. "Remember that internship I applied for? The one downtown? They offered me a position for this summer."

Joe's face lights up immediately, genuinely pleased in a way that makes your chest tight with affection. "That's amazing! I know how much you wanted that one. Your dad must be thrilled."

"Oh, he's practically planning the celebration dinner already," you say with a laugh. "I think he's more excited than I am. He keeps talking about how it's going to 'open doors' and 'set me up for success after graduation.'"

"He's probably right," Joe says, stirring his coffee even though he hasn't added anything to it. "That's a really big deal. Competitive program, right?"

"Super competitive. I honestly didn't think I'd get it." You pause, watching his face carefully. "It's going to be a lot of work on top of classes this semester, but it feels like the right move. You know, getting serious about what comes after all this."

You let the comment hang in the air, not quite a question but definitely an opening. A door that invites someone to share their own thoughts about the future, their own plans for what comes after graduation. You find yourself holding your breath slightly, waiting to see if Joe will walk through it.

But he doesn't. Instead, he takes a long sip of his coffee and nods thoughtfully. "That's really great. You're going to be amazing at it."

The moment passes, and you feel smaller. Full of not disappointment, exactly, but something like it.

"Thanks," you say, trying to keep the moment light. "I'm nervous, but excited. It feels good to have something concrete lined up, you know?"

"Absolutely," Joe agrees, but there's something in his tone that suggests the conversation is closed, that he's not going to offer up any information about his own post-grad thoughts.

You pivot to safer topics after that—asking about his classes this semester, listening to him describe the new playbook they're learning, sharing your own fears about organic chemistry II and whether you'll be able to handle the increased workload.

Joe seems more careful with his words than usual, more measured in a way that feels unlike the easy openness you'd grown accustomed to over the past months. He's present and engaged, asking questions about your classes and laughing at your stories about your roommates' various winter break adventures, but there's something held back in his responses, some part of himself that feels guarded.

When he asks about your Christmas shopping purchases and whether your family liked everything you picked out, you tell him about your dad's reaction to the grilling set, about how your aunt had called to thank you for the scarf you'd chosen. The conversation feels comfortable and familiar, but you notice that Joe doesn't bring up meeting your family, doesn't reference that day in the same warm, nostalgic way you'd expected.

Maybe you're overthinking it. Maybe the semester starting has just put him back in football mode, made him more focused on the immediate demands of school and athletics. Maybe the distance you're sensing isn't distance at all, just the natural adjustment period that comes with transitioning back to busy schedules and competing priorities.

An hour passes easily, and when Joe glances at the time and mentions that he should probably head back, you do feel a pang of disappointment this time. 

"I should get going too," you say, gathering your jacket. "Professor Williams wants us to have the first three chapters read before class tomorrow."

"Already kicking your ass?" Joe asks with a grin, standing up and helping you organize your things.

"Oh, absolutely. I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend the next four months feeling like I'm drowning."

"You're not going to drown," Joe says with the kind of confidence that makes you believe him. "You're too stubborn to let some class beat you."

Outside the coffee shop, the weather is the sort that makes you want to walk fast and get indoors as quickly as possible. Joe walks you to your car, carrying your bag without being asked, and when you reach your driver's side door, he pulls you into a hug.

"It's good to see you," he says into your hair, and the warmth in his voice makes something loosen in your chest. "I missed this. Just talking."

"Me too," you say, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cold winter air. "We should do this more often. Regular coffee dates."

"I'd like that," Joe says, pulling back to look at you. He kisses you goodbye, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee, and when he pulls away, his hand lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Drive safe," he says, stepping back so you can get in your car.

"Always do," you reply, echoing the exchange that's become routine between you.

As you drive back to campus, you find yourself thinking about the afternoon, trying to parse the feeling that something was slightly off without being able to identify what exactly it was. 

You push the thought away as you climb the stairs to your room. Whatever it is, it's probably nothing that can't be worked through with time and patience. After all, you've navigated harder things together—his injury, the pressures of football season, the complicated dynamics of balancing school with whatever this relationship is becoming.

Some things just take time to settle, you tell yourself. Some conversations happen when they're ready to happen, not when you're ready to have them.

March 25th, 2018

The sunlight filtering through Joe’s room window has that wishful quality that only comes in late March, when winter is finally loosening its grip and spring feels like a real possibility rather than just a distant promise. You're curled up against him on his couch, your legs tangled with his, both of you supposedly studying but really just enjoying the quiet comfort of being together.

Your textbook lies open but mostly ignored in your lap while Joe scrolls through something on his laptop—film study, probably, or maybe just checking his email. The past few weeks have settled into a rhythm that feels both familiar and slightly strained, like a song played in a key that's almost but not quite right.

Spring break had come and gone with both of you staying in town—you because your internship required you to start early, Joe because of other obligations. You'd spent most of that week together, falling back into some semblance of the easy intimacy you'd shared during the summer, but even then, there had been moments when you'd catch him staring off into space with an expression you couldn't dissect.

Now, with graduation looming just six weeks away, the campus has taken on that particular energy that comes at the end of senior year—a mixture of nostalgia, anxiety, and excited anticipation that makes everything feel both urgent and dreamlike. Your friends have been talking nonstop about post-graduation plans, about job offers and graduate school applications and the terrifying prospect of real adulthood.

"McKenna got that job in Chicago," you say, breaking the silence that had settled between you. "The one at the nonprofit she was hoping for. She's already looking at apartments."

"That's great," Joe says, glancing up from his laptop screen. "She'll love Chicago. Big city, lots to do."

"Yeah, she's really excited. Says she's ready to get out of Ohio, try something completely different." You pause, turning a page in your textbook without really seeing the words. "Iris is probably moving back home to Cleveland. Her mom's been on her about staying close to family."

Joe makes a noncommittal humming sound. You've been noticing that lately—the way he deflects conversations about the future, changes the subject when talk turns to post-graduation plans.

"What about you?" you ask, trying to keep your tone casual even though the question feels heavier than it should. "Have you figured out what you want to do after graduation?"

The question hangs in the air between you, and you feel Joe's body tense slightly against yours. He doesn't look up from his laptop immediately, and when he does, there's something carefully neutral about his expression.

"Oh, you know me," he says with a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll probably just wing it. See what happens."

The deflection is so obviously a deflection that it makes your chest tighten with frustration. You've been together for almost a year now, have shared things with each other that you've never told anyone else, and yet when it comes to something as basic as his plans for the immediate future, he's treating you like a casual acquaintance.

"Come on," you say, shifting so you can look at him directly. "I'm serious. You have to have some idea. Are you going to try to stay in Ohio? Look for jobs here? I mean, we're graduating in six weeks."

Joe closes his laptop and sets it aside, but instead of meeting your eyes, he focuses on the coffee table in front of him. "I don't know," he says finally. "There are a lot of variables. Football stuff, you know? It's complicated."

"What kind of football stuff?" you press, because this vague non-answer feels worse than no answer at all. "Are you thinking about a corporate job somewhere? Or coaching? You've never really talked about what you want to do after college."

"Because I don't know," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice now that makes you pull back slightly. "I don't have some grand plan mapped out, okay? Some of us can't just land the perfect internship and have everything figured out."

The comment stings more than it should, especially because you know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds. Your internship hasn't been perfect—it's been demanding and stressful and has made this semester feel like you're constantly playing catch-up. But more than that, his deflection hurts because it feels like a wall going up between you, a barrier that keeps you from accessing the part of him that used to feel completely open to you.

"I don't have everything figured out," you say quietly. "I'm just as scared as everyone else about what comes next. But I thought... I thought we could talk about it. Together."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you've learned to recognize as a sign that he's frustrated or feeling cornered. "Look, can we just not do this right now? I've got enough pressure from coaches and advisors and everyone else asking about my plans. I don't need it from you too."

The words hit like a slap, and you feel your face flush with a combination of hurt and embarrassment. You're not "everyone else"—you're supposed to be the person he can talk to about the things that worry him, the person who understands the pressure he's under better than anyone.

"I'm not pressuring you," you say, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees. "I'm trying to have a conversation about our futures. That's what people in relationships do."

"Are we in a relationship?" Joe asks, and the question is so unexpected, so blindsiding, that for a moment you can't find words to respond.

"What do you mean?" you finally manage, your voice smaller than you intended.

Joe immediately looks stricken, like he can't believe he just said what he said. "Shit, I didn't... that came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured in a way that feels rehearsed. "I just meant that we've never really defined what this is. And with graduation coming up, with everything changing... maybe it's better to not make assumptions about what happens next."

The rational part of your brain understands what he's saying. You have never officially defined your relationship, have never had the "what are we" conversation that turns casual dating into something more serious. But the emotional part of you is reeling from the suggestion that almost a year of shared moments, of him meeting your family, of matching tattoos and late-night conversations and sex, might not mean what you thought it meant.

"So what are we then?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds despite the chaos in your chest. "What would you call this?"

Joe meets your eyes for the first time since the conversation started, and the expression you see there is so conflicted, so full of something that looks like pain.

Did it pain him to think about this?

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I wish I did, but I don't know."

The honesty in his voice is almost worse than the deflection had been. At least when he was being evasive, you could tell yourself that he was just being private, just processing things in his own way. But this admission—that after everything you've shared, he genuinely doesn't know what you are to each other—feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.

You sit in silence for several minutes, both of you staring at different points in the room, both of you clearly trying to figure out what to say next. The evening light has faded to dusk while you've been talking, and Joe's room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have moved closer together.

"I should probably go," you say finally, closing your textbook and gathering your things. "I have that paper due tomorrow anyway."

"You don't have to leave," Joe says, but there's no real conviction in his voice. "We can just... watch a movie or something. Forget about all this."

"I think I need some space to think," you say, standing up and slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "About what you said. About what this is."

Joe stands too, following you toward the door with the kind of careful distance that suggests he's not sure whether you want him close or far away. "I really didn't mean for it to come out like that," he says as you reach for your jacket. "About the relationship thing. That was... I was being an idiot."

"Were you though?" you ask, pausing with your hand on the doorknob. "Because maybe you're right. Maybe we have been making assumptions."

"Don't do this," Joe says, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. "Don't let one stupid conversation mess up everything good between us."

"I'm not trying to mess anything up," you say, turning to face him. "I'm just trying to understand what we're doing here. What we've been doing for the past year."

Joe steps closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the laundry detergent you've learned to associate with comfort and safety.

"What we've been doing is being happy," he says softly. "At least, I've been happy. Haven't you?"

The question breaks something open in you, because yes, you have been happy. Happier than you've ever been with anyone, happier than you knew was possible. But happiness without direction, without some sense of where it's leading, feels suddenly fragile in a way that scares you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I have been happy."

"Then why does everything else have to matter right now?" Joe asks, reaching up to cup your cheek. "Why can't we just be happy?"

You lean into his touch despite yourself, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the feeling of his palm against your skin. "Because eventually everything else does matter," you say. "Because we're graduating in six weeks, and I don't know if you're going to be here next year, and I don't know what that means for us."

"We'll figure it out," Joe says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out."

You want to believe him. You want to sink into the comfort of his touch and the familiar warmth of his voice and let tomorrow worry about itself. But something has shifted tonight, some fundamental understanding about what you mean to each other and what kind of future you're building together.

"I hope so," you say, pulling away from his touch and opening the door. "I really hope so."

The drive back to your house feels longer than usual, and you spend most of it replaying the conversation in your mind, trying to figure out where exactly things went wrong. By the time you're climbing the stairs to your room, you're no closer to understanding what just happened, but you're absolutely certain that something important has changed between you and Joe.

Something that you're not sure can be unchanged, no matter how much you both might want it to be.

May 8th, 2018

The organic chemistry textbook in front of you might as well be written in a different language for all the sense it's making right now. You've been staring at the same page about molecular orbital theory for the past twenty minutes, your brain too fried from three consecutive days of studying to absorb any new information. 

Finals week is in full swing, and your room has taken on the chaotic appearance of someone who's given up on maintaining any semblance of organization in favor of pure academic survival.

Coffee cups in various stages of emptiness sit scattered across your desk alongside highlighters, note cards, and the remnants of the granola bar you'd optimistically thought would count as lunch. Your roommates are similarly buried in their own academic disasters—McKenna camped out in the library for her senior thesis defense prep, Iris stress-eating her way through a statistics final, and Ariella having what she calls a "controlled breakdown" over her capstone project in the room next door.

You reach for your phone, telling yourself you're just checking the time but really looking for any excuse to avoid thinking about molecular orbitals for another few minutes. The blue light of the screen makes you blink as you scroll aimlessly through social media, your thumb moving automatically through the endless stream of posts about finals stress, summer excitement, and graduation countdown posts.

That's when you see it.

@JoeyB has posted a new tweet, and your heart does that automatic little flutter it always does when you see his name pop up unexpectedly. You and Joe have been in a weird place since that conversation at his apartment in March—still talking, still hanging out occasionally with friend groups or meeting for coffee, but everything feels more careful now, more surface-level. You've been existing in that strange space where you're not quite together but not exactly apart either, having pleasant conversations about classes and finals while carefully avoiding anything deeper.

Just last week you'd run into him at the campus coffee shop and ended up sitting together for an hour, talking in the cautious way of two people who used to share everything but now aren't sure what's safe territory. It had been nice, comfortable even, and you'd left feeling like maybe you were both finding your way back to some version of friendship, even if the romantic uncertainty remained unresolved.

You tap on the tweet without thinking, expecting maybe a joke about finals or a complaint about spring practice. Instead, you find yourself staring at words that don't immediately make sense, like your brain is refusing to process their meaning.

Excited to be playing in Death Valley next season. Ready to get to work.

You read it once. Twice. Three times, each pass making the words feel more surreal and impossible. There's a photo attached—Joe in an LSU baseball cap, grinning at the camera with the kind of genuine excitement you haven't seen from him in months. He looks happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy in a way that makes something cold and sharp twist in your stomach.

Death Valley. LSU. A thousand miles away from Ohio. Joe is leaving—not just Ohio State, but you too. And you’re finding out like any random stranger on Twitter.

Your phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto your desk with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet of your room. The molecular orbital diagrams blur together as your eyes fill with tears you don't remember starting to cry, and for a moment you can't breathe around the weight of what you've just learned.

He's leaving. Joe is leaving Ohio State, leaving Ohio, leaving everything and everyone here, and he didn't tell you. After a year of shared secrets and matching tattoos and nights spent talking about everything and nothing, after meeting your family and driving three hours just to help you Christmas shop, after spending endless nights together and promising that you'd figure things out together—after all of that, you found out about the most important decision of his life the same way a stranger would.

The betrayal hits you hard, settling in your chest and making it hard to draw a full breath. You think about all those conversations over the past few months, all the times you'd asked about his plans and he'd deflected or changed the subject or gotten defensive about the pressure he was under. You think about that horrible night in March when he'd asked if you were even in a relationship, the way he'd looked so conflicted and pained when you'd pushed him for answers about what you meant to each other.

Now you understand. He'd looked conflicted because he was lying to your face. He'd been pained because he already knew he was leaving and was apparently too much of a coward to tell you.

Your laptop dings with a notification, probably another email about finals scheduling or graduation ceremony details, but you can't bring yourself to look at it. Instead, you find yourself opening your text conversation with Joe, scrolling back through months of messages that now feel like evidence of your own naivety.

how was practice? you'd texted three days ago.

Long but good, he'd replied. Hope your studying is going well.

Such a normal, friendly exchange.

The worst part—worse than the public humiliation of finding out via Twitter, worse than the months of lies and deflection—is the silence that follows. 

You keep waiting for your phone to buzz with a text from Joe, some kind of explanation or apology or acknowledgment that maybe he should have told you about this directly. 

You wait through the rest of Tuesday afternoon, checking your phone compulsively between half-hearted attempts to study. 

You wait through Wednesday, telling yourself that maybe he's been busy with transfer paperwork or family calls or any of the dozen legitimate reasons someone might have for not immediately reaching out to the girl they've been sort-of dating for a year.

By Thursday, the waiting has transformed into something else entirely. A cold, clear understanding that settles in your chest like ice water. Joe isn’t going to call. Or text. Or explain. The silence is your answer.

The silence isn't an oversight or a moment of thoughtlessness. It's deliberate. It's his answer to every question you've asked about your relationship over the past few months, his response to your concerns about the future and what you mean to each other.

You don't mean enough to him to warrant a conversation about his decision. You never did.

Thursday night, you finally allow yourself to truly process what this all means. Joe has been planning this for months—you can tell from the professional quality of the announcement, from the way the LSU athletics Twitter account immediately reposted his message with what's clearly prepared graphics and welcome statements. This isn't a last-minute decision made in response to some sudden opportunity. This is something he's been working toward, probably since winter break, definitely since before that conversation in March when you'd asked about his plans and he'd gotten defensive about pressure.

He's been lying to you for months. Not just avoiding difficult conversations or being private about his thought process, but actively deceiving you about his intentions and his future. Every time you'd brought up graduation plans, every time you'd tried to talk about what came next for both of you, he'd been sitting on this secret, letting you wonder and worry and make assumptions about a future that he already knew wasn't going to include you.

The tattoo on your wrist feels like it's burning. 

Finals week continues around you in a blur of stress and exhaustion and the kind of forced normalcy that comes from having to function when your personal life has imploded. You take your organic chemistry exam and your statistics final and your psychology research methods test, going through the motions of being a student while feeling like you're watching your life from a distance.

Your phone never buzzes with Joe's name. He never calls to explain, never texts to apologize, never even sends one of those awkward "hey, I know this is weird but I wanted you to hear this from me" messages that would at least acknowledge that you were once important enough to warrant direct communication.

The silence is its own answer. 

Sunday night, a week after the initial tweet, you finally allow yourself to feel the full weight of what's happened. Not just that Joe is leaving—though that hurts more than you want to admit—but that he apparently never considered you significant enough to deserve honesty about his plans. 

While you were falling in love with him, building your sense of future around the possibility of him being in it, he was planning his exit strategy and never once thought to include you in that conversation.

You cry harder than you have since you were a child, the kind of sobbing that leaves you exhausted and hollow and strangely empty. And then, finally, you delete his number from your phone.

Not because you're angry, though you are. Not because you want to hurt him the way he's hurt you, though part of you does. But because keeping his number feels like holding onto the hope that he might explain or apologize. 

And you're beginning to understand that he never will. This is Joe's goodbye—a public announcement and then silence. 

May 18th, 2018

The beach is full of hundreds of new Ohio State graduates scattered across the sand, some still donning their caps, the formal graduation ceremony having given way to an impromptu celebration that stretches as far as you can see along the shoreline. 

Coolers of alcohol appear and disappear, someone's brought speakers that blast music over the sound of waves, and everywhere you look, people are taking pictures and hugging and crying happy tears about the end of one chapter and the beginning of whatever comes next.

You should feel celebratory. After four years of hard work, questionable life choices, and more stress than you care to remember, you're finally done. You have your degree, your job that starts in two weeks, and a future that feels more concrete than it has in months. 

Your friends are ecstatic—McKenna keeps talking about her move to Chicago, Iris has been crying happy tears on and off all day, and Ariella is already planning elaborate post-graduation trips that none of you can afford but all of you want to take anyway.

But sitting here in the sand with your graduation cap beside you and your dress tucked carefully around your legs, you feel sad in a way that has nothing to do with the normal melancholy of endings and everything to do with the person-shaped absence that's been following you around for the past ten days.

Ten days of complete silence from Joe, ten days of watching your phone not ring and checking social media for any sign that he's thinking about the people he's leaving behind. Ten days of your friends asking carefully if you're okay while pretending they haven't seen the LSU announcement that's still being shared around Ohio State social media like some kind of local celebrity gossip.

You'd gotten through graduation itself by focusing on the ceremony, on your families’ proud faces in the crowd, on the surreal feeling of walking across that stage and shaking hands with the dean. But now, surrounded by  your entire class saying goodbye to college, the weight of everything unsaid and unresolved feels impossible to ignore.

"I'm going to get another drink," you tell McKenna, pushing yourself up from the sand. "You want anything?"

"I'm good," she says, barely looking up from the elaborate group selfie she's trying to coordinate with some girls from your psychology program. "Take your time."

You wander away from the main cluster of your friends, ostensibly heading toward the coolers set up near the parking lot but really just needing some space to breathe. The beach extends in both directions, and you find yourself walking toward the quieter end, where the crowd thins out and you can actually hear the waves over the music and laughter.

You settle into the sand a safe distance from the party. The moon is starting to rise, painting everything in those silver tones that make even the most ordinary moments feel significant, and for the first time all day, you allow yourself to really sit with everything you're feeling.

Grief, mostly. Not just for Joe, but for the version of your future you'd been imagining. You'd known, logically, that college relationships often don't survive the transition to real life, but you'd thought what you had was different. Special enough to at least warrant a conversation about whether it was worth trying to maintain.

Apparently, you'd been wrong about that.

You're so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear footsteps in the sand behind you until someone settles down beside you with a soft thud. When you look over, your heart stops.

Joe is sitting next to you, close enough that you can smell his familiar cologne mixed with the salt air, far enough away that there's no risk of accidental contact. He's changed out of his graduation attire and he looks tired in a way that goes beyond the normal exhaustion of a long day. His hair is messy from the wind, and there are lines around his eyes that you don't remember being there before.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You both stare out at the water, watching the waves roll in and recede, the rhythm hypnotic and somehow soothing despite the tension crackling between you. You're acutely aware of his presence, of the way he's sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, of the careful distance he's maintaining even though he chose to sit beside you.

The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable, and finally, you can't stand it anymore.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice quieter than you'd meant but still audible over the sound of the waves.

Joe doesn't answer immediately. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers, the grains catching the light as they fall. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he hasn't used it much lately.

"I didn't think it would matter," he says.

The words are so devastating in their casual dismissal that for a moment you can't breathe. You stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, to explain what he could possibly mean by that, but he just keeps staring at the water like he's said something perfectly reasonable.

"You didn't think it would matter?" you repeat, and you can hear the edge creeping into your voice. "You didn't think that leaving the state would matter to me? To us?"

"There is no us," Joe says, still not looking at you. "You said it yourself—we never defined what this was. We were just... hanging out. Having fun."

"Hanging out?" you say, turning to face him fully. "Is that what you call a year of this? The tattoos were just hanging out? Meeting my family was just hanging out? Sleeping together was just hanging out?"

Joe finally looks at you then, and there's something defensive in his expression that makes you want to scream. "We agreed we weren't putting labels on anything. We agreed to keep it casual."

"When?" you demand. "When did we agree to that? Because I remember having a lot of conversations about what we were to each other, and most of them ended with you deflecting or changing the subject. I remember you asking me if we were even in a relationship like it was some kind of ridiculous question."

"Because it was complicated," Joe says, his voice rising slightly. "Because I didn't know what I was doing with football, with school, with any of it. I told you I was figuring things out."

"You weren't figuring anything out," you shoot back, standing up abruptly and brushing sand off your dress. "You already knew. You'd already decided to transfer, probably months ago, and you just didn't bother to tell me. You let me think we were working toward something when you'd already checked out."

Joe stands too, his jaw tight with frustration. "I didn't lie to you. I never promised you anything."

"You didn't have to promise me anything," you say, and you can feel tears starting to burn behind your eyes. "But you could have been honest. You could have told me you were planning to leave instead of letting me find out on Twitter like some random stranger."

"Would it have changed anything?" Joe asks, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. "If I'd told you in January that I was thinking about transferring, would that have made this any easier?"

"It would have given me a choice," you say quietly. "It would have let me decide whether I wanted to spend the last few months of college falling in love with someone who was planning to disappear."

The words hang in the air between you, and you see something flicker across Joe's face—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or something that might be regret. But when he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled.

"I never asked you to fall in love with me," he says.

The statement is so cruel, so deliberately cutting, that it takes your breath away. You stare at him, looking for some sign that he understands how devastating those words are, but his expression is closed off, guarded in a way that makes him look like a stranger.

"No," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tears that are now falling freely down your cheeks. "You didn't ask. You just let it happen. You let me think that what we had meant something to you, that I meant something to you. But I guess I was wrong about that."

"That's not—" Joe starts, but you cut him off.

"Do you know what the worst part is?" you continue, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's not that you're leaving. I could have understood that. It's not even that you didn't tell me directly. It's that you genuinely don't understand why any of this matters. You really think that a year of my life, a year of us, was just casual enough that your leaving wouldn't affect me at all."

Joe opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but no words come out. He just stands there looking lost and frustrated and entirely unwilling to acknowledge that he might have handled this badly.

"I loved you," you say quietly, and the past tense feels like swallowing glass. "I loved you, and you knew that, and you decided it wasn't worth a conversation before you moved on with your life."

"It's not that simple," Joe says finally, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

"Yes, it is," you reply. "It really is that simple. You could have talked to me. You could have included me in the decision, or at least in the conversation about the decision. You could have treated me like I mattered to you."

"You do matter to me," Joe says, and for the first time in this conversation, his voice cracks slightly.

"No," you say, stepping back from him. "I don't. And that's okay, I guess. But I wish you'd been honest about that from the beginning instead of letting me think this was something it wasn't." Joe reaches out like he wants to touch your arm, but you move away before he can make contact. "Don't," you say. "Just... don't."

You can see the exact moment he realizes that this conversation isn't going to end with reconciliation or understanding or any kind of resolution that leaves you both feeling better. His hand drops to his side, and his shoulders slump slightly, like he's finally understanding the weight of what's happening here.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry I hurt you. That was never what I wanted."

"I know," you say, and you mean it. "But wanting something and making sure it doesn't happen are two different things."

You look at him one more time, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the expression of confused regret that he's wearing like he genuinely doesn't understand how things got this bad. You try to memorize it, this last image of him, because you know that after tonight, you'll never see him again.

"I hope LSU is everything you want it to be," you say finally. "I hope it was worth it."

And then you turn and walk away, leaving him sitting alone in the sand with the sound of the waves and the distant laughter of your graduating class. You don't look back, not even when you hear him call your name softly behind you.

By the time you rejoin your friends, you've composed yourself enough to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing has changed. But as the night goes on and the celebration continues around you, you find yourself thinking that this is how some stories end—with the quiet recognition that some people are simply incapable of loving you the way you deserve to be loved.

And sometimes, walking away is the only choice that preserves any dignity at all.

September 2020

The cereal aisle at Kroger should not be this complicated, but here you are, standing on your tiptoes trying to reach the granola that's been placed on the highest shelf like some kind of elaborate psychological test. Your fingertips barely graze the box, and after the third failed attempt, you let out a frustrated huff.

"Seriously?" you mutter under your breath, glancing around for a store employee or even just a taller human being who might take pity on your situation.  

The store is unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon, filled with people stocking up for what the weather app promises will be the first real cold snap of the season. You'd only stopped in to grab a few essentials—coffee, bread, something that might pass for a healthy breakfast—but somehow you've been wandering the aisles for twenty minutes, your mind elsewhere as it often is these days.

You're reaching up one more time, determined to either get the granola or accept defeat, when you turn slightly to adjust your angle and find yourself face to face with someone you never expected to see in a Cincinnati grocery store.

Joe Burrow is standing three feet away from you, frozen in the middle of reaching for something on a lower shelf, his eyes wide with the same shock you're sure is written all over your face. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting for the other person to disappear or reveal themselves to be some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

But he doesn't disappear. He's very real, very much there, wearing joggers and a simple black t-shirt that shows off arms that are somehow even more muscular than you remember. His hair is shorter than it was in college, more professional, and there's a different quality to the way he carries himself—more confident, maybe, or just more settled in his own skin.

"Hi," he says finally, his voice exactly the same as it was two and a half years ago, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," you manage back, acutely aware that you're probably staring but unable to look away. "I didn't... what are you doing here?"

"Grocery shopping," Joe says with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Same as you, I guess."

Right. Of course. You'd known, logically, that Joe was playing for Cincinnati now, had seen the news coverage and the social media posts about the promising young quarterback who was supposed to turn the franchise around. But knowing something intellectually and running into it in the cereal aisle of your neighborhood Kroger are apparently very different things.

"Right," you say, feeling heat creep up your neck. "The Bengals. I forgot you were... how is that going? The season?"

"Good," Joe says, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back. "I mean, it's going. We're working on it. Building something."

The conversation feels stilted in a way that conversations with Joe never used to feel, both of you carefully polite like you're strangers making small talk rather than people who once knew each other's bodies better than your own. You notice he's holding a basket with what looks like the contents of someone who's still figuring out how to grocery shop for himself—protein bars, bananas, a bag of pre-made salad that's probably three days past optimal freshness.

"That's great," you say, because what else is there to say? "I'm sure it's exciting. Playing professionally."

"Yeah, it's been a dream come true," Joe replies, but there's something automatic about the response, like it's something he's said in interviews a hundred times. His eyes flick over you, taking in your appearance. "You look good. Happy."

"Thanks," you say, suddenly self-conscious. "You too. You look... professional athlete-y."

Joe laughs at that, a genuine sound that reminds you so strongly of college that it makes your stomach flutter with muscle memory. "Professional athlete-y? That's definitely going on my resume."

For a moment, it feels almost easy between you, like you might be able to have a normal conversation despite everything that happened the last time you spoke. But then your eyes drift down to his hands as he adjusts his grip on the shopping basket, and you notice something that makes your breath catch.

He's wearing a wristband on his right arm. A simple red OSU band that wouldn't be remarkable except for the fact that you remember, with startling clarity, Joe telling you once that he never wore anything on his right wrist because of a scar he'd gotten as a kid, something about the way bands would catch on it and feel uncomfortable.

But there it is, covering exactly the spot where you know a small star is tattooed into his skin.

The realization hits you, and instinctively, you tug your right sleeve down further over your own wrist, covering the matching tattoo that you've considered getting covered up or removed at least a dozen times but never quite managed to follow through on.

Joe notices the gesture, his eyes following the movement, and for a second his expression shifts into something that looks almost guilty. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking, exactly what you've just figured out.

"So," you say quickly, desperate to fill the sudden tension with something, anything, that might make this feel less like a confrontation and more like a chance encounter between two adults who used to know each other. "How long have you been in Cincinnati?"

"Since June," Joe says. "Just got an apartment downtown. Still figuring out the city."

"It's nice," you offer. "Good food scene. The river's pretty."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

Another pause. You're both running out of safe small talk, approaching the territory where one of you will either have to acknowledge what happened between you or make an excuse to leave. You're leaning toward the latter when you hear footsteps behind you.

"There you are," a familiar voice says, and you turn to see Derek approaching with the bouquet of flowers you sent him off for. "I've been looking everywhere for— Joe?"

Derek stops short when he sees who you're talking to, his expression shifting through surprise, recognition, and something that might be n as he takes in the scene in front of him.

"Derek," Joe greets, and there's genuine warmth in his voice as he steps forward to shake Derek's hand. "How are you, man? It's been forever."

"Good, really good," Derek replies, though his eyes keep flicking between you and Joe like he's trying to figure out exactly what he's walked into. "I heard you were in Cincinnati now. That's awesome, congrats on making it to the NFL."

"Thanks," Joe smiles. "What about you? What brings you to Cincinnati?"

"Work," Derek says. "Got a job at a firm downtown about a year ago. Really liking it here."

You can see the exact moment Derek realizes that this conversation is about to get complicated, that there are layers of history here that he, even the best people pleaser you know, isn’t sure how to navigate.

"We should probably get going," Derek says, glancing at his watch. "Don't wanna be late to our own rehearsal dinner."

The words hang in the air, and you watch as Joe's face goes through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, something that looks like he's been punched in the gut. The silence stretches uncomfortably as he processes what Derek just said, what he thinks Derek just said.

"Well," Derek continues, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between you and Joe, "it was really nice seeing you, man. We ought to catch up soon."

"Yeah," Joe manages, his voice hoarse. "You too."

Derek gives a friendly wave and starts walking toward the registers. You stand there for a moment longer, caught between following Derek and staying to explain, watching as Joe stares after Derek's retreating figure with an expression you can't quite read.

After a minute, you follow Derek, but something makes you glance back over your shoulder. Joe is still standing in the cereal aisle, and when your eyes meet, you see something broken in his expression that makes your chest ache. He looks hurt in a way that reminds you of a kicked dog, confused and wounded and trying to understand what just happened.

You could have said something. Could have clarified, could have explained. But your feet keep moving toward the checkout, and you find yourself thinking about how it felt to discover his transfer plans via Twitter, how it felt to sit in that coffee shop talking about internships while he was hiding his entire future from you.

Part of you feels guilty for not saying more, for letting him walk away with whatever conclusions he's drawn. But there's another part—a smaller, uglier part that you're not proud of—that likes the look on his face.

It's petty and mean and not like you at all, but for just a moment, watching Joe Burrow look lost in a grocery store aisle feels like the universe settling a very old debt.

When you reach the checkout, McKenna is already there, holding a small vase and checking items off a list on her phone. She looks up when she sees you approaching. "There you are," she says. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

“That could mean one of several thousand things, Robby.” Jack glances at him. He keeps his voice hushed like Robby’s. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than ‘we’re doing it.’” 

“Her and I,” Robby clarifies. “We’re together. It happened today. I’m taking her out tomorrow night.” 

“About fucking time,” Jack mutters lowly. He claps Robby on the shoulder as they keep walking. “I’m really happy for you brother. For you both.”

“Really? That’s all you have to say?” Jack looks at Robby and raises his eyebrows while squinting a little, asking what Robby wanted instead. “I don’t know,” Robby shrugs, “I thought you’d have some more enthusiasm.” 

“I do,” Jack nods, “but given your near whispering, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to express it right here in, you know, the middle of the entire fucking ED,” Jack’s dropped his voice even lower the further they’ve walked in, “because it seemed like maybe not everyone knew yet and I wasn’t sure if you really wanted me to be the one to tell them or make them starting asking even more questions.” He gives Robby a look for a second before softening it into a small smile and nodding at Robby.

You grin to yourself when you see Jack. You and Robby agreed that Dana and Jack had to know right away but that you wouldn’t tell Dana until Jack was here. You could tell that Dana knew something was up, though. 

You walk by Robby and Jack on your way to Dana, smirk at them. “Boys.” You nod. 

Robby lets out a long breath and shakes his head a little. He has no idea what to do with you sometimes, in the best way. Jack just smirks back at you a little, but softens it out just a bit at the end and nods to silently tell you he’s very happy for you. 

You smile as you walk up to Dana, standing next to her as she looks up at the board. “We’re together,” you whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. “He’s taking me out tomorrow night.”

“About fucking time,” Dana whispers back. She gives you a sly smile and bumps your hip with hers. “I’m very happy for you, both of you.”

“Thank you,” you nod, making eye contact with Robby across the floor, “I am too.” 

You stand up when you hear someone else enter the supply closet. You think it might be Dana coming to lovingly corner you and get info on how your date was. But it’s not her. It’s Robby. “Hey,” you call out to him. 

“Hi.” His response is a little short and confuses you but you just let it go. He walks over so that he’s standing next to you. A respectable distance apart. Robby starts looking through the shelves but as you watch him it’s clear he’s not really actually looking for anything. “Heard you had a date last night.” His voice is strained, he sounds like he’s trying to hide some simmering anger. But you recognize it for what it really is. Jealousy.

You stop pulling the tubing you need from the shelf but don’t turn to look at him. How did he even know about that and why does he fucking care are the only two things you can really think about. He has no right to be mad. You and Robby have been dancing around each other for years now. At his behest. And at a certain point it felt like his reasoning for that changed. 

After a couple of seconds you sigh. “I did yeah.” 

You can see him nod out of the corner of your eye, mouth in a line. You have to roll your eyes at him as you pull out the tubing. “You sleep with him?” 

You scoff and finally look over at him, but he’s still looking at the shelves. “I’m sorry, please tell me how the fuck that is even close to your business.” 

Robby just pulls his lips down. Not sad per se but thinking. “So you did.”

You just want this conversation to be over at this point. Because it hurts. Because Robby has been and it seems always will be right there but unwilling or unable or not wanting to try being with you. “Yeah. Sorry I needed to get laid and actually went out and got it. You should fucking try it, Michael.” It’s not even a conscious decision, deciding to push him away first in this conversation, to try and act unaffected by the thought of him being with someone else. 

He ignores your jabs, but the confirmation that you were with someone else makes his blood boil, jealousy ripping through him and clouding his thoughts. “You let him touch you. Touch what’s mine.” 

“Ha!” you laugh. Then there’s ten or so seconds of silence as you gape at him while his words fully process because you’re so struck by his fucking audacity. “What’s yours? What’s fucking yours? Are you out of your fucking mind Michael? Please, since fucking when have I been yours?” He still doesn’t look at you. “Hey! Look at me, asshole!” You throw the tubing in your hand at him. 

That gets him to turn and look at you with a scowl on his stupid handsome face. He knows that you’re not at all his. He can’t bring himself to admit it though. “Thought we were going to do this. Do us. When you’re an attending. Guess not.”

You have to laugh at his words again, exasperatedly this time. “No Michael. You don’t get to do this. I’ve wanted to do this. Do us. You are the one who hasn’t. And for a while I understood why, and even when I didn’t, I have always respected your feelings. It was you’re under me and ‘I don’t want to mess up your career or give you a reputation and have that impact us’ and ‘when you’re an attending’ that slowly seemed to turn into ‘I’m not sure if I want you anymore’ and ‘maybe when you’re an attending’ and I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to decide if you really didn’t want to do this, didn’t want me anymore, or if you were just trying to protect yourself or something. Because it went from when you’re an attending to maybe when. So why would I be waiting around anymore, Michael? I waited for years. And if it was just about me being under you and my career and people knowing I earned everything I got then why didn’t you come ask me out and say you were ready to do this the second I got offered and accepted an attending position?”

You swallow hard and have to look away from Robby. You’re so confused by him but still down so bad. Deep down you know him calling you his hit you so hard because you are. You have been. Even if he didn’t know and didn’t want you. You’d given yourself to him. But you won’t cry for him. Not here. Not at work. Not where everyone would know regardless of your explanation. 

And Robby hates it. How sad you look. How you could ever possibly think he didn’t want to be with you. That he didn’t want you. He never realized at some point he’d said maybe. It was never maybe for him. But your last question floors him. 

“When you what?” Robby whispers, face furrowed in confusion, lips pulled down even more. 

You scoff at him again. “Don’t even try Robby. Don’t even try to pretend you didn’t fucking know that in fucking August of last year I got offered an attending spot.” You look back over at him. Robby’s still facing you but his head is dropped slightly, eyes looking left and flicking around a little. He looks half confused and half devastated. “Holy shit, you really didn’t know. How the hell did you not know, Michael?”

He shakes his head slowly, still thinking. “Gloria and I were at each other’s throats particularly bad last August. Things were crazy here and she kept harping me about needing to interview and pick an attending and I snapped one day and told her that I didn’t even fucking care, that she could pick one for all I cared.” He looks up at you again. “I never thought she actually would. And she never told me that she actually did.”

You stare at him. It’s a plausible story and you can always tell when he’s lying to you or giving you a half truth or omitting something. And it’s not like you’ve told anyone. You’re one of those people who are afraid to announce it like it’ll jinx it somehow since it’s something that will start in the future. Your one exception to not saying anything was if you got with Robby. You’d tell people and let it be known because you figured it would appease some of his worries about it seeming like you got your job only because you were sleeping with him or in a relationship with him. But he never came to you after you signed. It broke your heart more than you wanted to admit. 

You’re not sure how to respond and Robby’s not sure what else to say. “Well, she did. And it was me. So hopefully that’s not disappointing news to you, I guess.” 

“Disappointing ne-” He decides part way through to not even finish the thought. Because the meaning of it all catches up with him. You have an attending position. And honestly, kind of even better, you have an attending position and Robby can honestly say he had absolutely no input into the decision. So while you’re not quite an attending yet, you’re pretty damn close. And that means Robby doesn’t have to break his own heart and tell you that you guys can’t. Doesn’t have to say when you’re an attending. For all intents and purposes you are one. “You can be mine now, Kid?” It’s almost a statement but not quite. 

You nod a little, look down at your shoes. “If you want me, yeah.” Robby doesn’t think he’s ever heard your voice this small and the fact that you think he could possibly not want you kills him. 

“If I want you? If?” He’s quick to close the distance between you, hands at your waist and pulling you to him as he stops walking. Both of you are breathing heavier and after your eyes flit down to look at each other’s lips the tension between the two of you finally snaps. 

You kiss each other hard, sliding right into tongue and sucking. Your arms wrap around Robby’s neck, hands finding his hair and running through it, tugging at it when he kisses you in a way you particularly like. Robby pulls away so you can see each other and you make a noise of protest. “There was never a maybe. And I’m sorry if I said that. There’s no if. Never has been, Kid. Never will be. So will you go out with me? Be mine?” 

You smile at him, steal another kiss before nodding. “I’ll go out with you. And I’ll be yours as long as you’ll be mine.”

Robby laughs. The two of you are finally together. “Oh, I’m yours. I’m all fucking yours.” 

You and Robby have been together a little over four months now. You’re pretty much living with him, you just haven’t made it quite official yet. It still feels a bit soon, even for you. Your lease will be up around ten months of dating so you think that’s when you’ll make it official and completely move in. If he wants. You’re pretty sure he will. You always hear about it the next day if you don’t sleep in the same bed the previous night.

You’re not surprised when you wake up and the bed is empty, even if you are a little disappointed. You know this is a bad day for him. A hard day. You’ve never actually been with him or around him on this day before because until now he took it off and you always inevitably ended up working it. You’re not sure what changed for him and why he feels like he’s ready to be there and work today and you’re not sure if it’s truly what’s best for him at this point, but you’ll support him, be there for him, let him lean on you, whatever he needs. You won’t give him a hard time about his decision to work. 

Robby’s in the kitchen making coffee when you pad in. You’re dressed only in one of his oversized shirts. He’s not entirely certain about working today. But he’s tired of letting the day have control over him. It feels wrong. And when Jake asked for Robby’s PittFest ticket so he could take his girlfriend Leah instead of Robby it felt like a sign.

“Morning,” you say softly as you walk over to him and wrap your arms around him from behind. You press your cheek against his broad back and rest your hands on his tummy. 

“Morning, Kid.” Robby squeezes one of your hands before continuing to make the coffee. 

He’s been up long enough for the sleep to disappear from his voice and to shower. His hair is wet. “Sleep well?”

“I always sleep well when you’re in bed with me.” You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Michael.” You press a kiss to his back. “Seriously.”

“I slept well, yes. I meant it.” There’s a hint of exasperation in his tone and you get it. You do. But you ask because you care about him and worry about him. 

“Good.” You close your eyes and just breathe him in for a couple of moments. “You sure about working today?”

He knew it was coming. And he knows you mean well and are asking because you care about him and he loves it. He really does. Because he doesn’t remember the last time he’s had someone care about him the way you do. Because you’re in love with him and he’s in love with you even if you haven’t said it to each other yet. You both can tell the other is. But for some reason he doesn’t really understand, he just falters right before he can say it, can’t bring himself to as though that’ll somehow be what makes it more real, like it isn’t already. And he knows you haven’t told him because you don’t want him to feel pressured to return those three words.

But at the same time, you asking multiple times just in different words is going to be annoying today. That level of checking in on him. It is already. Because he just wants it to be a normal day. He doesn’t want everyone treating him like he’s made of glass just because one bad thing happened on this day. It’s suffocating. He knows it’s out of love and concern but it gets suffocating. 

Just like all the PPE was on this day when Adamson died. Maybe that’s part of why it hits such a nerve. 

Robby takes a second to breathe so that the mild irritation and frustration doesn’t seep into his tone. He doesn’t, however, explain or communicate that he can’t deal with the constant checking in, that it suffocates him. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll be okay. I’ll have you there with me if I need anything.” He’s hoping that last part tells you that he’ll come find you if he needs you and so you don’t have to ask. It understandably doesn’t. 

“I will, yes.” You’re quiet as you listen to the coffee percolate. You can feel how tense he is. You know you’ll never really be able to understand how hard this day is for him or in what ways it is. So you just want to be there for him, make sure he’s okay. You think maybe a distraction will help. Robby pours himself a cup of coffee as you speak. “Wanna shower with me?” you ask with a seductive lilt so he knows exactly what you mean. 

He laughs softly, takes a sip of his coffee and starts to turn in your arms. You relax your arms and let him, greet him with a sweet smile. “Come here,” he whispers, sticking his lips out. 

You shake your head. “I have morning breath.” 

He clicks his tongue at you. “When have I ever cared about that before?” 

You shrug. “It’s different when we both do.” 

“Come here,” he says again, more stern this time as he makes eye contact with you. You consider it for a moment but eventually give in. You want to kiss him. You always want to kiss him. But you keep it chaste and short. There will be time for more after you brush your teeth, you’re sure.

“Shower?” You raise your eyebrows at him, a little smirk on your face, nails scratching gently at his back. 

He smirks at you. “My coffee will get cold.” He holds the cup up and tilts it just slightly before taking another sip.

You breathe out a slightly incredulous and hurt laugh, take your arms from around him as you speak. First he dodges the question and then that. You tell yourself it’s just because of the day and that he’s not in the mood or mentally there and that’s okay. That it makes sense. But coffee? He couldn’t just say no? “Wow, coffee’s better than my mouth or pussy, ouch.”

Michael rolls his eyes at you. That’s not at all what he meant. “Stop. And I’ve also already showered, which I know you know.” 

This time you just scoff and shake your head at him a little. “Yeah, because neither of us have ever gotten back in the shower with each other after we already showered. But okay,” you laugh quietly as you step back. Robby tilts his head at you as you walk away, he knows you have more to say. You stop and turn around to look at him before turning to go back to the bedroom and en suite to shower. “You know, Michael, you can just say no. You’re allowed to say no. I’m not going to force you to shower or have sex with me. Saying no is okay. Not being in the mood is okay, especially on a day like today. I suggested it to try and help distract you and maybe make you feel good.” The maybe is a little slip of insecurity. “You don’t even need a reason and you never have to explain why, but just, the way you communicate that no. The shitty excuses hurt. And they make me wonder about myself far more than ‘no I’m not in the mood’ does.” You turn and walk away. 

Robby sets his mug down and you hear it, shake your head to yourself. “Kid!” he calls after you, pushing off the kitchen counter. He never meant to hurt you or make you doubt yourself. He never meant to make it feel like this was a you thing. Because it’s not. It’s him. It’s the day. It’s his mood. 

You’re really not in the mood at this point. For sex of any kind or to have a conversation with him right now, honestly. You keep telling yourself that it’s just a really bad day for him. It has nothing to do with you or the two of you. It’s the day. You know Robby doesn’t see it well and you don’t point it out more because he has so much of his own shit going on, but you still have so much insecurity. About yourself. About the two of you. You worry you’re not good enough for him or aren’t what he expected and thought you’d be. 

You walk in the bathroom quickly and uncharacteristically lock the door behind you. Usually both you and Robby leave the door unlocked or even partially open when you shower. You turn the shower on and take his shirt off quickly, wanting to just be in the shower and have it as an excuse for not hearing him. If he even tries to talk to you. 

Robby almost slams into the door when it doesn’t open. He hadn’t expected it not to open. For you to have locked it. “Kid, please,” he calls loudly, hoping you’ll hear him over the water. He knocks on the door, with the middle knuckle of his index finger. “Please!” You can hear him. You just don’t feel like shouting, and again. You don’t really want to talk. 

You stand under the stream of hot water and zone out a bit. Ruminate. You know that you and Robby are fine. That you’re great. You know he’s attracted to you. That he loves having sex with you. You had incredible sex last night for god’s sake. It’s the day. It’s the emotions it brings up for him. The grief. You shouldn’t have even brought sex up. He’s sad and grieving and triggered today. Why would you do that? 

“Kid!” Robby calls again, still knocking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or insinuate coffee was better than you or anything like that.” When you don’t answer Robby goes and sits on the edge of the bed and lets out a long sigh. He lets his head fall back and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He really could do without you doing this. Without this added thing and stress. The day is hard enough as it is. 

His voice brings you back and you start to do all of your normal shower things. You’re surprised when Robby’s not immediately knocking and calling for you again once he hears the shower turn off. You figure he’s probably gone back to his coffee and the thought sends a little pang through your heart. 

You wrap your towel around yourself and open the bathroom door. You almost jump a little when you see him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head tilted at you. You look at him for a moment and then walk to his dresser and open your drawer, pull out a set of scrubs, an undershirt and some underwear. You grab your bra off the floor where Robby threw it last night. You can feel his eyes on you, the way he’s tracked you across the room and is watching you. 

When you turn back around and see him he’s smiling to himself, it’s almost anticipatory. His eyes run up and down your towel covered body. He looks like he’s eager to see you naked when you get dressed. And he is. He abso-fucking-lutely is. It melts you a little bit. But you’re hurt still and he hasn’t offered an apology to your face. So you take your clothes and walk towards the bathroom. 

Robby draws out a scoff, but the disappointment rings through more than his irritation. “So what, I don’t even get to admire you as you get dressed anymore?”

You turn at the threshold of the bathroom door to look back at him, capture his gaze. You drag your eyes from him to the open bedroom door and then back to him. You’re stoic as you shrug. “Your coffee’s getting cold out there.”  

You just catch Robby’s shoulders and face fall as you turn back and step in the bathroom before shutting and locking the door. You already regret it. Wish you could take it back. You shouldn’t have hurt him just because he hurt you.

Your words sting, they hurt and sadden him. But he can at least understand why you said it. Robby lets out a long sigh and rubs his face but doesn’t get up. He doesn’t care about the fucking coffee. He doesn’t even want it anymore. He wants you. He wants to hold you close and kiss you. He wants to apologize. He wants your forgiveness. He needs all of that. Needs you.

You get dressed and finish getting ready in the bathroom quickly. You know you need to apologize to Robby and you want to, you really do feel awful. You just kind of hope he’ll also apologize to you. This is not the start to this day that either of you needed. 

Seeing Robby still sitting on the bed when you open the bathroom door is unexpected. You figured he’d go get his coffee and wait for you in the living room. 

You look at each other for a moment and then you break the silence. Robby wants to be the one to but the words just get caught in his throat before he can even open his mouth. “I’m sorry for being passive aggressive and saying that. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just talked to you and worked it out.”

Robby gives you a small smile. “I accept your apology, and I’m sorry too.” He beckons you with two fingers and you walk over to him, stand between his legs when he opens them for you and rest your hands on his shoulders. He waits for you to look down at him before he continues. “I never meant to make you doubt yourself or feel unwanted. In any way. I didn’t think any of it through before I said it. Didn’t think about how it would make you feel.”

You squeeze his shoulders gently. “I accept your apology.” You’re not sure what else to say.

“You know I want you. I always want you, Kid. I did this morning, I just…” He shakes his head and sighs. “My brain, you know? The thoughts and all that shit.” 

“I know, yeah,” you murmur, running a hand through his hair. “I thought sex might be a good distraction. I should’ve thought a little harder about it before I offered.” 

“It usually is.” He tilts his head at you. “Can I kiss you for real now? Not whatever that was that you gave me in the kitchen.”

You laugh softly and nod. “I’d like that.” Robby wraps his arms around you as he stands up, stopping at the right height to kiss you instead of standing straight. It’s a kiss that at just about any other time would lead to far more. It certainly leads to another kiss and then another, and before you realize it you and Robby have been standing there making out for a solid couple of minutes. 

He groans as he pulls away from you. “I don’t want to stop but I do want to have time to treat you to breakfast burritos and your choice of caffeine from that place down the street. Eat as we walk to work.”

“Treat me or yourself?” You smirk at him. 

“You.” He shakes his head at you a little as he says it. “The fact that it’s also a treat for me is just a fun coincidental bonus.” 

“Yeah, coincidental my ass, Robinavitch.” You try to keep your smirk up but it turns into a smile the more you stare at those big brown eyes you love so much. It almost slips out but you catch yourself, turn to walk to the entryway to get your shoes on. I love you. 

The two of you get breakfast burritos and coffee on the way in. Neither of you say anything but you both think it’s ironic that the coffee was a whole thing and then he just left his mug and the carafe of it sitting there at home. Once you get to work you get your stuff in your lockers, stethoscopes around your neck and head to the hub. 

The day passes relatively quickly. For you at least. From what you’ve gathered from others and what Robby has said when you’ve talked to him, things have not been as smooth for him as they have been for you. You make sure he has some semblance of a lunch, drinks some water. 

Towards the end of the shift he comes and finds you. It’s the first time he’s really purposefully sought you out all day. You wouldn’t say he was avoiding you but a little bit you felt like that. After you asked him if he was okay when you saw him for the second time while at work and got an exasperated answer you realized he was tired of being asked. You knew he was probably getting it from Dana too. So you stopped directly asking, figuring it out subtly through other means. And he’d appreciated it when you backed off. He’d recognized when you’d done so. It had made him feel a little less suffocated and a lot loved even without exchange of the words. Because it was clear how well you knew him and how easily you picked up on what he needed. 

That’s why him seeking you out has you so concerned. It has to be bad. 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Robby’s voice is strained as he grabs your elbow and starts walking you towards an empty room. 

Your face furrows as you let him lead you into the room. “Everything okay?” You wonder if this is about Dana and what happened to her.

He doesn’t answer, just closes the door as you walk in the room and stands with his back to the window. “I’m gonna tell you something but you have to keep your reaction really controlled, okay? And obviously you can’t tell anyone.” You nod. “Langdon’s addicted to pain meds and has been stealing meds.” 

The furrows smooth out of your face and you have no real facial reaction other than in your eyes which only Robby can see. They widen just slightly with shock. “What the fuck?”

“I know. I fucking know. I sent him home but I fucking,” Robby’s shaking his head hard. His eyes are a little glassy. You know Langdon is kind of Robby’s protégé. Everyone does. Just like everyone knows you kind of are too. “I let a drug addict practice medicine and treat patients. I fucking let him.”

You tilt your head and shake it at him. “Michael, you didn’t let him do anything. This isn’t your fault. I understand you feeling like it is, and that’s valid of course, but I promise you it’s not your fault.”

He shrugs at you, looks so incredibly helpless and at a loss. It breaks your heart. You walk towards him and pull him further in the room a little bit, drawing the curtain to give the two of you a little privacy. You walk back so that you’re standing right in front of him, just enough space between the two of you that you can see each other. 

You don’t say anything as you reach up and start rubbing at his shoulders and the back of his neck before he can. You feel him relax and he drops his head, eyes fluttering close while his hands come to settle on your hips. 

He doesn’t understand how you always seem to know what he needs. When he needs you to talk to him. When he just needs quiet acceptance and to just be in your presence like this. How you’ve picked up on him rubbing his neck. It’s more comforting and soothing when you do it, the circles he rubs on your hips over your scrubs keeping his hands busy. 

You’re a little surprised by it honestly. You thought he might reject this little bit of comfort you’re offering him. Not because of you but because he rarely accepts it at work even in private like this. You’re pretty sure his brain constantly tells him he doesn’t deserve the comfort here. 

“We need to get back out there,” he finally mumbles, bringing his head back up and opening his eyes. 

“Probably, yeah,” you agree. You stop rubbing his neck and loosen your arms but keep them where they are for a moment to see if he’ll hug you. You’re not going to push it on him, not going to make him feel bad when it’s too much for him right now. 

Robby’s hands squeeze your hips one last time. “Thanks, Kid.” He pulls away and you drop your arms, stepping out of the room with him once he pushes the curtain back. 

You both get sucked back into work and you don’t see much of Robby until him racing in from the ambulance bay catches your attention. Dana comes walking in quickly behind him and you catch her gaze, tilt your head as you walk over. 

A frown and worried brows are etched deep into her face. “There’s a shooter at PittFest. MCI protocol.” 

Everything freezes for a second as you hit fight or flight, limbs going cold and nausea creeping up on you. You say nothing to Dana, immediately turning and following after Robby because you know he put his phone in his locker earlier and is going to get it. 

“Don’t!” you yell at him as he opens his locker. “Michael, do not call or text him!”

He doesn’t stop, grabbing his phone and starting to unlock it. “Are you out of your fucking mind-”

“If he’s hiding and doesn’t have his phone on silent it could give him away,” you rush out before Robby can hit send or call. 

He freezes and looks up at you finally. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck!” That one is yelled. “Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?”

You walk over to him and cover one of his hands with yours. “Because you’re effectively his dad in a lot of ways, Michael, and so you’re too close to it, of course your first instinct was to call him to see if he was okay. I love him too and it’s not that I don’t want to know if he’s okay, and I know it’s very unlikely there’s really anywhere to hide and that it’s probably so loud his phone ringing would barely be audible, but I just think it’s better to be safe right now. He’ll know to call or text you or his mom. He’ll know. And if Janey hears from him she will call you. I know she will.”

He’s breathing hard as he looks at you before finally look away as he shuts his locker. “What if it’s David, Kid?” he whispers. Robby looks back at you and his lip trembles just slightly. The implication is clear. Robby had told you about David and everything that was going on there. You know his worry is valid. “What if I just got Jake killed? Killed another person on this fucking day.”

You let out a long breath as you shake your head. There’s a lot to unpack there. “Okay. Everything you just said, and all of your feelings make sense and are real and valid and I’m acknowledging them. I’m not trying to brush anything off. And I will be there for you whatever happens. But we don’t have a lot of time here so we’re going to have to come back and explore this all more if you want. For right now though, you didn’t kill Adamson, Michael. Covid did. You had to make a terrible decision nobody should ever have to make, but that wasn’t you killing him. And you can’t do this to yourself Robby. If and I mean if it was David, it would still be a random act of violence. You can’t control that. And right now the patients about to come in and Jake and Leah need you to focus on getting everyone ready for this and then handling this MCI and you cannot do that and be focusing on the what ifs, okay?” 

Robby wants to believe you. He wants to believe what you just said but he can’t. He just fucking can’t. He did kill Adamson. He will have killed Jake. He knows you’re right about the end bit though. He has to shove all of this in a box so that he can focus on what’s about to happen and patients. 

You can tell Robby wants to fight you about it but decides not to in favor of very uncharacteristically hugging and kissing you publicly at work before walking away to start implementing protocol with Dana. It leaves you standing there blinking at the wall for a second before you’re able to turn and walk back towards the hub to help. 

Robby’s hugging Jack as you walk up. You and Jack exchange a look. You know that Jack knows that Jake’s at PittFest. You know Jack knows how bad the day is for Robby. 

When Jack starts unpacking supplies you go in to help him. 

“How is he?” Jack asks. 

You can’t help the way you huff. “How do you fucking think Jack?”

When he doesn’t reply you look up at him. Jack’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised and mouth set, edges up just a tiny bit to show he’s not mad, asking excuse me? and how did you just speak to me? without a word. 

You sigh. “I’m sorry.” You set down what you’re holding and rub at the back of your neck. You see Jack’s smile pull up a little more as he recognizes what you’re doing, what you’ve learned from Robby. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten snippy. It’s just Jake, you know?” The breath you let out is shuddery. “I don’t know if even I could save Robby if something happened to him and Robby couldn’t save him, Jack.”

Jack’s face softens and he squeezes your shoulder. “I know. I wish there was more I could say, but I know. I’m worried about him and that possibility too.”

The two of you start to unpack again. “I just need him to call or text Michael or his mom and say he’s okay and on his way home. I need this to not happen to him today. I mean or ever, but you know. He doesn’t need to feel more grief and loss that he thinks he’s responsible for today.” 

“All we can do is be there for him,” Jack murmurs. 

“Yeah. I guess,” you murmur back. 

Once you finish unpacking and arranging supplies Jack faces you before the two of you walk out to where Robby is starting to gather everyone. 

“I need you to promise me that if something happens with Jake, if, god forbid, he ends up here and is critical, you will let me run it with Robby. We won’t get him to not work on him, we won’t have time to argue about it with him. We both know that.” Jack nods at you. “So you need to let me be the one to work with him. You need to let me be the one to convince him we’re not getting Jake back and he has to let Jake go. Because you’re the best thing in his life. You keep him going. So I don’t want him associating being unable to save Jake with you. He might work through the emotions it brings up, he might not. But if he doesn’t… Robby’s only going to survive something like that with you by his side. He could survive it without me, he could cut me out and lose me and survive. He couldn’t survive it without you. So I need you to promise me if Jake ends up here, you’re going to let me be with Robby until TOD is called. Same with Jake’s girlfriend.”

You swallow hard as you look at Jack. It will be hard for you to stay away. You worry Robby will wonder why you’re not there, why you didn’t drop everything to come help him. But you also know that he’s not really going to be worried about that in the moment. He’ll be too focused on Jake. And Jack’s words make your heart ache. Yes, because it’s sweet that Jack knows what you mean to Robby, that he can see it and that Robby has talked to him about it. But it’s more because you recognize the sacrifice Jack’s volunteering to make for Robby and Robby’s happiness and ability to get through this. The sacrifice in running the risk of losing his best friend, because Jack doesn’t have anyone else. He doesn’t have a significant other. He has Dana but that friendship isn’t like his and Robby’s. 

“I think you’re selling yourself quite short there, Jack,” you whisper. 

He shakes his head to say he doesn’t care. “Promise me.” 

You hold his gaze for another few seconds before you look away. “Okay,” you nod, “I promise.” 

“Good. Let’s go.” 

“Jack?” He turns at the threshold and looks back at you. “Thank you.” 

He simply nods and the two of you walk out. You stand by Shen while Jack stands by Robby, the two of them talking things through with the group, explaining how a lot of this is going to work, who’s going to be where, what to do when different things happen. 

“Communicate,” Robby tells the group. “Ask for help if you need it.” 

You look at Dana when he says that. Which was the wrong move because you both end up having to stifle laughs. You know it’s inappropriate. You know it’s not funny. And you know that Robby’s really good at the whole ‘do as I say not as I do’ thing, and if what he just said isn’t a textbook example you don’t know what is. So in the moment his words just strike you as funny, in part because all of this is a situation where if you don’t laugh you’re going to cry. Dark humor becomes a coping mechanism. You at least do a good job of stifling it and covering your mouth, can tell you hid it enough and everyone was so focused on Robby and Jack they didn’t see anything. 

Everyone disperses and patients start rolling in. Time loses any real meaning. It could have been forty minutes or four hours. You have no idea. You just know that patients keep rolling in. Never Jake or Leah. 

Neither of you can decide in your heads whether that’s a good or bad thing. Whether it means they’re dead on the scene or that they escaped and are okay and lost their phones in the chaos and are trying to get further away from the scene before they ask to borrow someone’s phone to call people or are just trying to get home.

Robby and you both glance at Dana every chance you get. She has Robby’s phone so she’ll know if Jake or Janey get in touch with him. The patients in front of him at least help distract Robby somewhat. That anxiety about Jake never goes away. The feeling of responsibility never goes away. But it goes to the back enough that he can focus and be a good doctor. 

Patients continue to arrive. In ambulances and cop cars and civilian cars and business vans. 

But never Jake and Leah. 

You’ve been at the Pitt a year and a month now. You’ve been an R2 for a month. You’ve already learned a lot. You’ve already had devastating losses and incredible saves. You’ve already thought about staying here past your residency. You’ve already grown close with a number of people. You’ve already grown very close with one person. 

Michael Robinavitch. Robby. 

You know how bad it could seem. How bad it might already seem. But you and Robby both know it’s there. Something far beyond platonic. You both feel it. And it only grew over your intern year and is continuing to. 

You haven’t discussed it outright but the energy and attraction between the two of you is so clearly there and you’ve seen it in his eyes. When he’s leaning in close to you to help teach you something and his pupils are a bit more dilated than they should be in the lighting. When he sees another man flirt with you and they blaze with what seems like anger but is really jealousy. When you’ve just pulled a double together and have hit silly and are laughing so hard you’re both crying at something so incredibly stupid and his eyes crinkle with affection that never appears for anyone else. 

And Robby’s seen it in your eyes. When something horrible happens and your eyes find his before anybody else’s and a little spirit comes back into them just from making eye contact with him. When he’s hiding how badly something with a patient or family has shaken him and turns to find you and you’re already looking at him with soft eyes full of recognition and understanding that make him feel so seen in a way he hasn’t felt before. When you bring him some sort of treat, sweet or savory, and pass him a post-it note that you pretend is a note about a patient but really says it’s in the fridge with his name on it and your eyes sparkle with an adoration he’s yet to see you look at anyone else with. 

Robby knows he cannot do anything, there cannot be anything between the two of you, not even some semblance of anything until you’re an attending or maybe an R4 if you’ve already accepted an attending position. Being with you before you’re an attending wouldn’t look professionally great for him, but that’s not what he worries about. He worries how it would look for you, like a young woman sleeping with her boss, how people would at the very least have in the back of their minds that you were sleeping your way to the top or you got given things because you were sleeping with your boss or were eventually offered an attending position because you were sleeping with your boss. 

Robby knows not everyone would think that. And he knows it absolutely would not be that. But he doesn’t even want you to risk it. Not for him. He knows your career and reputation have to be your first priority. 

Dana and Jack have both asked him about you after observing the two of you together. He assures them that while, yeah, he has some feelings for you, it is strictly platonic between the two of you, him mentoring just like he does everyone else. 

And so neither of you have ever made any really overt move. Because you both know you can’t.

So there’s been no real discussion about ‘one day’ or if there ever could be a future for the two of you. 

But now that you're a month and a bit into being an R2 and don’t have the label of ‘intern’ and feel like you have a better handle on being a doctor you’ve grown more confident. Not over-confident or cocky. Not even close. Just a bit more sure of yourself. Professionally and personally. And so your joking around with and screwing with and flirting with Robby has intensified a little. It’ll continue to do so your entire residency. 

And while Robby is a bit more reserved, particularly when it comes to flirting and anything vaguely sexual, he still gives it back in his own way. It is overwhelmingly not one sided. 

It’s not just sexual. You and Robby are close. You go to each other with problems and to vent. You seek each other out for comfort. And it’s comfort that forces you both to acknowledge it and discuss it, this thing between you. 

You find yourself sitting on the roof, back pressed up against the wall and legs out in front of you. You’re technically off. You want to be anywhere other than this fucking hospital. And yet you can’t bring yourself to move. 

You stay quiet and still when you hear the door to the roof open, hope whoever is up here won’t notice you before they leave. 

Unfortunately for you the person who walks onto the roof has spent the last thirty minutes looking for you. And Robby’s slightly panicked about it. You’ve seemed off all day. Sad. Overwhelmingly sad. In particular the last time he saw you he felt like you looked… done. With everything. With the world. 

The sigh he lets out when he sees you sitting there on the roof is of relief. You can tell that it’s not irritation or annoyance. 

“Go away,” you call half-heartedly when he starts to walk over. 

“Go away? I don’t think you’ve ever told me to go away before.” Robby tries to keep it light. 

“First time for everything,” you mutter. 

That pulls a small laugh from him. He comes and sits next to you against the wall. He’s close, your sides pressing against each other. Closer than the average mentor-mentee would be sitting for sure. 

You don’t say anything and so for a few minutes the two of you sit in silence, each of you focused on the way the other feels pressed up against you. But Robby wants, maybe needs if he’s honest with himself, to know what’s wrong so he can help you. 

“Talk to me Kid.” And there it is. That name he only calls you. 

You shake your head a little and sigh. Robby hates how sad it sounds. He doesn’t even really think about his next move. He just reaches out and slips his hand into yours where it rests on your thigh, laces your fingers together.

With the setting and context of why you’re both up here together it’s an incredibly intimate gesture. 

You’re not quite sure what to make of it but he initiated it and it feels good. Makes you feel safe and cared for. You look down at your intertwined hands for a moment. His hand engulfs yours with how much bigger it is and it’s so warm. He always runs so warm. 

“I don’t know,” you finally force yourself to say. “I really don’t know.” 

Robby nods slowly. “Just one of those days?” he offers. 

“I guess.” You shrug. It might seem like the silence is purposeful but in reality it’s Robby trying to think of what to say. “I’m just tired, I think.” You sniffle and it’s then you realize that you’re kind of teary. “Fuck,” you mutter. 

“It’s okay, Kid. I’ve had these days too. Some days you’re just tired and so it all hits harder, even shit that normally wouldn’t make you blink.” Robby rubs what he hopes are soothing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” you take in a choked breath, “I’m just really fucking tired.” The tears start to fall freely then and you squeeze Robby’s hand hard like it’ll make them stop. They’re at least mercifully silent, it’s not like you’re totally sobbing in front of him. 

But then Robby really notices how much you’re crying and lets go of your hand to raise his arm so you can lean into him as he pulls you to him, your legs shifting automatically to get in a more comfortable position as you lean into his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispers, tilts his head so that his cheek rests on the top of your head.

You shake your head but hold onto him as you cry, relish in the circles his big hand rubs on your back. You don’t cry for long. A few minutes. And it’s not loud or even sobbing, it’s just crying. Just blinking out tears that end up wetting his scrub top, the occasional shuddery or hiccupped breath. 

You don’t move once you stop though and Robby doesn’t ask you to. Doesn’t shift his body to suggest you move. His cheek remains on your head and his hand continues to rub circles on your back. “I’m sorry,” you eventually whisper. 

“Never be sorry for needing to let something out. It accumulates in this job.” Robby goes to turn his head so that he can kiss the top of yours but he catches himself and stops before he can. “And if you don’t let it out somehow it can become debilitating.” 

You can feel the vibrations of him speaking and it soothes you further. “Everything just felt so shit today. All of the backstories of what brought my patients in today. All crime and abuse. Every single patient.”

“That’s one of the worst kind of days here,” Robby sympathizes. 

“I hate that it’s one kind.”

That makes him laugh which makes you smile. “Yeah there’s a lot of kinds of worst days in this job unfortunately.” 

You sigh and finally pull away from him. But his hand on your back doesn’t let you go particularly far. And when you both lean in a little your faces are close enough to feel each other’s breaths. “Does it ever get better?” you whisper. 

Robby shakes his head slightly. “No.”

You both watch each other’s eyes glance down at the other’s lips. You both lean into each other even more. You both tilt your heads in the opposite direction of the other. You both let your eyes flutter closed. 

But the second you truly feel the heat of Robby’s breath against your lips he pulls away. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

You look down, embarrassed and disappointed and guilty. But despite the almost kiss and Robby pulling away neither of you have otherwise moved. You’re still close together. 

“I’m sorry.” You murmur. 

“No!” Robby laughs, a heavy dose of self-exasperation in it. “Don’t be. God, fucking don’t be. And don’t think I don’t want to. That I don’t want… that. With you. But your name and reputation and career… we can’t. We can’t.” Robby moves his head back so he’s looking at you, uses his free hand to guide your chin up so you’re looking at him. “When you’re an attending, okay?” You nod at him and he repeats it. “When you’re an attending.” 

The sinking feeling in your and Robby’s stomachs intensifies as more patients come in who aren’t Jake or Leah and at the lack of phone call or text. You get your patient in Walsh’s hands to be taken up to surgery and change into a fresh trauma gown and step outside, checking on triage but also getting some air. 

“You good?” Robby asks, walking up behind you. He doesn’t really wait for your answer, continuing to walk towards Shen and Ellis. But the quick press of his ungloved hand against your lower back as he walks by makes up for it a little. 

You don’t bother voicing an answer, nor do you follow him to ask him the same question. You already know the answer. 

As Robby’s talking about getting gurneys to the right angle and helping fix them a truck comes squealing in. Shen and Ellis jump up and start yelling out colors. You put on a pair of gloves pulled from your pocket and wait nearby to see if there’s a red coming. But then you hear it and are hopping up on the tire of the truck to look in the bed. “Michael!”

You yell his name. And Robby immediately knows it has to be Jake. He has never heard you yell his name before and there’s only a handful of reasons why you would today. He tells himself there’s a tint of hope to your tone. “Jake?” Robby yells as he runs over. But he hears Jake’s voice and a wave of relief passes through him now that he at least knows where he is and that he’s okay enough for right now to speak. 

“Red zone. GSW left chest,” Ellis assesses Leah. 

“Jake, are you shot?” you ask him as Robby arrives. 

“I don’t know my, my leg maybe, it’s Leah. It’s Leah’s blood, she was shot, was shot in the chest and I’ve been putting pressure on it the whole time, and I don’t know-”

“That’s good,” Robby cuts him off, “you did good, okay?” 

You get Leah onto a gurney and Jake out of the truck. He walks in holding onto the side of Leah’s gurney opposite Robby. “Get him a wheelchair!” Robby calls. He notices you walking away while he argues with Jake about getting in the wheelchair and staying there and out of the way. He finds it odd, is a little miffed that you’re abandoning him with Leah and Jake. 

But you’re speedwalking to Jack. “Leah. GSW left chest. I don’t think there’s any way. It had to have shredded her heart,” you say just loudly enough for Jack to hear as you take the bag of blood he’s squeezing into his patient from him. He nods at you, gives you a rundown on the patient in front of you as he walks backwards towards Robby, turning when he’s finished. 

“Samira!” you call out to her when you see her look around. “Jake.” You flick your head at him. “Probable GSW to the leg. But head to toe. I’m concerned he’s in shock and it’s masking another injury.” 

“Got it.” She nods and is off to Jake, finding a gurney for him to get on. 

Robby glances at Samira with Jake. “What the fuck?” It’s loud enough for you to hear. 

“Me, Michael!” you call over to him. “I sent her to do a head to toe. I’m concerned he’s in shock and not feeling another injury.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, giving you a vague nod as he turns back to Leah. He can’t believe he didn’t think about that either. That’s twice now you might’ve saved Jake. First telling him not to call just in case. Now this. He’s lucky. He’s beyond lucky to have you. “Jake you do whatever the fuck Samira tells you without a fucking word of argument!” 

You get the patient you took from Jack stable and up to surgery, start working on the next red to roll in. They stabilize relatively fast and you find yourself squeezing in blood again. But this time your eyes are flicking between the patient and Robby and Jack and the way Jack is having to talk Robby into accepting that Leah is gone. You can’t hear any of it but you know that’s what’s happening based on the expression on Jack’s face and how he keeps chasing Robby’s eye contact.

After a minute everyone stills and you watch Robby write on Leah’s card and circle around it. You know he called it. Jack’s back over to you quickly, taking the blood from you this time as you give him the rundown on this patient. “Michael!” you call as you walk over to him quickly. 

“I have to go tell Jake,” he mutters, shaking his head and turning to look in your direction but not at you. He’d been watching them wheel Leah into pedes. 

“Do you want me to go with-”

“No. No it’s fine, thanks, I got it. Santos was looking for an attending, go find her.” He walks away without looking at you. He can’t bring himself to. The shame he’s feeling at not being able to save her, at failing Jake a little too heavy to let him lift his head to look at you. 

You watch him for a second as he walks away. Your heart aches for him, for the man you love and the news he has to go deliver to a teenager he considers his son in a way. You can’t ruminate though. Too many other people need you. 

So you do what Robby said and go to find Santos. You get involved with her and by the time you’re done you look around but you can’t spot Robby. “Dana, have you seen Robby?” you ask her as she walks by. 

“I think I saw him taking Jake to pedes.” She grimaces at you. 

You nod and make your way there, opening the door and stopping short. “Michael?”

Robby’s on the floor, knees up to his chest and holding onto his necklace while reciting a prayer through tears. He doesn’t acknowledge you. It hurts to see him like this. It’s physically painful. But he needs you so you set it aside. 

“Michael,” you say softly as you sit down next to him so that your sides are pressing against each other’s. “I’m here.” You grab one of his hands, hold onto it harder when he tries to pull it away. 

“You need to go back out there,” he sniffles. “They need you.” He flicks his eyes up at you. 

There’s truth in his words. But there’s also truth in yours. “Not as much as you do right now.” 

“I can’t,” he whimpers. “I, I…” He shrugs at you before breaking down in tears again, but this time letting himself fall into your gownless lap. 

“Okay,” you whisper, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I couldn’t save her,” he chokes out, “another person I couldn’t fucking save. Another I killed. Another I let down. It’s two because Jake. I let him down too and he knows it.” You curl around him as much as you can, move his gown and kiss at his shoulder. You let him have a moment and get it out. Because you both know you don’t have much longer than that. “And the worst,” he sobs, “the worst part is it should’ve been me, Kid. It should be me on that gurney. It was my pass that I gave him for her.”

That last sentence is hard to hear. Because you can’t imagine a world without Robby in it. A world where you have to bury him. You want to tell him not to say shit like that, but you swallow down your upset because he doesn’t need that right now. You know there’s very little he needs right now in a sense. He doesn’t need a lot of words or you trying to make this better and discuss his feelings and emotions. He just needs to let some of this out.

Robby knows that’s all he needs right now, too. To let some of what’s eating away at him out in the one place he feels safe. 

You. 

You’re his safe place. He didn’t realize just how much he needed you here with him until you walked in and sat next to him and took his hand. You make it better. You make it hurt less. Just by being here for him. 

“You didn’t kill Adamson or Leah,” you murmur after a minute. “And you haven’t let them or Jake down. Your feelings are valid Michael, and I know I can’t begin to understand on multiple levels but the way you are feeling makes sense. We can work through your feelings. You can work through them. You can get through this. No matter how hopeless and impossible it feels right now.” You pause, have to swallow hard and blink away some tears. “And I wish that nobody was on that gurney. I don’t want anyone on that gurney. I wish none of this had ever happened. For you and Jake and Leah and everyone involved. And maybe saying this is wrong of me. It’s probably selfish. Maybe I’m a terrible person for it. You can hate me for it if you need to and like I said I truly wish none of this happened and nobody was on that gurney. But I am really fucking glad it’s not you on that gurney Michael because I have no fucking idea what I would do.” You let out a shuddery breath. “And I wish we had more time and that I could say more and hold you more and that all of this was over but it’s not.” You scratch at his scalp a little. “They need us.” He nods and sits up, looks over at you. “They need you.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. He’s let himself grow numb. Because right now that’s what he needs to be to get through this right now. 

“I need you,” you whisper back. He knows what you mean. He knows what you’re worried about. Him taking a walk off the roof or something.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kid.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” He nods.

“Good.” You nod and stand up, hold out your hand to him. He lets out a soft laugh as he takes your hand and lets you help him up. 

You both take a second to wipe your faces a bit. “Find me if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” Robby promises again. 

You nod and open the door, both of you walking out. Within seconds both of your names are called.  

“Hey.” He grabs your wrist gently before you can go. You look at him with raised brows. He wants to say it. He wants to say it so badly. But he can’t. “Thank you.” I love you.

Robby slips off his stool at the high top a group of you are sitting at and follows you up to the side of the bar, takes his drink with him. You were sitting across from him at the end of the table and the rest of the group was so focused on their conversation he doesn’t think anyone even realized he followed you. A little bit he doesn’t care if they did. 

You’re down near the last two stools at the bar, waiting for the bartender to get you your drink. It’s busy so you’re sitting while you wait, wanting to be off your feet after a long shift. Robby setting his beer down startles you for just a second. But you can quickly tell it’s him. 

By the sweatshirt sleeve rolled up. By the smell of his cologne lingering just enough under all the hibiclens you can appreciate it since you know what it smells like very well by now. By the hand that sets down the beer. By his fingers. 

You look over at him with raised brows. His glass is still over half full. He came to talk to you. 

“You’ve been calling me Michael lately.” He keeps his face pretty stoic, for him at least. But you can see the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his beard shift just slightly as the corners of his lips twitch up. 

“What an astute observation, Dr. Robinavitch.” You keep your smirk to a minimum. “I don’t have a gold star sticker on me to give you but I can buy you another drink.” Very little in life gives you as much pleasure as screwing with Robby. If you were together like you wanted you could think of at least three body parts that would be added to that list. 

Your words earn you the slightest raise of his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Why what?” Your eyes sparkle with mirth as your drink gets dropped off and you take a sip. They’re beautiful sparkling like this. They always are but Robby finds them particularly beautiful like this, when you’re happy and light-hearted and teasing. 

And it’s just like you to make him say it. Be specific. “Why do you call me Michael? Why’d you start?”

“Makes me feel special.” You smirk fully this time. “It makes me feel special because there’s a handful of people you let call you it, especially at the hospital, and you actively try and make people not call you it. I wasn’t actually sure you were gonna let me call you it at first. Guess being an R3 has privileges. But then again, I’m the only R3 you let call you it.”

“You’re the only R3 who has ever called me it. None of the others have tried. And you didn’t answer the second question,” he points out. 

“I mean  yeah, I kind of did. I started because it makes me feel special.” He gives you a look and you sigh. “In part because I wanted to see if you’d let me. In part because, I don’t know,” you smile softly to yourself and look down, “I like it. Calling you Michael. It makes me feel close to you.” Robby’s never seen you look so shy and it rocks him a little. But the shyness fades quickly for you as you look back up at him. “And in part because some of the new interns got comfortable a couple of months in and were getting a little too flirty with you for my taste. So you can imagine how smug and pleased with myself I was every time I called you Michael in front of them and you said nothing and every time one of them called you Michael and you had to correct them and tell them it was Robby or Dr. Robinavitch until they finally got the picture.”

“So jealousy?” He smirks. It makes him feel good in a way, knowing that you were jealous of attention he was getting. That you care about him and want him enough to be jealous. To feel a little possessive. “And that’s why you needed to feel special? A little petty of a response, no?”

“Oh Michael,” you chuckle, take a sip of your drink. “You and I both know you are so not the one to talk about being petty as a response to jealousy. Should I start listing things you’ve done in response to me being flirted with?”

“You really shouldn’t call me it.” He’s grown a bit more serious again. 

“Are you telling me to stop?” 

“No.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t want you to. Just… You shouldn’t.”

“Why?” Your brows furrow a little in confusion. You don’t get why it matters unless he doesn’t want you calling him it for a personal reason.

“People will wonder why you’re allowed to. It makes,” he gestures between the two of you as you take a sip of your drink but doesn’t name anything, “obvious. People will start thinking and seeing it.”

You choke on your drink, coming close to spitting it out all over him. The coughs you get out once you’ve managed to swallow turn into laughter. “Michael.” You cock your head at him and give him an incredulous smile. “You cannot actually believe that me calling you Michael is what’s going to give this thing between us away. Because it’s been given away. It was given away for sure by the end of my intern year. Nobody asked me anything during my intern year I’m guessing because I was an intern, but a couple weeks into being an R2 I was getting questions. Dana and Jack never asked you or talked to you about it? Because they’ve certainly asked and talked to me.”

Robby blushes at the realization. Deep down he probably always knew that everyone could see it and he’d just managed to convince himself otherwise. “Of course they did,” he answers your question, not sure how to respond to everything before it. “I just thought it was because they were more… perceptive. That they knew me better and could see it in me.”

You have to laugh a little and bite your lip. “You know, you’re sitting here pointing out that halfway through my third year of residency I’ve just started calling you Michael, your first name, and it’s almost like you’ve forgotten you always call me Kid. Only me. Since my first fucking day here. I don’t remember the last time I heard you say my first or last name for something other than introducing me to someone, in front of a patient or in some very formal situation. And I’d like to point out that not a single god damned person has ever heard you call me Kid and then tried to call me Kid unlike with me calling you Michael. I wonder why that is? It’s almost like it comes across as a little more than a nickname to people.”

He looks at you for a second. “I…”

You hold your hand up and half wave him off. “It’s okay. I’ll stop calling you it, Robby.” It’s half teasing and half serious. 

You slide off your stool and grab your drink intending to walk back to the table. Robby’s quick to slide off his stool and stand in front of you though, blocking your path. He looks at the stool you were sitting on pointedly and then back at you. You follow his silent order and sit and set your drink back down.

He leans in a little closer to you than he was. “I never asked you to stop calling me it, nor did I say you needed to.” He raises his eyebrows at you and bobs his head. “Nor do I want you to. I like it when you do. A lot.” 

You smirk at his admission and shrug at him. “You were making an awfully big deal about it.” 

“Yeah because it, it…”

You’re genuinely not sure how he wanted to end that sentence. “It what Michael?”

Robby shakes his head at you. “Just… you’re not an attending yet. Maybe when you’re an attending, okay?”

You know Robby isn’t talking about you calling him Michael. Isn’t saying that you can’t call him Michael until you’re an attending. He’s saying what he’s said since that time on the roof that when you’re an attending the two of you can act on the feelings you clearly have for each other. 

But the maybe in front of that phrase is new and hits you like a slap across the face, heart twisting as it sinks into your stomach. He’s never said that before. It’s never been a maybe and not a certainty. Robby watches your face fall and hurt cloud your eyes. He replays what he said trying to figure out what part it was that hurt you, that made your entire demeanor change. If you’re just that disappointed you didn't change his mind and aren’t suddenly a couple or if it’s something else. He can’t figure it out.  

You swallow thickly, tears sting your eyes but you’re quick to blink them away. “Yeah.” You nod at him finally. “Maybe. But you know, that assumes I become an attending here, Robby. In Pittsburgh at the very least. And I don’t know if I will.”

You slip off your stool, leaving your half empty drink and heading over to the table. You tell everyone the exhaustion has hit and so you’re going to head home. They’re sad to see you go but nobody questions much. You cover well enough that if anyone had noticed you and Robby talking they wouldn’t think you were hurt by him and running away. Which you know is kind of what you’re doing instead of just asking him about it. Asking him if he doesn’t want to try the two of you anymore. If he doesn’t want you anymore. If that’s why it’s a maybe all of the sudden.

Your words throw Robby for a second because he realizes that you’re right, neither of you know for sure if you’ll get an attending job at PTMC or anywhere else in Pittsburgh. He realizes the two of you have never had a real conversation about if you want to stay in Pittsburgh, if you’re going to apply for attending spots in Pittsburgh or if you want to go somewhere else. And then he realizes you called him Robby. 

He’s not sure what to do with that. What it means. He slides off his stool and goes to look for you at the table, doesn’t see you but thinks you’re in the bathroom until he’s told no, you left. He has to play it cool and nod like he isn’t internally panicking about whatever the fuck just happened. And he can’t just leave because it’ll look suspicious. He has to wait a respectable amount of time, ends up leaving when Samira and Langdon do. 

Robby calls you as he walks home. No answer. He has no idea what to even say to you right now so he doesn’t leave a message. He decides to text you instead. He’s worried about you and whether you’re okay and got home safe. He’s always worried about you when he doesn’t have eyes on you. 

R - Let me know you got home safe  R - Please

You don’t reply immediately. Or within five minutes. Or within ten minutes. It’s almost long enough to make him start panicking and change his direction to walk to your place and see if you’re there. Because of course he knows where you live and has been to your place before. But then you finally reply.

You - I did, yeah, thanks. Was showering. I hope you have a good rest of your night

It’s the truth. You were in the shower. In the shower standing under almost scalding water ruminating on ‘maybe when you’re an attending.’ Maybe. When did it become maybe for him? And why? You hate how bad it hurts, the thought of never getting to even try with him. The thought of him not wanting you anymore, of his feelings for you just disappearing. It makes you anxious. 

And more than anything right now, you’re confused. So fucking confused because he’s still flirting with you just as much and as hard as he always has when you guys are alone together or when you’re close enough to whisper. His hands and fingers still linger just a couple of seconds too long when he passes you something or wrap over yours to show you how to do something. You still feel his eyes on you when you talk to other men, especially if the men flirt with you. You still notice him checking you out sometimes. But now it’s maybe. Maybe. 

Robby lets out a breath when your message comes through. He debates calling you again to try and talk on the phone but he’s still not sure what to say. He walks into his apartment and drops his stuff, heads to his room and takes his scrub top and pants off before letting himself sit on the edge of the bed and reply.

R - Good.  R - Are we okay? You left quickly and without saying bye

After you finish getting ready, you slide into your bed and turn the tv on while you think about what to say to his message. Tone is so hard to get out of texts but you can tell he clearly still cares about you and whatever is between you. Enough to ask if the two of you are okay. It helps your anxiety a little bit. 

You - Yeah, we’re fine

He believes you but the word ‘fine’ also scares him. It’s not good or great or perfect or even normal or like we always are. So he can’t let the conversation die. Not when he’s still so unsure about whether you guys are okay or if he did something or if you still want him or if you’re mad at him. 

R - Are you working tomorrow? 

You - Yeah but at night. I’m starting a string of six nights to help cover. 

Robby knows you’ll be with Jack every night. He remembers Jack mentioning a string of six on. He’s not jealous in a romantic sense. He’s jealous of the time Jack will get to spend with you and is already thinking of excuses to stay late to be with you. He’s sad that he won’t see you for more than maybe an hour or so for the next six days.

R - Abbot’s going to try to steal you from days permanently

You type out your reply. It’s genuine but you know it’s going to seriously fuck with him and that the idea will freak him out and make him scared of losing you. Or will it? You don’t seem to know anymore. And that hurts. And hurt people hurt people. But you pause. You erase your last sentence. ‘Maybe when I’m an attending.’

You - He just might. Going to bed at 7 in the morning rather than getting up early enough to be at work for 7 in the morning kind of appeals to me

Robby stares at your response, a wave of deeper anxiety passing over him. You can’t go to nights. He’d barely see you. You can’t be serious about this. 

R - Really?

You - Yeah. Why?

Fuck. You are serious about this. And what the fuck is he supposed to say in response to your question? He knows you know why. He knows you know how he feels about you. How he wants you too. How he can’t wait for you to be an attending or even accept a position because then he can finally have you.

R - Would be a big loss for day shift. You’re one of the best

That hurts a little. That you switching to nights would just be a loss to day shift to him. Not a loss to him personally. That he wouldn’t miss you apparently.

You - You guys would be fine 

R - I’d miss you. I’ll miss you this week

You smile at him saying he’d miss you and that he’s going to this week. But part of you struggles to believe him after the bar.

You - Would you? Will you? 

He can’t believe you’re even asking that. And because it’s a text he can’t hear in your voice whether those two questions are serious or teasing. It hurts him to think that they might be serious. 

R - Of course 

You - Well I really doubt I’ll end up switching. So you’ll only have to miss me for a week 

R - Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

You are so confused by this man. It’s ‘maybe’ and ‘a loss to day shift’ but then it’s also he’ll miss you and his heart will grow fonder. But it was a good line. And between him telling you he’ll miss you unprompted and that being away from you for almost a week will deepen his feelings for you, you’re starting to feel back to your usual self and, while the change has been subconscious mostly, you go back to texting him like your usual self. 

But before you can reply Robby sends another message. It terrifies him. He’s not sure how he even worked himself up to asking you. He just needs to know. Needs to know if the two of you are really okay. 

R - Will you miss me at all?

It’s an incredibly vulnerable ask. You know it. He knows it. He knows you know it. He needs a very ‘you’ answer to it. So you give him one.

You - 🙂‍↕️

R - Good

You - Did you have to google what that emoji meant? (P.S. You should have added girl after good)

Robby laughs to himself and shakes his head at you. This feels better. Normal. Like you. 

R - Did you just call me old? (P.S. Stop it)

You smile to yourself. You know he means the stop it playfully. He’d have said way more if he actually wanted you to stop.

You - 😶🤐 You - Did you change the font size on your phone?

R - I’ve changed my mind about missing you 

You - Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night, Michael

R - Go to bed, Kid R - Don’t  R - Don’t even think it

You giggle to yourself. He’s lucky he was so quick to realize and send the ‘don’t.’

You - Does it make it better if I told you it was going to be daddy and not dad?

Robby groans to himself a little. No. That’s what he wants to tell you. No, it makes it worse in a way. It has him half hard pretty quickly. 

You - I’ve been in bed this entire conversation too, so 

You know you’re getting close to Robby’s limit of this shameless of flirting and overt sexualness. You’re toeing the line. It hits just right though. It makes him harder. Fully hard. And Robby has to groan to himself a little louder this time because if you guys were together he’d work himself up to sending you a picture of his very obvious erection under his boxers, or facetime you and make you talk him through it. But you’re not together. And you’re an R3. And he can’t.

You - Wanna know what I’ve been doing? 

You wait a few seconds just to let him start to think before you hit send on the picture you took of your tv that shows you’re watching some trashy reality tv show he hates. Or pretends to hate. Because he always knows enough about the last episode to talk to you about it. Maybe he hated it before you, maybe he still does kind of hate it, but now he watches it for you. 

You - I’m sure that’s what you were thinking I was doing. Anyway. Did you make it home safely?

Robby lets out a quiet laugh. You’re so ridiculous. So perfect for him. He’s so spectacularly fucked when it comes to you. 

R - Yes and I’m going to shower. You go to sleep

You - 😏😏 You - Alright I’m stopping  You - Sleep tight and try not to miss me too much this week 

R - Sleep well, Kid

Robby throws open the door to the stairwell and walks in. He’s shaking, closer to tears than he wants to admit to himself and he is pretty sure he has never felt this much rage in his life. All of his emotions, all the grief and loss and sadness and guilt have turned into anger. 

And all because Langdon had to come back and then run his fucking mouth. He’s trying to calm down, to let go of the anger before he goes back out there and does or says something he’s going to regret because his mind is too clouded with anger. His hand rubs the back of his neck as he paces to try and burn off some of the adrenaline. 

He replays the confrontation in his head over and over. Eventually he’s struck by one thing in particular. How the fuck did Langdon even know about what happened in pedes? You were the only one who saw him-

Robby stills. It feels like another part of his world is coming crashing down around him. The only way Langdon could have known is if you’d told him. Or you’d told someone else who’d told him. If you were gossiping about him. About something so incredibly private and intimate. 

The door to the stairwell gets thrown back open and Robby walks further into the Pitt, head on a swivel looking for you. His jaw clenches when he sees you standing alone and charting. He stalks over to you.

“We need to talk.” The anger in his voice is palpable. And unlike the last time he sought you out, this time he’s not asking to speak with you. You saw him follow Langdon out so you assume it must be related and Langdon really must have done or said something.  “In here. Now.” 

He’s seething. He leads over to the supply closet and opens the door, walks in behind you, locks the door behind him. “What happened?” you ask, brows furrowed.

Robby just stares at you. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something. And you slowly realize his anger isn’t at Langdon or that situation or at anything else. 

It’s at you. 

He finally speaks. “I cannot fucking believe you.”

You shrink back at his words and tone. “What?”

“There are a lot of fucking people here who I would expect this shit from or not be surprised when they did it. But not you. Not fucking you,” he spits out. “How could you? How could you fucking gossip about that?” Robby tells himself the tears forming in his eyes are ones of anger and nothing else. “How could you betray me like that? I trusted you. I fucking trusted you.” His voice cracks on the second trusted.

To say you’re confused would be a massive understatement. Your stomach twists with anxiety. You don’t like any of this. You don’t like how he thinks you betrayed him or broke his trust. Because you’re not sure if your relationship could survive him truly believing that. “Michael, please believe me when I say that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The confusion written all over your face just pisses him off more. It’s like you’re trying to be the victim. “No. Don’t do this shit. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m fucking talking about. Don’t try to be the fucking victim. The very fucking least you could do at this point is own the fuck up to it.”

You are desperately trying to play your day through your head to see if you can figure out what he’s talking about, figure out what you did that apparently betrayed him and obliterated his trust. You and Dana talked during the day but you never told her anything, just expressed your concern about him and him saying and acting like he was fine. You and Jack spoke while organizing supplies, but again, you just expressed concern about him and how he’d react if something happened to Jake. You said nothing to either of them that they didn’t already know because Robby had told them. You have no idea how he could consider any of that gossiping. 

“You’re really going to make me fucking spell it out for you, hm?” He bobs his head condescendingly. 

Tears spill over your lash line and slide down your cheeks because of the way he’s talking to you, the way he’s treating you. Because you know exactly where this conversation is headed if he won’t explain to you and then listen to your response. Because he’s slowly breaking your heart. 

“You told someone, Langdon or whoever the fuck else, about what happened in pedes. About me breaking down in there and being on the floor. You just fucking blabbed that to whoever,” he scoffs, a few tears running down his cheeks. Out of anger, yes. 

But out of heartbreak too. You gossiping about this, you breaching his trust like this, shatters Robby. Because he loves you. Even if he hasn’t said it. He’s stupidly in love with you. He has been. He thought you were the one. That you were it. His end game. He pictured a proposal and a wedding and a house and maybe kids.

And then you broke his heart. 

“Okay,” you sniffle through some tears. “I know you don’t believe me but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t tell anyone absolutely anything about pedes. I never would-”

“Well nobody else came in and saw me so how the fuck else would Langdon know? Hm?” he snarls. “You fucking gossiped about it. Like it was this casual thing.” He shrugs at you as more tears fall down his face and he glares at you. “We’re done. Because I will never be able to trust you again. Not with anything like that, with how I feel, to see me when I’m vulnerable. And I deserve a partner I can trust with that.” His anger slips for a moment, the trembling of his chin and the way his eyes soften into hurt and grief give it away. “We waited all this fucking time, I waited all this fucking time for you and you do this before we even hit six fucking months?” You can see when the anger returns as his primary emotion in addition to hearing it. “You threw it all away! And for what. For fucking what? Please tell me. Because I don’t fucking understand.” 

You’re at a total loss. You know that it ultimately doesn’t matter what you say. Robby isn’t in a state of mind to truly hear or listen to anything you tell him and even if he was, he doesn’t want to. Not right now at least. He just broke up with you. For, as far as you can tell, nothing. Your heart is shattered just like his. You thought he was the one. You knew he was deep in your heart. He was always there when you pictured your future. 

It takes you a moment to gather a few thoughts and calm your crying down enough to coherently talk. You clear your throat and sniffle before starting.

“You very clearly aren’t interested in listening to anything I have to say, but I’m going to say a few things anyway and hope you do listen, or think about them later. I did not tell anybody anything about pedes. I would never. Even now.” You take the briefest pause, worried that if you stop for any longer he’ll cut you off and not let you say anything else. “I love you, Michael. I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I never said it because it felt like you weren’t ready to hear it or say it quite yet, or I don’t know, maybe I mistook things and you didn’t, don’t love me.” You shrug. “I was so proud of you when I watched you pull yourself together in the face of multiple things, any one of which let alone all of them combined would have kept most people on the floor of that room, and go out and save lives and rally a team and support others and hold others up while you were dying inside. And I really hope one day, that for yourself, you’ll be able to learn and speak with Langdon or whoever else you need to and know that I was telling the truth and didn’t say anything to anyone and never would’ve. I loved you, Michael. You were amazing today. You are so much stronger than you think or give yourself credit for. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of yourself even through all the hurt, Michael.”

“No.” Robby shakes his head. He’s too angry and hurt and grief stricken to see anything clearly or even truly process your words. He stoops so that he’s face to face with you and you’ve never seen Robby look this angry and hurt. He makes sure you’re looking at him dead in the eyes as he speaks. “No, you don’t get to call me Michael. Or Robby. It’s Dr. Robinavitch to you.” 

He stands back up, unlocks and throws the door open and walks back out. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just issue you your very own scarlet letter by telling you that you can only call him by his full name and title, a stark contrast to the intimacy of Michael and even the casualness of Robby that everyone, except for you now, gets to call him. Like he didn’t just break up with you. Like he didn’t just shatter your heart. Like you’re not even worth hearing out or having an actual conversation with or listening to. Like you’re nothing. 

Pretty fucking cruel of the world for it to end where it started. In this supply closet. 

You lock the door behind him and slide down it, give yourself a few minutes to quietly sob, thoughts racing. But you don’t want to do this here. You can’t and you won’t. You open a pack of gauze and use it to clean off your face, unlock the door and peek through it until you see a good moment and sprint to the bathroom. 

You press a cold paper towel beneath your eyes. You know it’s probably pointless but maybe it’ll help a little. You’re focusing on thinking about how to get out of here and have the least number of people see you as possible. After a few minutes you toss the towel, splash some cold water on your face and dry off. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Marginally better, you guess. 

You slip out of the bathroom and look around. You should tell someone you’re leaving. The only two you decide you’ll be able to bring yourself to talk to are Jack and Dana. You spot Jack first.

“Hey,” you greet Jack as you walk up to him. Janey has arrived and Robby’s over talking with her so the hub is free of him for now. “I’m heading out.”

Jack looks up at you. To anyone else it would seem like he didn’t react. But you know him well enough to see the slightest raise of his eyebrows and the corners of his lips turn down. You have a fake smile plastered on your face and even with the damage control you did in the bathroom, someone would have to be an idiot to look at you and not know you’d been crying. And you know Jack is far from an idiot. 

You know he knows when his eyes leave you and go to Robby and then back to you. “Okay… We’ll probably do some sort of debrief and then I’m sure some people will go to the park. Robby’s probably going to be here for a little bit yet.”

“I figured, yeah.” You nod. “Thanks Jack.” You spin and start walking away before Jack can say anything further or Robby can walk back over or even look in your direction. You don’t want to feel it. You have enough already. His glare at you, livid and disappointed and betrayed and disdained and hurt. And even though you know why he’s with her, seeing him with his ex is hard. Especially when you realize you’re now just another ex for him to be seen with too. 

You wonder if they’ll bond over their fear for Jake before they knew he was okay and get back together as you walk to your locker. You grab your backpack and take the back way out to limit the chances of anyone seeing you and manage to hit the street without encountering anyone else.

You have a few things of Robby’s in your locker that you’ll have to figure out how to return to him. More things at your place. You’re going to have to go home and still see him. Have his presence there. Thinking about it makes tears sting at your eyes. But you refuse to break down until you get home, you won’t do it even out here. You need to be home before you break down. About any of it. Robby or the mass casualty incident you just went through. And it’ll mostly be about Robby. Probably 99%. You’re numb to whatever it is you saw and went through, focused on losing Robby.

And as brokenhearted and sad and hurt you are, part of you is mad. That Robby could even think you would do such a thing, much less believe it enough to accuse you of it and end your entire relationship over it without a real conversation. You know it was a bad day for him. Beyond a bad day. Probably one of the worst days of his life. But that’s not an excuse or justification for how he treated you. He didn’t even listen to you, wouldn’t even contemplate it being possible that someone else saw him and he just didn’t see. 

Part of you knows that with the day being what it was and what it became, Robby’s mind was trying to protect himself. That his mind could only see loss and grief and convinced him that you were going to leave him at the end of the day after seeing him like that in pedes. So when he saw an opportunity to control it, to set the terms of losing and grieving you, he took it and didn’t ask any questions. 

Robby does not want to gather everyone and give some kind of debriefing speech, but he knows he has to say something to everyone. Once everyone is gathered he starts talking and as he looks around the group he realizes you’re not there. He tells himself he doesn’t care but he absolutely does. Even with how much you hurt him he misses you. He wishes you were here to ground him a little. He thinks he could forgive you, especially if you had an explanation. Maybe you didn’t mean to say as much as you did to whoever. 

But as everyone walks away and goes back to whatever they were doing he slips back into anger because it’s an easier emotion to process and feel at the moment. You’re an attending now. It’s your job to be here for things like this. To stay for debriefings. No matter what might’ve happened in your personal life. 

So when he feels his phone vibrate and pulls it out and sees it’s you calling him he rolls his eyes  and sends it straight to voicemail on the second ring. And he gets annoyed when you don’t leave a message and immediately call him again. This time he just lets it ring until it hits voicemail. Maybe you’ll get the hint this time, he thinks. He figures you must because you don’t leave a message again and don’t try calling him a third time or send a text. Robby gets involved in another case with Jack and one with Mel and doesn’t think much of it. An hour and a half passes in the blink of an eye.

When he walks out of one of the trauma rooms and stops at the hub the exhaustion finally slams into him full force. He’s hungry too, can feel his blood sugar dropping. His ability to regulate and deal with his emotions is going further out the window with both of those developments. Which, he presumes, is why when he sees Langdon walking towards the ambulance bay doors to leave he walks over to him quickly. 

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Robby glances down at his watch. “I told you to leave over two fucking hours ago!”

“Why the fuck do you care? I’m leaving now.” Langdon doesn’t stop walking. 

Robby stands there for a second watching Langdon walk away. He needs to know he was right. That it was in fact you who told Langdon. 

“Hey!” Robby yells at Langdon and walks to catch up with him. “Who fucking told you?” He knows Langdon will know what he’s talking about.

“I’m not fucking telling you,” Langdon laughs dryly. “Unlike some people here I’m not going to rat out-”

Robby interrupts him by saying your name. “Was it her?”

Langdon laughs, shaking his head at Robby before he apparently realizes the question is serious. “You can’t be fucking serious.” Robby’s lack of response makes it clear he is serious. “Of course it wasn’t her! She would absolutely never spread shit about you, especially something like that. Someone else saw you in there on the floor firsthand. They’re glass fucking doors, Robby!” Langdon lets out an incredulous laugh. 

Fuck. Fuck. Robby’s heart drops into his sinking stomach and everything starts to spin, his extremities turning to ice. He knows Langdon is telling him the truth. He knows he monumentally fucked up. He just broke up with you for nothing. He just destroyed your heart for nothing. He just shattered the most precious and important and meaningful person in his life. He just imploded everything for no fucking reason. 

He just lost the best things in his life, your relationship and you, the person who kept him going. And he has nobody to blame but himself. 

He vaguely hears Langdon start to say something else to him but he’s taking a deep breath to try to get his dizziness to pass and walking back inside. Robby thinks about how he spoke to you. The words he said. How he barely let you say anything and didn’t listen to what he did let you say. He’s not sure if the two of you can recover from this. He’s not sure he deserves you giving him a second chance. If anything, he’s more sure he doesn’t. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try, if he doesn’t apologize and ask for a second chance. 

His eyes skim across everyone on the floor he can see once he’s back inside. He walks by most of the rooms and doesn’t see you in with any patients. You’re not in the breakroom. Maybe the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stand around waiting though. 

The roof. You saw him go up to the roof this morning because that’s where Jack was getting some air. He’d told you he was going up there to talk with Jack. Maybe you’re up there trying to clear your head. As he gets to the elevator and presses the up button it hits Robby. You could be standing on that ledge. You could be thinking about jumping. About disappearing from his life permanently. About really and truly leaving him forever. Nothing left but a grave to visit.

The only thing that stops Robby from turning to give into the feeling and be sick in the trash can is the elevator doors opening. He slips inside and hits the button for the roof, holding the close door button down the entire way up as though it really does anything. He tries to tell himself he’s just projecting his feelings onto you and that he has no reason to think you’re on the ledge.

Robby can’t decide whether he’s relieved that you’re not on the roof. Certainly he’s relieved you’re not on the ledge but it means he still doesn’t know where you are. He stands in the middle of the roof sucking in huge breaths of air trying to come down from the panic that’s starting to consume him. It’s not really working though. It’s just turning into hyperventilating. 

“Well you’re almost in my spot,” Jack calls to Robby as he walks out onto the roof. “What is going on? She-”

“I fucked up Jack,” Robby blurts out. “I fucked up so so badly and I don’t, I don’t know if I can fix it.” He slips completely into hyperventilating at this point as it plays in his head again. Him destroying everything in that supply closet. 

“Okay you’re having a panic attack, Michael-”

“No, no I’m not, I’m not, I’m just,” he’s shaking at this point, his body and his voice, “I just lost her and I, I, I…” Robby can barely put that three word phrase together. 

“I promise you that you are having a panic attack, Michael, believe me I know.” Jack steps in front of Robby and catches his gaze. “You have to follow my breathing, okay?” Robby shakes his head for a second and squeezes his eyes closed trying to fight back tears before starting to nod. “Look at me.” Robby opens his eyes and watches Jack. He watches Jack’s exaggerated breathing and tries to follow it. By focusing so hard on following Jack’s breathing Robby’s mind stills for a few moments. “Alright, better?” Robby nods at him. “What the fuck happened?”

Robby’s quiet for a moment and turns and takes a step so that he’s not facing Jack anymore. It’s a little too much. “I broke today. During the middle of it all, after Leah.” Robby’s voice cracks on her name. “She found me crying on the fucking floor in pedes and helped me get through it and back.” Robby pauses and lets out a huffed laugh. “For this to make sense I have to tell you that Langdon’s addicted to pain meds and stealing meds. Fucking, I don’t even know what to say about that right now.” He can see Jack’s slightly surprised expression out of the corner of his eye. “Anyway, after everything calmed down Langdon and I had it out in the ambulance bay and he threw it in my face. What happened in pedes.”

“Mmmm,” Jack cringes in acknowledgment. Robby knows he knows where this is about to go. 

“She was the only one I saw see me in there. So I assumed she told fucking Langdon or someone else who then told him. That she was gossiping about it.” Robby shrugs and sniffles. “I dragged her into that fucking supply closet with me and lost it. Asked her how could she, told her I couldn’t believe her, all while she was looking at me confused which just pissed me off more in the moment. She said it wasn’t her but I wasn’t listening. I barely let her speak. And then,” Robby pauses, lips trembling hard. “And then she said she loves me and is proud of me and she ended her last sentence with Michael and all I said was that she didn’t get to call me Michael or Robby. That it was Dr. Robinavitch to her. Then I walked out. I saw Langdon just now and he told me it wasn’t her and I know he was telling the truth.” Robby takes in and lets out a big breath quickly, sniffling again and wiping some tears away. “So I broke up with her and broke her heart for nothing. And I’ve been trying to find her to apologize as if she’ll ever take me back. She shouldn’t. I know she shouldn’t but I have to try Jack.” Robby looks over at him. “I have to try.” 

Jack takes in a deep breath and lets it out. He looks like he’s trying to decide what to respond to first. He runs a hand through his hair and then drops his hands to his hips. “Yeah,” he draws the word out. “That’s…” he sighs. “You guys might be able to work this out. It’s very obvious she knows you and how you think, better than you probably, and she is so fucking in love with you,” he tries to give Robby a somewhat reassuring smile, “so, I don’t know. You have to try, I agree. But she left, Robby.” Jack glances at his watch. “Two hours ago.” 

“What?” Robby whispers, turns back to face Jack. He glosses over everything Jack said to try and give him hope because he can’t take any possibility of false hope right now, as much as he knows Jack wouldn’t lie to him. 

“When you were talking to Janey. She came up to me at the hub, looking like she’d just had the conversation you described with you and said she was leaving.” Jack shrugs. “I said we’d do a debrief and some people would probably go to the park after and that you’d be here for a bit yet and she said she figured that and thanks and walked away.”

“Did you actually see her leave?” Robby doesn’t know why the thought of you leaving and being at home in your bed sobbing, or having already sobbed yourself to sleep makes it all feel worse. 

“No-” 

“So she could still be here.” Robby nods as he says it. “She could have gotten involved in a case or something and not left yet.” He starts walking back to the elevator. 

“Theoretically,” Jack agrees. “I think she probably left, Robby. You know her locker code? See if her stuff is there.” 

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Robby nods as they step in the elevator. “That’s good, that’s a good idea.” He’s praying that your stuff will still be there. That you’re not at home alone crying over him and how he treated you and the end of your relationship. Because he doesn’t want that. He’s not sure anymore if that’s really what he wanted when he was so sure you gossiped about it. 

As soon as he’s off the elevator Robby’s speed walking to the lockers, Jack following behind at a more normal pace. Robby hears Jack stop a few feet behind him as he opens your locker. Your stuff is gone. You’re gone. At home alone. Just like he didn’t want. 

“Michael,” you pant as his lips move down your neck and to your collarbone where he sucks a bruise into your skin making you moan softly again. “We should stop, you, you should go home and get some sleep before work.” The hand in his hair tugs at it to get him to look at you. 

It’s the night of your first date. After dinner you guys came back to your place. It started with just sitting and chatting on the couch, having another drink. Then you started kissing as you talked. Then you were kissing more than you were talking. Then you straddled him. And now he’s laying on top of you on your couch, bracing himself with his arms to not put too much of his weight on you. You have to have been making out like this for the better part of an hour. You’ve both been shamelessly grinding into each other, pulling little sounds you’ve always wanted to hear from the other. Robby’s painfully hard. Your underwear has to be soaked through or close to it. 

“What?” Robby’s already halfway gone, mind hazy with thoughts of you. It takes a second for what you said to process. “What? No first date sex for me?” he pants softly. You know he’s teasing you, that he truly didn’t come here with any expectations and he would absolutely never pressure you. 

“Nope.” You smile at him as you pop the ‘p.’

Robby groans a little at you as he moves off of you to sit normally on the couch, helping you sit up next to him. “Why not?” He pushes his bottom lip out at you a little as you climb into his lap. “That hardly seems fair.”

You give his bottom lip a quick nip before kissing it. “Because I care about you and this. Us.” 

“But if there’s already an us…” he trails off with a raise of his brows at you. “And we’ve been basically dating for four years.” You snort a laugh and give him a look. “Okay, we’ve been close friends with feelings for each other for four years. That should count for something right?” He lets one hand rest at your hip and the other in your lap. 

“In a way, yes, of course it does.” You run your hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp a little just to see the way his eyes flutter closed. “I still need to keep you interested though. Make sure you have a reason to ask me out again and keep me around.”

Robby scoffs as he opens his eyes. He gives you a look. “Kid, you really think that after pining for you and dreaming about you for four fucking years that I’m going to finally get inside of you and then just decide I’m romantically done with you?”

You shiver at his words and the thought of him inside of you. “Maybe I won’t be good in bed or you won’t feel a spark or it’ll be flat.”

Robby lets out a breath as he takes your face in his hands. “I can pretty much guarantee you none of that will be the case.  Having sex with you is just going to make me more obsessed with you, Kid.”

You nod, give him a small smile and lean into one of his hands. “Maybe I just like torturing you.” A slow smirk pulls onto your face. “You made me wait four years. And yes I understand and respect and appreciate why. But I still think it means you can take me on a date for every year you made me wait, and then maybe I’ll let you put your cock inside of me, Michael.”

He groans, dropping his hands back to your hip and lap where they were. “So breakfast, lunch and dinner dates tomorrow?” 

You giggle at him, lean in and give him a kiss. You love knowing how desperate he is. It makes you feel good. But while you and Robby have known each other and been dancing around this for four years, that’s almost what makes you feel like the sex is going to be more meaningful and like for some reason you should wait just a couple of dates. Because you could fall in love with Robby. Because you know you already are starting to fall in love with him. That you have been since you met him. 

“No.” You shake your head at him. “But that was a great try.”

“Can I at least do four days in a row?” he whines. 

You hum in fake thought for a few seconds. “I’ll allow that.”

“Good.” Robby leans in and kisses you again, deepens it when you open your mouth a little for him when his tongue presses at your lips. He’ll never get enough of this. Enough of you. He pulls away just a little before you’re both desperate for air and rests his forehead against yours. “I’m going to make you break before the fourth date.” 

You chuckle. “Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael.” You pull your forehead from his and give him an almost sympathetic look. “You should know better than to challenge me by now. Because now that you’ve said it, I absolutely won’t let you break me.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs the word, “I was trying so hard to be hot and sexy for you I forgot how incredibly stubborn you are.” 

You roll your eyes at him playfully. “You know you don’t have to try, Michael. You just are hot and sexy.” 

He just hums at you and squeezes your hip and thigh. “Come on, I’ll go. We both do need to sleep before work.” You sigh a little about it as you get off his lap and stand up. You don’t really want him to leave but you know it’s better to do it this way. “I’m gonna use your bathroom before I leave.” Robby kisses the top of your head as he passes you. 

You get a thought and slip to your kitchen while Robby’s in your bathroom, quickly getting your bottoms off. You make sure your underwear adequately reflects how turned on and wet you got just from making out with him and then them off and get your bottoms back on. You tuck the underwear in the back of your waistband and pull your shirt down over them. 

You wait for Robby on the armrest of your couch, smiling at him when he reappears. The two of you walk to your door together. “I had a really great time tonight, Michael.” You’re smiling so widely your cheeks hurt. 

“So did I, Kid. The best time.” Robby’s hands find your waist again, just holding you gently. “Will you go on a second date with me?” he asks like you don’t both already know the answer. 

“You know it.” Your smile somehow widens a little more and you have to fight to get it off your face so that Robby can kiss you when he starts leaning down and in. Neither of you are surprised or mad when the kiss turns into making out for a couple of minutes in front of your door. 

You break apart naturally when you need air and you let your forehead fall to rest on Robby’s chest. After a second you pull back. 

“Here.” You grab your underwear from your waistband. You let them dangle off your finger for a second to make sure Robby knows exactly what they are. “To get you through the night and proof you don’t need to try to be hot and sexy.” You smirk at him as you shove them in his pocket. “Took them off while you were in the bathroom. You can feel they’re still warm. And maybe if you’re good you’ll get a pair at the end of each date.”

Robby swallows hard, breathing picking up a little just at the beginnings of thoughts of what he could do with them at home and how you’ll know he’s doing something with them and how you want him to. He presses his palm against his pocket. They’re still warm like you said. A blush creeps up his neck to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He has to close his eyes for a second as he tries to regulate a bit. “You’re gonna kill me, Kid,” Robby breathes out. 

“I’m a doctor, remember? I would never let that happen.” You and Robby exchange soft laughs as he opens the door. “Text me when you get home safely please. Or on your way home.” You grin at him. 

“I will.” Robby nods at you. You lean up and give him a soft and lingering kiss. It’s simple, but the perfect way to end the night. 

“Have a good night, Michael.”

“Have a good night, Kid.”

There’s very little thought to it. Robby just follows the instinct that tells him to run after you. Doesn’t grab his backpack. Doesn’t say another word to Jack. He just turns and runs. 

Robby knows that you’ll be at your place. That you won’t have gone to a bar or something. You’ll just want to be alone. He hates himself for it, hates the thought, can picture you curled up alone and crying or sniffling heavily in your sleep because you finally cried yourself out. 

He books it to your place, comes close to being hit once or twice when making a few unwise crossing decisions. He’s panting hard by the time he gets to your building and fumbles with his key to get in the main door, taking the stairs two at a time as he hauls ass up to the third floor. He’s running on sheer adrenaline. 

He doesn’t take a moment to collect himself when he gets to your door, just starts knocking. When you don’t answer he uses his key to let himself in. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should respect you not wanting to see him and wanting to be alone right now, but he needs to see you and apologize and make everything okay again. 

But your apartment is dark when he steps in. Hot. Like the AC has been off because you’ve been at his the past week. You’d have turned the AC on if you were here. He checks anyway though. But you’re not there. Not in your bed or the shower or on your couch. And so Robby’s left a sweaty and panting mess as he closes your bedroom door and leans back against it. 

He tries to take a moment to calm down, get his breath back, some focus back so he can think about where else you might be. But he can’t. 

Instead, Robby slides down your bedroom door, bringing his knees to his chest and starting to cry again. Just like he did in pedes. It’s more sobbing this time, especially because of how hard it is to breathe, how out of breath he was before he started crying. Some of his tears are for the loss, Adamson and Leah, for his guilt at giving Jake his other ticket and thoughts that it should have been him to get shot and not Leah, for the damage to his relationship with Jake, for Langdon, for breaking down in the middle of an MCI and letting his team down. 

But most of them are for you. The loss of you. The way he’s already grieving you while praying and hoping and wishing that he’ll be able to stop, that you’ll take him back and so he won’t have to keep grieving the loss of you in his life. For accusing you of something horrible like that. For yelling at you. For the way he snapped at you all day. The way that, although you were quick to shut it down most times, he took out a lot of his emotions on you over the entire day. Took out his emotions on you who was only ever there for him whenever he needed it. Who kept him together and in check. Who saw only the best in him and stayed. Who saw the worst in him and stayed. Who was proud of him. Who he needs to survive this. And for the way, he realized on his run over as he replayed the scene in the supply closet over in his mind, your tense changed. You love him to you loved him. Love to loved. An audible breaking of your heart.  

Robby looks over at your kitchen. Maybe it would just be better for you and Jake and everybody if he just disappeared. If he just ceased to exist. He told you he wouldn’t. He promised you he wouldn’t. But maybe you want him to now. He’s tired of feeling. Of hurting. Without you he doesn’t really have anyone. Jake hates him. Jack and Dana will be fine without him. You have sharp enough knives. He knows exactly where to cut.

His phone ringing pulls him out of it for a second. He sniffles and clears his throat as he moves to pull his phone out of his pocket. He knows it’s not you because you’d given yourself a special ringtone and it’s not the one playing.

It’s Jack. If you’re there at the hospital still with Jack then he won’t. He’ll keep his promise and run back. Apologize. Beg. Grovel. Anything. Everything. 

“Did you hear from her?” There’s no greeting. Robby’s straight to the question. 

“Robby, she’s here.” Jack’s voice is strained. He sounds exhausted, but more emotionally than anything. He sounds pained. Like speaking these words is physically and emotionally hurting him. He didn’t sound like that when Robby left. But Robby brushes it all aside.

“Oh fuck, okay thank you.” Robby lets out a sigh of relief and wipes at his face. He sniffles again and lets out a little laugh. Because at least he knows where you are. “Keep her there Jack, please. I don’t care how you do it, lock her in a room or use restraints, just keep her there. I need to talk to her. I need-”

“No, not like that,” Jack tells him, voice clipped, still strained. “Like-” Jack gets interrupted. Robby can hear what sounds like a door opening, muffled movement and beeping of monitors. He can just make out a female voice tell Jack ‘she’s seizing again.’ Jack’s voice is muffled like he’s holding the phone away from him but Robby can hear him say ‘yes’ to what sounded like the shout of a medication order, followed by Jack yelling ‘and where the fuck is neuro?’ 

“Fuck. You need to get here, Michael.” Jack rushes it out but Robby recognizes Jack’s tone clear as day because he’s used it so many times himself. 

It’s the tone they use when stressing to family members that they need to get to the hospital as quickly as humanly possible because a loved one is about to die. 

Tears start to stream down Robby’s face again because he knows. Robby knows exactly what Jack means when he repeats it. “She’s here.”

I know. 😶🥲😶‍🌫️😭

I've affectionately called this Robby's No Man's Land. It was named the same way too. Obviously there will be a Part 2 unless nobody wants one. 😂 I PROMISE that what happened in NML Part 2 will not be repeated in the Part 2 to this.

I hope it was okay and that you were able to enjoy! Again, I really love hearing your thoughts and comments, they give me serotonin and motivation and inspiration!! Liking, replies and reblogging are always so so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming (or (lovingly) screaming at me I suppose)! 🙂

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It takes you a full minute to realize what's going on, where you are, who you're with.

The sliver of sunrise pokes through your sheer curtains, audaciously shining into the room and into your eyes when you momentarily prop yourself up on your elbows and squint. You blink blearily as your senses slowly start to come back to you: the sunrise indicating an early morning, the lingering scent of your body wash littering your skin, the increments of knocking on your door, and the warmth of Rafe right beside you.

He stirs not only from Sarah's loud voice, but from your movement, and you watch him endearingly frown, eyes still screwed shut as he paws for you with the quietest groan, as if the notion of you being away from him in a time like this is offensive. Once his hands find your body, he's gripping whatever he feels first — in this instance, your lower hips — and curling his fingers into your flesh and pulling you tight against him, so tight that you're no longer propped up on your elbows and instead trapped in the confinements of his arms.

You blink from the jolting movement, heart skipping when he lazily slots a leg in between yours as if the gesture is second nature.

Sarah calls your name again.

"I don't care if you have someone in there!" She yells, slightly slurring as if she's just gotten in for the night (morning?). "If you don't answer in five seconds, I'm coming in."

You stiffen in Rafe's arms.

Fuck. Holy fuck.

You think for a brief second on the implications of her walking in right now, and seeing the two of you cozied beneath the sheets after months of telling her that he's the blueprint of a guy you'd never want to be with. A flicker of panic rises in your chest at the thought of seeing him, her fucking brother, laying in your bed like he was made to be here and, apparently, successfully scoring with the girl he's been talking to her about for ages.

The attempt to free yourself from his hold fails, and he only nuzzles further into you.

"Hey," you whisper hurriedly, "wake up."

"I can hear you!" Sarah accuses from the other side of the door. "Five, four-"

You pinch Rafe's abdomen, and your quest to see if he's ticklish falls short as he barely budges, instead humming low and baritone and un-fucking-fazed at the fact that his sister is about to walk in on you two right now. While you can practically hear your own heartbeat, you can feel his beating in a slow, syncopated rhythm, relaxed more than ever despite the premeditated headache you're both about to endure.

"Three!"

Rafe doesn't even open his eyes, using his other senses to simply feel you. He gently nudges his nose against your temple, inhaling deep as his lips find your hairline to press a morning kiss, and he does it delicately enough to avoid the area with the staples. Warm hands splay on your back and waist, mapping out the bareness of your skin and nimble fingers settling under your shirt as if he has every right (he does).

If your roommate (your friend, the sister of the guy you have in your bed right now) wasn't inducing a mild panic on your part, you'd surely swoon over the simple act.

"Two—"

"Sare," Rafe mutters and the baritone of his voice vibrates against your skin, loud enough to get the counting to suddenly stop. "'T's too early for this shit."

Utter silence from the other side of the door.

The implication almost makes you burst out laughing. Almost.

Because you think at how out of left field this must seem to her right now, especially if she hasn't been to bed yet and is coming down from her drunkenness and roll. The two of you have been M.I.A. all night, not even charging your phone and his being somewhere amongst the city in someone's back pocket, so you figure they've spent a long time trying to figure out where you went.

Also because it's Rafe. Her brother. Sleeping in your room after all this time of threatening him with death if he so much as looked at you wrong. Being in your sacred space that you only let few people enter. Staying together behind closed doors after she discovered enough condoms to last a lifetime littered across the floor.

Sarah doesn't even say anything, and instead you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You can't even look at her if you tried, because you're helplessly taut to Rafe with your face buried in the crook of his neck. You can't even turn and shoot her a sheepish look because he simply won't let you, he won't let go, simply holding onto the moment just a fraction longer. Not that you necessarily mind, because — for starters — you're comfortable and warm and he smells very nice, and you could really get used to waking up like this: pressed up to him and peppered with an influx of affection that you aren't sure you deserve.

All you can do is idly lay, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck as you can only imagine the look on her face as well as his. You can picture it: his lazy, shit eating grin and her furrowed brows and incessantly blinking eyes. The image only progresses in your mind when his hand rubs gently up and down your spine, but you figure it's less of an affectionate gesture and more as a possessive stake in his claim of you, almost to rub it in her face.

"Good mornin'," Rafe drawls out, as if he's taunting her. "Fun night?"

There are a few moments of silence between the siblings, and you can only roll your eyes at his proud demeanor. Prick.

She speaks probably after staring between you two for all this time. "What the fuck? I mean, like, what the fuck?"

He only hums, and when you try to turn over onto your back so you can look at your friend, he actually lets you. But not without his hand smushing between your back and the mattress, not that he necessarily seems to mind at all because he doesn't pull it away, nor does he remove his other hand that splays audaciously on your hip, nimble fingers skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

The look on Sarah's face is quite literally what you pictured: her brows furrowed yet eyes wide in disbelief, her hand still lingering on the doorknob as if she's been petrified at the sight before her. She's still in last night's outfit, hair a bit mussed and mascara shadowing the slight bags under her eyes, yet she looks more awake than ever as she blinks her gaze between you and her brother. Finally, her eyes settle on you.

Her words are immediate. "Did he pay you?"

Rafe snorts as you reach your arms up, stretching long like a cat and yawning as if you've worked a twelve hour shift. "Only offered to pay off her student loans, 's all."

Sarah narrows her eyes at her brother. "Shut up." Then, she looks back to you. "Did he?"

You find the gall to roll your eyes, even though your heart is racing and your expression is sheepish. "Is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes," she retorts instantly, apparently in the mood to deprecate her brother's dignity. "He's only been obsessed with you since move-in, and it's made him dumber than usual."

"I'm right here?"

Sarah ignores him completely. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I totally called it."

Your face flushes, and you're really, really grateful that you're not facing him right now.

Unfortunately, she’s right. Sarah has been (not) subtly rooting for you and her brother to get together ever since you first threw him a scowl, ever since Rafe’s brows flung high in surprise when you — instead of ogling and swooning over his introductory flirtation — simply looked him up and down, scoffed, and carried on with moving your stuff into the apartment, ever since Sarah doubled over laughing at her brother’s shocked expression. He obviously wasn’t used to that working, and she got the biggest kick out of your no-bullshit attitude.

Ever since that day, the very first time you and him met, Sarah’s been praying to all higher beings to get you two together.

When he’d leave a room, she’d raise her brows at you as if to say “So?” and your answer was always the same: an eye roll, a snort, and a “Yeah, right” that transcended time and space. When you dislocated your shoulder and were retelling the story later to all your friends, she asked three different times to clarify that it was Rafe — the guy you wouldn’t let touch you with so much as a breath — who carried and brought you to the ER (at the time you ignored the giant fucking grin she shot her brother, who glared at her to relax). Every single time the three of you ran errands or went out and about in the city, Sarah always accidentally asked you both to accompany her, telling you it slipped her mind that he was coming along.

Your answer was always the same, consisting either of an eye roll, a groan, a snide comment, or all of the above in one go. She knew that the possibility of you ever being with him was slim to none, yet always subconsciously rooted for the best case scenario for her brother, which would be ending up with a person like you.

So now, as she looks between you and him cuddled together in a way she never thought possible, it’s obvious to tell she is thoroughly confused, yet elated.

“Okay, well,” she starts, failing to suppress a giant grin, “next time you want to rob me and John B of all our condoms, just ask.”

God, if your face wasn’t burning before, it’s definitely on fire now.

“Yup, okay,” you say quickly, “thanks so much. See you later!”

Rafe laughs next to you as Sarah takes one last fleeting glance at the two of you, before slowly retreating from the room and closing the door behind her. From the hallway, she makes a noise of excitement, a squeal? Something along those lines, and you don’t have the vicinities to study the sound since she’s already gradually getting quieter, retreating to her room with a door slam.

Silence is met between you and him for a beat, two, three, before his thumb starts rubbing gentle circles on the bare skin of your hip, just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. It sends goosebumps shooting up your arm.

“Mornin’, Star,” Rafe muses low, almost cautiously.

You wait a few moments to look at him, letting your gaze linger on the door before slowly lulling your head to tilt towards him. The sight of his hair sticking up in a million different directions nearly makes you snort, but the noise dies in your throat when you really notice how pretty he is right now: bleary eyes, tousled hair, a smile so gentle it would’ve made your knees weak if you were standing. He’s so close, closer than ever, and with the rising sunlight backlighting his features, you wish you had the capacities to take a picture, to capture this moment and save it for the books.

Apparently, you stare for too long, because with each second passing, his smile augments.

It takes you a stupid amount of time to find your voice. “Hi.”

His gaze flickers up for a moment, to where the staples lay hidden in your hair. “How’s your head?”

You go to answer, you really do, but his arm that was trapped under your back is slithering itself out, and soon his hand comes up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers ghosting over your hairline with such delicacy that it short circuits your brain.

“Mhm?” He prompts again at your silence.

You blink stupidly. “T’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe doesn’t really like that answer. Well, you assume he doesn’t because he frowns, eyes lingering on the wound for a few moments longer before settling back into you, bright blues boring into yours with such unnerved intensity that you squirm. Instead of looking away, instead of rolling your eyes and settling on something else, you hold his gaze, and it never dawned on you how pretty his eyes really are, an alluring bright blue.

The words blurt before you can stop them.

“You still have me.” Your voice is impossibly quiet. “By the way.”

It's nothing fancy, no grandeur gesture or announcement. It's a soft spoken promise etched in the basking sunlight under lavender scented sheets, sheets that smell of him already. The words are simple, yet they hold a heavy insinuation about locked off parts of you, parts of you that you never let anyone see or feel or experience.

Yet it's how you say it, sweet and soft and laced with as much honey as a morning voice can have, but also firm and certain as if they hold their own, stand tall without a pillar as their foundation. Perhaps it's enough, at least for now, because even though it it isn't a monologue of any sorts, it's confirmation. It's hope.

Rafe swears he's never heard anything better.

His grin is lazy and relaxed, gaze soft and unnerved as he peers at you as if you've hung the stars yourself. His hands press a little firmer into your skin, simply relishing in the privilege to hold you, to feel you, to open yourself up to him as you never have with anyone before. An overwhelming sense of pride swells in his chest, of possession, because you're his. After what felt like a bedtime story, a far away fantasy, a dream, you're finally his.

His voice is saccharine. "Thank you, baby."

And the moment's ruined, at least the lovey-dovey part of it, because you can't help but scrunch your nose and feel your lip twitch at his words.

"Did you really just thank me?"

All he does is hum in affirmation, not even caring that you're practically laughing at him. He'll be fine if you jab at him until the end of time if it gets you to smile at him like this. The thought of forever with you makes his heart skip, and he attempts to mask it by leaning in, lowering his face into the crook of your neck and placing gentle kisses on your soft skin.

You feel a shiver up your spine as his fingers gently skim over the bare skin of your tummy at the same time he peppers kisses. "Sarah said since move in."

Another hum, and this time he's sucking a particularly sweet spot right under your jaw.

It makes you let out a low sigh, but you're not letting him distract you. "You've liked me since move in?"

I've loved you since move in, he almost says.

Instead, he settles on, yet, another hum.

Your hand flies to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the ends of his hair in a way that makes him emit a low groan. It's baritone against your vocal cord that sends warmth immediately to your core, the sensation of his body heat against yours, his lips, his nimble fingers, it's all too much, too teasing, too cruel if he still pushes you away with the fear of your injury.

"Rafe," you say in a hushed tone, embarrassed at how it's borderline a whine.

"Mhm?"

The vibration tickles your neck, and you attempt to hold onto your remaining piece of dignity as you manually shut your mouth to refrain from further humiliating yourself. Instead, you practically writhe beneath him, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his that shamelessly explores your stomach, squeezing once to emphasize your need without explicitly saying anything.

But, of course, Rafe isn't the type to let that slide.

You want to smack him when you feel him grin against your neck.

"You're insufferable," you manage to mumble.

He chuckles against your neck, low and audacious. "Sorry, baby." He doesn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "What d'ya need?"

The words feel foreign on your tongue, words you've thought time and time again yet never had the gall to say, to speak into fruition, to submit to someone else in such a way.

"I want you."

The sigh that emits from him is guttural, deep from the back of his throat and almost needy at the sound of your words. It's dreamy, almost, as if you'd just set a nice, hot plate of his favorite meal right in front of him, ready to consume and exactly how he likes it. You figure he has been dreaming of this, dreaming of you beneath him and begging for him like a bitch in heat.

Rafe says your name almost painfully, his kisses and fondling coming to a halt.

But you groan, already knowing what he's about to say. "No. No, I literally feel fine."

He says your name again, almost in warning.

You ignore it. "It doesn't even hurt." It does a little. "Stop acting like I'm in a full body cast."

Rafe sighs gutturally, but not like before out of lust and instead out of annoyance, as if him withholding the act of sleeping with you is a giant inconvenience to him, especially when you try and push back. It's bad, really bad, timing, and sure you could wait a few days until he feels as though you're somewhat better, but, frankly, you don't want to. You assume he doesn't want to wait either, but is trying to be better, more gentlemanly with you.

You even go as far as throwing your dignity out the window.

"Please?"

The single word feels strange coming from you, as you've always hated the notion of begging for anything, especially for dick, and especially when the dick is attached to a guy like Rafe Cameron, a guy who's all flirt like it's a sport. And it's something he never hears from you, always double-taking when you add it to make sure he's heard you right.

But right now, he hears you loud and clear. And it kills him.

Rafe takes a beat, digesting the severity of your request and internally battling himself on the morality of the situation. Eventually, what feels like eons when in reality it's only been a minute, he pulls back from you, propping himself up on an elbow so he can stare down at you.

His eyes search yours for any uncertainty, any doubt or shroud of pain in your pretty features. But you give him nothing of the sorts, only peering up at him full blown with lust and need. You can tell he's thinking, the gears in his mind working overtime as he stares at you, eyes flickering from yours to the area with the staples.

"Here's the deal," he starts quietly, yet firm enough to get you nodding eagerly already. "I'm doing all the work."

You frown. "But—“

Immediately, his hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm pressing firmly to get you to shut up real quick. "No. You're gonna lay here and look pretty, and that's all you're going to do."

You're reluctant. You want to engage, to touch him freely, to be able to move to his mercy. You want to give back, to jerk him off and make him squirm just as he has to you, to love on him in the way he deserves for taking care of you all last night. The last thing you want to do here is lay still and offer nothing, not after what he's done for you, how he's made you feel in these past few hours, how he can make you feel from here on out.

It hardly seems fair to him. You're not concerned with yourself.

But all of that flies out the window when you feel him pressed against your thigh.

The breath nearly escapes from your lungs, your need suddenly tenfolds when you understand just how big he is, just how hard he is from a bit of kissing and folding from his end. You haven't even touched him yet, you've only simply said please, and he's ready for you yet patiently prolonging his need to check in on you.

"And at any point your head starts hurting," he continues nonchalantly as if his cock isn't pressing against you, "I'm stopping. Immediately. Understand?"

You blink at him, barely registering his words because you can't get over that this is happening.

"Star." A warning.

Stupidly, you find the ability to move again when you're nodding against his hand, anticipation bubbling in your stomach as your eyes meet. His brows are slightly furrowed in seriousness, blue eyes still bleary from just waking up. His hair, ridiculously, is still incredibly messy, yet as endearing as the sight is, you are seconds away from jumping his bones.

But you need to play this coy, need to behave so he'll indulge your (and his) wishes without any mishaps with your wound.

Rafe removes his hand. It sits idly on your ribcage.

"Words," he demands, fingers twitching with anticipation.

You nod anyway. "I understand." Your lips twitch. "Now, since I'm not allowed to move, can you kiss me or what?"

His mouth is on yours before you can even finish the sentence, and he swallows your words with a low mmrph, a hand teasing up your ribcage under your shirt to rest under the swell of your breast. Instantly, you're gripping his knuckles and moving his hand up so he can shamelessly fondle you where you want him to be, and at the feeling of his cool ring brushing over your nipple, you sigh into his mouth.

Rafe nearly reciprocates the sound, emitting a groan as he feels your hand leave his, instead bracing on the ridges of his abdomen and trailing down his shirt. It isn't until your fingers are skimming the waistband of his shorts where he's wincing, almost as if he's in pain.

"What'd I say, Star?"

You pout with faux innocence. "But I want to."

He nearly scoffs at you. "You'll have plenty of time for that later. For now, sit pretty and lemme eat you out, yeah?"

Your heart skips a beat as you try to rack your brain for the last time someone's eaten you out, more so the last time someone has offered to do so. The excitement outweighs the curiosity.

It's usually a pity reciprocation, as in you blow someone first, they eat you out after or the next time you see each other, or they don't even offer at all. You rarely even finish from it and have faked it more than once, but you know the stories surrounding Rafe Cameron. All of them say the same thing: he knows what he's doing. You're more than willing to find out.

"You want to?"

He scoffs again, nearly offended that you'd think he wouldn't want to. "Only been thinkin' about doin' so for ages."

His mouth is on yours again and you whine quietly, but it leaves as soon as it came before he's kissing your jaw, moving to your neck, descending down your body.

"Been wondering how you taste."

Biting a sweet spot on your neck.

"I think about you every fucking night."

Sucking one of your nipples through your sleep shirt.

"Fuck my hand to the thought of you 'til I'm seein' stars."

Kissing the flesh of your stomach as his fingers dangerously hook under your waistband. And from this angle with his face hovering at your hips, Rafe peers up at you, still searching for any uncertainty or flickers of pain.

"Can I, baby?" He asks, voice saccharine.

You're thrown for a loop, caught off guard by the obscenities of his comments (that you're not even sure he knew he made) that starkly contradict the softness of his tone asking for permission, peering up at you with a sliver of innocence that doesn't match the words he previously spoke, as if they were on his mind for ages, as if they were his second nature.

All you do is nod, blinking down at him.

He doesn’t like that. “Words.”

“Yes.” Your response is immediate. “Yours.”

Rafe lets out a shaky breath that tickles your stomach. “Gonna make me finish if you say stuff like that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

All he does is shake his head, shutting you up immediately when his fingers hook under the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank. Your breath hitches and, with a blink of an eye, you’re bare below the waist to him.

The shorts and underwear are thrown carelessly over his shoulder. “Plan is to fuck you right back to sleep,” he murmurs low, almost to himself as he stares at your cunt. “Sound good?”

His breath fanning over your core sends a chill down your spine, and you assume you’re glistening with need with the way his eyes almost darken at the sight of you, legs slowly spreading open and hooking over his shoulders as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. And he settled right in, one hand slithering up your chest to fondle your breast as the other ghosts over your cunt, his index and middle finger spreading you open achingly slow.

Your back arches. “Rafe.”

“Mhm?”

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, eyes glued to the way his fingers slowly disappear inside you.

You realize he’s not doing this to torture you, but to make himself actually believe this is happening, to soak in the moment that he’s been dreaming to experience. Here you are: cunt to the wind and begging for him, and he can’t get enough of it, of you. He’s seconds away from losing his mind, especially when you let out breathy moans when his fingers completely bury in you, curling in that sweet spot that has you whining so pretty he nearly finishes from the sound of it.

His eyes hungrily dart between his hand disappearing into you and your face, brows etched in pleasure and lips parted all hot and bothered. Slowly, so achingly slowly, Rafe pumps his fingers in and out, almost leaving your cunt entirely before slamming back in. His thumb, experimentally, rubs firm circles as to where he thinks your clit is.

He misses once, twice, but once he finds the spot that makes you let out a ragged moan, he doesn’t miss again.

A hand flies to his hair, tugging the messy strands harshly yet he pays no mind to it, completely and enamoringly bewitched to the sight of your glistening cunt taking his fingers so well, stretching open for him, inviting them with your warmth as if they were meant to stay buried in you. But he’s starting to get jealous of his hand, jealous of the way it gets to fuck you and his mouth doesn’t.

Without a word, Rafe lowers himself completely between your thighs.

His tongue feels like nothing you’ve experienced before as he eats you out like a man starving. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Selfishly, his fingers leave your cunt so his mouth can have you all to himself, groaning at the sweet taste of you as if it’s been paining him that he’s never gotten to taste you before. When his nose brushes your clit, you writhe pathetically beneath him, so much that his arm flies up to press down on your hip to stop you from moving, even though you continue to attempt fucking his face against his iron grip.

With a particularly firm brush of his nose against your clit, your hips practically buck up into him, and the coil gradually starts to build in your core.

“Fuck,” you breathily moan. "You're so— And I can't— You just— Fuck."

You sound like an idiot. A wriggling, babbling idiot as your mind tugs you in a million different directions, constantly distracted by his mouth, his moans, his fingers that re-enter your cunt and aid his tongue in a way that flips you sideways. You aren't sure what way is up right now, and your fruitless attempt to speak fails miserably, irrevocably rendering you speechless as the added combination of his mouth and fingers and thumb pressed firmly on your clit leave you moaning his name as if it's the only word you know.

His hips stutter into the mattress, both of you rutting like bitches in heat as he can tell you’re getting close. It’s all in the way you tug his hair a little tighter, arch your back a little higher, moan a little louder. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer, an incantation that renders you completely enamored with him, his touch, his mouth.

Especially when he groans into your cunt, the vibration only spurring you on further.

"Oh my god," Rafe murmurs into you, almost without meaning to. "You taste so sweet, Star."

All you can do in response is writhe, feeling the familiar coil start to build.

"Even better than I imagined," he rasps, inches from your cunt as he hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his hand fucking you and your face. Your head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of him, him, him. An unoccupied hand slithers up your ribcage under your shirt, reaching the swell of your breast and kneading the flesh. The ice sensation of his ring against your nipple only augments the pleasure.

And suddenly, it's bearing too much. His fingers plunging in and out, in and out, in and out, curling into the sweet spot inside your cunt over, and over, and over as his thumb presses firmly on your clit. It's the spot he hasn't missed since he found it, rubbing circles counterclockwise that make you practically see stars. His other hand pinching your nipple and shamelessly fondling the flesh as if he has every right (he does). His breathy moans fanning hot against your cunt as he stares abashedly.

"Never gonna get used to this," he curses, almost pained. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by where I don’t think about you."

The coil builds.

"You make me crazy and you don’t even know it. Wearin' my shirts thinking they were Sarah's, walking around in fucking nothing and lookin' like a fucking sin."

And builds.

He lets out a breath. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you like this, so fucking pretty underneath me."

And builds.

Rafe can tell, because you grip his hair a little harsher and grab the hand that's on your breast, almost as a way to ground yourself to the moment and make sure you don't fly away in pleasure. Your hips squirm and buck into his hand, chasing a high you can already tell is different from the rest. He's decided that you've never looked prettier: laying flush and moaning his name like a prayer.

It nearly snaps. "Rafe, you're— I'm gonna—"

"I know." His voice is saccharine. "Let me hear you, baby."

His mouth is back on your cunt, and the added sensation of his tongue aiding his fingers sends you over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing to your core and searing hot from the waist down. You come with a strangled moan, a sound that goes straight to his dick as his hips stutter into the mattress, lapping and suuuuuuuuucking the orgasm straight from you.

The low groan he emits vibrates your nerves as he eats you out as a starved man, the noises lewd and straight pornographic as you ride out your high against his face. Your hand that grips his hair is pushing him further into you, further burying his mouth into the spot you need him the most as he laps up every last drop. The act does little to faze him, instead spurring him on to moan into you, the sensation reverberating throughout your waist and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your legs shake around his head and your chest heaves when you slowly come down, blinking the white spots from your vision and, momentarily, coming back to earth. Rafe continues to lick and suck and clean you up, claiming every last drop as he's always thought about doing, mouth still buried between your thighs and even going as far as licking his fingers dry of you.

When he mouth eventually does leave you, he doesn't pull away without placing a chaste kiss over your swollen bud, moving to decorate your thighs in pretty purple hickies and kissing up your body, smoothing your shirt up past your ribcage to take a breast in his mouth. The sensitive bud has you subconsciously arching your back up into his touch, not even realizing you do it as you still fight to come back to earth from the stupidly earth-shattering orgasm.

Rafe eventually makes his way up to your neck, sucking a quick sweet spot before moving to your jaw, then finally your lips.

When you kiss him, the breath momentarily leaves your lungs as you taste yourself on his lips, dazedly smiling from the haze that he caused. Your hand paws at his chest, settling on the firmness of his abdomen before trailing lower, and lower until your fingers are dipping under the waistband of his shorts and boxers in the blink of an eye.

Before he can pull back like he did earlier, your fingers nimbly find the base of his cock and skim down his length as if you're admiring the topography of a map.

Rafe instantly folds.

"Shit," he mutters, a mix between a moan and a whine as he rests his cheek against yours. "You can't just—"

You squeeze his cock for emphasis, causing his hips to stutter forward.

Rafe curses. "Star, oh my fucking god, oh m- You can't keep touching me like that, holy shit."

Of course, you don't listen, and continue to slowly jerk him off. He lets you for a few moments, caught up in the sensation of how nice your fingers feel wrapped around him, thumb smearing the pre-cum from his tip down his length that nearly sends him over the edge. The indulgence lasts maybe fifteen seconds, perhaps twenty, before you're squeezing particularly hard again.

His hand grips your wrist instantly. "You— I can't— You've got to—"

"I gotta what?" You feign innocence, nearly grinning and how he groans in response. "I wanna make you feel good."

"Fuck, you are," he rasps as if it's been ripped from him. "You make me feel so good all the time, baby. You don't even know it."

Pride shamefully swells in your chest at the anecdote.

"Then let me right now," you practically purr. "Please?"

Rafe grips your wrist tighter, actually stopping your movements for real this time. "No."

"No?"

He scoffs, but it comes out shaky.

"I'm not finishing in my fucking pants the first time I'm with you."

He ends the sentence with your name, a word he rarely uses, yet a word that invokes a visceral reaction from you every time he does. It almost makes you whine, almost. Yet, you actually don't know if you do or not because you're so blinded by lust that he could be whispering the secrets of the universe and you'd have no idea. Revealing the ingredients to his famous chocolate chip cookies. Spilling confidential documents that contain the cure to immortality. You'd have no idea.

And you also have no idea where this newfound eagerness is coming from, knowing damn well you've never begged for dick in your entire life.

"Then be with me," you practically beseech. "I'm yours."

Rafe curses at your words, taking a beat, two, before pulling his head back to look at you, to really look at you, his pretty blues boring into yours that are so blown with lust they nearly look black. He searches your expression for any teasing regard, anything to make him think that you're just saying that to get laid.

But you're not. You're pulsing for him, heart beating in tandem with his as if you were made to sync up. The urge to arch into him, to forever be molded to the sculpture of his body, is so devastatingly strong that it nearly pains you. The realization is horrific enough, but you truthfully can't find the energy to care or dwell on the sanctions of your dignity as you peer up at him, certain and bleeding with need for him.

"Mine?" He asks, and the clarification is detrimental.

You oblige. "Yes."

His gaze flickers to the crown of your head, to the wound. "But—"

"We'll go slow," you assure instantly, cutting off what you know he's going to say. "I want you. I don't want to wait."

He's dreaming. He must be. Because how'd he get so lucky to have you underneath him telling him how much you want him? Touching him in a way he only fantasized about? Needing him in the same way he's needed you for a year? The second he's inside you, is he gonna wake up and realize it was all a figment of his imagination? Left to succumb to the hypocrisies of his mind and move back to square one?

How could you not be a dream? Especially when you look so pretty and sound so sweet and feel so heavenly?

Rafe would be stupid to say no since you asked so nice.

So when you tug at the end of his shirt, this time he doesn't second guess the implications of your intentions and aides your act, gripping his shirt by the collar and carelessly pulling it off. You take a long second to glance at his chest, chiseled and crafted by a higher being, before your fingers are back to his pants. When you slowly start to tug his shorts and boxers down, he lets you, eventually letting you get down to his pubic bone before he's leaning back to fully kick them off.

Shamelessly, you stare at his body fully bare to you, and you nearly scoff at the audacity of him actually having a big dick. It's one thing for a guy to act like he has one just for all that smack talk to fly out the window when it's revealed to be small, but it's a completely different thing when the dick matches the attitude. And for him, for Rafe Cameron, to be both a cocky prick who happens to be well endowed is perhaps one of the audacious things you can think of.

Although you barely have time to comment on his size before his hands are all over you again, pushing the material of your shirt up to your sternum until you eventually get the hint to slightly sit up so he can slide it up over your body. You hiss when your breasts are fully exposed to the cool air, and a flicker of excitement (nerves? Whatever it is) sparks when you realize you're both bare to each other, exposing one another to the simplest of vulnerabilities one can share.

"You're beautiful, Star," is all he says before his mouth is on yours.

You kiss him back and paw at his chest as if it's a lifeline, clawing to pull him closer as if he isn't already molded to your figure. He hovers over you and when his cock, hard and aching and beautiful, brushes against your hip, you both moan into each other's mouths, him from the sensation and you from the anticipation.

Rafe's breath hitches, and the air completely leaves his lungs when you wrap your hand around him again. But the way you grab his differs from before, as earlier you were firm and needy, whereas now you hold him delicately, a wordless promise that you’re ready for him, all of him, at any time.

His hand grabs the back of yours. “You okay?”

You nod immediately against his lips, heart racing as he guides your hand that’s holding him down, down, down until his length is slipping through your folds, and you swear that Rafe fucking shudders from the feel of it.

“Holy fuck.” His forehead gently rests against yours, staring down at your almost connected bodies. “I’m not even in you yet and you already feel so fucking nice.”

Your hips buck into him, eliciting a sharp breath from him. “Then be in me.” You hate how pathetic you sound. “Please.”

However, the words are music to his ears and he could bust right here and now from them. “You don’t need to beg, baby. I have you. Always will. I got you.”

His words are saccharine. Soft and delicate in a tone only reserved for you. It’s his version of a declaration of love, an indirect promise that he’ll be here, he’s it for you, he’s all you need. The words are full of life and hope, and you’re eternally grateful that he embraced your need instead of poking fun, and you realize it’s because he needs you just as bad as you need him in this given moment. He has no room to tease. Nor do you.

And when he does slip inside you, the feeling is indescribable.

Rafe’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever had. And he can definitely tell based on the sharp breath you take when he’s halfway in. Although he’s careful with you, gradually pushing in when you give him the green light and immediately stopping when you visibly react, and as much as you appreciate the time and care, it’s so achingly slow, so much slower than you need him to be and he’s teasing you without even realizing.

When he’s completely buried in you, pubic bone to pubic bone, you feel so irrevocably full in a way you never have had before. You can feel his cock twitch inside you when you moan into his mouth at the sensation of being completely succumbed to him, the feel of him, all of him everywhere at once.

“You okay?” His ask is immediate.

“Yes.” Your hands slither up his chest to grip his shoulders, to attempt to find something to ground yourself too. “Feel so full.”

He almost finishes just from that. Almost. And thank god he doesn’t.

“If you don’t start moving,” you shakily warn, “I’m gonna—”

You’re interrupted when Rafe rocks into you once, moving centimeters further into you before pulling out almost completely. You nearly curse at him again, yell at him for basically leaving your cunt until he’s thrusting back in faster than you anticipated. Your nails become talons in his shoulders, indenting crescent moons on his smooth skin and forever etching your mark, your claim.

“You’re gonna what?” His grin is wide and breath shaky, peering down at you with not only amusement, but pure admiration. “Kill me?”

“Shut up.”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re all talk, Star, you’ve been sayin’ that forever and you’ve never once tried.”

You moan when he buries in you deep, so deep, it brushes your cervix. “You’re—You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you let me fuck you nice.”

“Who said you do it nice—?”

The words are ripped from your throat when his thumb comes down to press on your clit, and the irony of that plus your previous words is comical. Especially when he grins so fucking wide that it sends you nearly into psychosis, arching your back to further press your chest to his.

He preens as his thumb rubs circles on your clit. “That qualify as nice?”

You want to kill him. You want to smack that stupid smile off his face. Yet you want to kiss him and yank him closer at the same time. The Jekyll and Hyde emotions make your brain feel all fuzzy, and for a moment, all you can respond with is a low moan, almost in annoyance yet dripping in pleasure. You can’t help it— he feels so fucking nice inside you, nicer than you’ve ever had before, rocking in and out of you as if it’s what he was put in this earth to do.

“You always this mouthy in bed?”

The attempt to keep your last shroud of dignity before he makes you a blabbering mess fails.

Rafe thrusts into you a little harder, a warning. “Always this mouthy with you.”

“How flattering.”

“Can’t help it, was made to worship you, baby.”

“Am I su-supposed to thank you?”

He grins at your stuttering, eyes shamelessly watching the way your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. “A bit of appreciation would be nice.”

You hate that you’re getting close to finishing. In the time that you’ve known him, you’ve been building up walls and closing yourself off to the possibility of getting your heart broken by him. You told yourself that the day you let Rafe Cameron in is the day of rapture, of when all hell breaks loose, of when you finally lose your mind.

Yet his words, his touch, his pretty eyes: it’s all too much. The attention is too much, especially on your clit and how he manages to push himself deeper so delicately that it reaches regions unknown, hitting spots you didn’t think possible and rendering you speechless even further. You hate how he is fucking you nice.

“C’mon, Star,” Rafe muses low, yet there’s a slight strain to his voice that indicates he’s just as fucked out as you. “Tell me how good it feels.”

You don’t want to. You want him to eat that shit eating grin and, for once, be humbled. His ego is too big, too audacious, and you know that he’s only saying this because he knows it’s true, he knows how good it feels, he knows how badly you crave and respond to his touch. He only knows because he feels the same regarding you.

And for once in your life, you secede.

“Feels good.” You let your eyes flutter shut to try and mask your embarrassment. “Feels so good, Rafe.”

You hear him moan. His rhythm stuttering.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” you manage to add, nails scraping on his back as you feel a familiar jolt to your core.

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” he albeit whines, the teasing demeanor dropping immediately as he folds his cards to your hand. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

The coil builds in your lower stomach.

“You’re so— And I’ve been—” He’s a fucking mess, and you figure he’s close, too. “Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so warm, I’m— Shit, baby, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You’re right there with him, one hand scratching up his neck to grip at the ends of his grown hair, tugging like a bitch in heat to get his lips to hover over yours. And when he does, when Rafe’s mouth brushes yours, you yank him closer to kiss him as your orgasm builds. The kiss is barely a kiss as you both pant into each other’s mouths, breathy and needy and whining as the lewd noises coming from your connected bodies spurs you on further.

“Yours,” you manage shakily, orgasm moments away.

His is too. “Mine.”

And you both finish like that: needy and flush and pathetically encapsulated by the feeling of one another. Your nails indent crescent moons in the smoothness of his muscles, scratching fresh red marks along the porcelain skin while he moans pornographically into your mouth, brows pinched in pleasure as you feel him come hot spurts inside of you.

The intensity is tenfold from your earlier orgasm. It’s searing hot from the waist down plus the added sensation of him irrevocably filling you up in a way you didn’t know you craved until this very moment. Your back arrrrrches into his chest, to fit the mold of his body rocking ferociously into yours as your chests conduct heat from the friction. Your legs hook impossibly tight around his lower back, pulling him tighter than you thought possible by crossing your ankles and using that leverage to bring him closer, to bury him further into you.

The sound is obscene. The lewd noises coming from your simultaneous orgasms plus the shameful moans that escape both your lips. It’s filthy. Downright pathetic. Yet so utterly and completely unapologetic that you can’t find the capacities to care. You can’t even tell which way is up right now, hips bucking desperately into his to chase the high and relish in the feeling of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

Your ears have been ringing, body on the verge of floating, senses so incredibly dulled by the ferocity of your orgasm that you don’t realize he’s been speaking the whole time, riding out his high with his words that could come across as prayer.

“—love you, oh my— Never letting you go, never gonna fucking— Oh my god— Oh my— Can’t believe you’re mine, all mine, Star.”

“Yours,” you manage to repeat, breathy and moaning and so fucking pathetic. “All yours. Always.”

That just makes him whine into your mouth. Literally. His hips slam into you over and over and over as his cum gushes out of you and spills onto freshly washed sheets but you can’t find the gall to care, not when he feels this fucking good, not when you feel this fucking great, euphoric on the sensation of him surrounding you. He’s inside you. On top of you. All around you. It’s intoxicating yet alluring. You’re captivated, and your high has never hit harder.

You see white spots momentarily, all the bundle of nerves rushing south so quickly that you’re left with your brain as mush. Feeling your eyes roll back, your hips have a mind of their own as they rut in tandem with his, both of you riding out your highs together in solidarity as everything starts to numb.

Chest heaving, you slowly start to come down from the intensity as your vision slowly regenerates and your hands soon stop shaking. Your thighs, however, are a lost cause hooked around his waist, trembling and shaking his body with the ferocity. He comes down, too, thrusts gradually slowing down as he pumps the rest of his load into you, cum dribbling out of your cunt and down your thighs onto the lavender scented sheets now stained with him.

“Holy fuck,” he rasps when he stops moving, stops thrusting, stops coming, still buried to the hilt inside you.

His cheek is warm against yours. “That was… I’ve never.. You really…”

You’re a blabbering mess, that much is obvious, especially when the spots stop blurring your vision and your body stops trembling as much as before. And as if the moment couldn’t get intimate enough, his hand is leaving your clit (eliciting a low whine from you) and trailing up your stomach to your shoulder, skimming down your bicep and wrist to engulf your hand.

His fingers lace with yours like muscle memory, squeezing once, twice, three times.

It dawns on you right now, in this very moment, that he said that he loved you.

The words had been so sudden, came and went so quickly that you barely registered them in the moment as you were caught up with the intensity of your simultaneous orgasm. But you heard them, felt them roll off his tongue as if he’s been itching to say them for so long, with such ease to them that you figure it’s been sitting docile in his brain and waiting to be revealed.

But he doesn’t register them. Not outright, anyway, and you are thoroughly shocked at how easy you’re taking it.

Love has never come easy to you. Not until you met Sarah and your friends. Family weren’t reliable and home friends were caught in the past, so you’ve been reaching for a version of love you thought you deserved. But then you realized it’s more than blood and childhood obligations to tether yourself to, and more about connection, care, respect. Sarah and your friends made you come to that realization. Yet Rafe makes you believe them.

You’re about to say something, about to address the words and respond with something stupid.

But Rafe slowly pulls out of you, your combined fluids making an audacious mess at the action, as he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hand still laced in yours as if he’ll float away he lets go.

“Oh my fucking god,” he eventually curses, chest heaving. “I didn’t even use a condom.”

You can’t help but laugh. No, cackle.

Because that was the catalyst for the night’s mishap. You needed condoms, he left to get some, you fell in his absence, he discovered you too late. It was your attempt to be good, to be safe and responsible because you always are. But, of course, you were too caught up in the pleasantries of having him, needing him, craving him.

You squeeze his hand without meaning to. He doesn’t mind, lulling his head to the side to stare at your profile.

“So much for being careful,” you muse lightly, voice hoarse. “And so much for changing my sheets.”

You feel his bright blues boring into you as you stare at the ceiling. He boyishly laughs, a sound that is music to your ears as he squeezes your hand back in a way that makes your heart lurch, especially now that you know his true feelings, feelings he doesn’t realize he exposed in the heat of the moment.

“My bad, Star,” Rafe says with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. “I’ll make sure your sheets live to see another day.”

All you do is hum, feeling airy and spacey in the rising sunlight as his hand is warm in yours. When the mattress dips beside you, you don’t flinch or crack a joke or freeze, but rather lull your head to the side to invite him into your space.

And he accepts the invitation, propping himself up on his side to practically peer down at you, taking the hand that isn’t in yours to cradle your face so delicately, so carefully, that your heart skips a beat. Especially when his blues bore into your eyes and gaze on you with a softness that augments the lovey-dovey feeling that you so desperately hate.

“You okay?” He asks for the umpteenth time tonight.

You nod against his palm, figuring that being vulnerable couldn’t hurt. After all, he’s seen you naked and bleeding and crying and still hadn’t run away yet, so you assume that he’s in it to see all your faults, unfazed by the ugly parts of you that you rarely let people see.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently. “Are you?”

Rafe can’t help but snort at your concern. “Baby, I’m on fuckin’ cloud nine right now.”

You manage a grin.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he adds, leaning in before you can protest to place a soft chaste kiss on your lips. “Stay here and look pretty.”

He’s leaning back before you know it, hand leaving your face and body leaving your vicinity, the warmth leaving with him. You watch groggily as he slips his boxers back on (after standing idly for a moment to look and see where they went) and momentarily exiting your room. The first thought that comes to mind is that you should cover up, you should attempt to appear halfway decent before he comes back to try and gain back an ounce of your dignity.

But the urge never comes. You simply wait for him.

Rafe reappears seconds later, a warm damp towel between his fingers as he sits on the edge of the bed. Flinching when the towel meets your thighs, he cleans up what he can with the utmost delicacy that you’d think he’s handling fine china. And to him, he is.

When your eyelids hang heavy, you catch a glimpse of him smirking, almost to himself, as he finishes up wiping you clean.

You try to frown but you think it comes across as a smile. “What?”

All he does is hum gently. “Told you I’d fuck you back to sleep, that’s all,” he muses, clearly pleased with himself and your fucked our state.

“Rafe.”

“What? I’m a man of my word.”

When you try to stand on your own, he’s there to take place a guiding hand on your elbow, helping you find your footing like a baby fawn. Rafe grabs you your robe when you beckon for it, sliding over your body and maneuvering into the bathroom to use it and do a very, very quick version of your night routine (good morning, world). In the midst of you re-entering your bedroom, you find him just finishing up replacing the (now damp) fitted sheet with a clean (dry) one you had in the closet.

“Found a spare set,” is all he said about the matter, and instead helps you out of your robe to feel you bare again.

You crawl back into bed, nearly sighing at how inviting it is as you flip onto your back. Through sleepiness, you watch him make sure the towel and sheets are in your hamper before allowing himself to relax, wasting no time easing back into your bed and settling in next to you as if he was made to lay here, as if the mattress is already molded to his figure, as if you already haven’t designated that side of the bed to him anyway.

His hand slithers across your tummy, laying rest on your bare hip bone under the sheets and pulling you taut to him. You’re yanked away from your usual spot and held flush against his chest, inhaling his scent like a freak and letting the atmosphere lull you to sleep.

One of Rafe’s hands cradles the back of your head, the other tracing the vertebrae up and down your spine.

“Later,” he says after a long silence, “when we’re feeling okay, I’m taking you out.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You are?”

His response is immediate. “Yes. Dinner. Dessert. Fuckin’ go-kart for all I care. Whatever you want, Star. Wanna show you off ‘nd show everyone you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low and baritone and so casual as if it doesn’t rattle your brain.

Still, you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t remember you asking,” you tease, seconds away from sleep. “Is this your fool-proof flirting tactic in action?”

He snorts, and it makes his chest bump impossibly closer to yours. “My tactic wasn’t all that fool-proof. It took you a year to notice.”

You preen, even though he can’t see it. “Had to keep you humble, Cameron.”

Your voice is impossibly soft, so genuinely fucking happy that he can’t even poke fun. Not while you feel so nice in his arms, anyway.

“Mhm, Star,” he drawls out. “Speaking of humility, we’re adding a new law to the friend constitution.”

You already know where he’s going with this, and groan against the soft skin of his neck.

“Rafe—“

“No one is allowed to shower in extreme temperatures while a second party isn’t present,” he recites formally, not even bothering to apologize for cutting you off. “I’m proposing that at the next town meeting.”

You manage to roll your eyes. “That’s excessive.”

He probably senses it. “It’s necessary. Your injuries make up at least half the list.”

“Semantics.”

“Never leaving your side from now on,” he murmurs casually, “and if I do, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

The thought pathetically excites you, biting your lip to suppress a wide grin that he wouldn’t even be able to see anyway. You smooth your fingers over his abdomen, simply taking a moment to appreciate the close proximity, how he opened his heart to you on a silver platter and irrevocably make him yours.

“That a promise?”

He hums, as if he has all the time in the world to indulge, as if it’s obvious that he’d be serious. You’re his now, how could you forget? Especially when his arms hold you close and his knee slots between your legs, latching to you, claiming you in a way no one ever has before. It’s absolutely intoxicating, thrilling, allured to his scent and his touch and him, him, him.

You think you love him. You’d be stupid not to.

And you think he has some sort of idea, especially when you subconsciously pull your head back to stare at him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces inches apart. You simply stare at him, admire the strength of his jaw and the slope of his nose, how his laugh lines are accentuated when he smiles in the slightest, the blue of his eyes boring into yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

This is how you come down: bones exhausted from the night before, mind turned to mush by the injury and how he’s made your head spin with every flirtatious comment, every confession, every genuine act of love, compassion, care. You fall asleep in his arms and he falls asleep in yours, lulled by the cadence of his heartbeat and his soft, sweet nothings.

You think you say you love him, you aren’t sure in your practically asleep state, but when he pulls you a fraction tighter in his sleep, you let yourself relax. You let yourself be loved by him.

salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

A woman in a black polo shirt with 'STAFF' emblazoned on the back approached, her brunette hair escaping a messy ponytail. "There's been a cancellation," she said, her voice strained. "The headliner dropped out. We're scrambling for a replacement."

Y/N nodded, her eyes scanning the festival grounds. Technicians scurried about, carrying cables and equipment. A forklift beeped as it backed up, hauling speaker stacks. She took another sip of coffee, the liquid now lukewarm.

"We're thinking of a reunion set," the staff member continued, her tone shifting to excitement. "Your old band. The demand is insane. It would be—"

Coffee sprayed from Y/N's mouth, droplets splattering the asphalt. "What?" She coughed, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

"It makes perfect sense," the woman pressed on, oblivious to Y/N's reaction. She counted off on her fingers. "You're all here. Your solo slot could be expanded. It'd be—"

"No," Y/N said immediately, and the word cut through the air. "Not possible."

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes, the past unraveling around her, an old wound reopening. She saw them on the schedule all lined up after her, the names like ghosts, haunting the crisp paper. Her certainty wavered as the whole situation unfolded in her mind. Sarah, Mitch, and most of all—

Harry.

His name sent her emotions spiraling. He was the reason. The fight. The chaos. The way everything fell apart in the end. Now, he was here, and the shock of it ran through her like lightning. She'd been so wrapped up in her nerves, so focused on taking this next step alone, that she hadn't even considered that they might be at the same festival. She'd thought there would be space, distance, time before she'd have to face them again.

The organizer was still talking, but Y/N couldn't hear her anymore. She was already being pulled back to that last fight, when everything they'd built had crumbled. A hotel room, voices raised until past midnight, until they couldn't shout anymore and were left staring at each other in silence and exhaustion.

Sarah and Mitch smashing through the minibar. Harry outside smoking.

She remembered the click of the door as she left.

She hadn't laid eyes on him since the band fell apart, since they both fell apart. That night, everything crumbled in a fight that left words suspended in the air like haunting echoes. The organizer continued, "It's a logistical miracle, honestly. The others already agreed. We just need you."

The dressing room's walls closed in. Y/N perched on the worn velvet couch, arms crossed. Mitch's tousled hair bobbed as he grinned. Sarah's laughter rang out. Adam, the once-temporary guitarist now a fixture, leaned against the wall. Their voices intertwined, swapping stories of wild nights and tour mishaps. The air reeked of sweat and anticipation.

Y/N's stomach churned. Her bandmates' easy rapport grated on her nerves. She glanced at Harry, who stood in the corner, silent and brooding. His presence set her teeth on edge.

"Remember that time in Denver?" Mitch said, eyes gleaming. "When Sarah accidentally set off the fire alarm?"

Sarah snorted. "God, don't remind me. We had to evacuate the entire hotel at 3 AM."

"In our pajamas," Adam added, smirking.

Y/N's fingernails dug into her palms. The memories flooded back - not just the good times, but the bitter arguments, the sleepless nights, the crushing pressure. She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air," she muttered, pushing past Harry to reach the door.

The hallway stretched before her, a cacophony of sound and movement. Roadies hauled equipment. A guitar tech tuned an instrument nearby, the notes discordant and jarring. Y/N leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

The door creaked open behind her. Harry stepped out, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Y/N's heart raced. She turned, meeting his gaze.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N's throat tightened. "Fine," she spat. "Just peachy."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Look, I know this isn't ideal-"

"Ideal?" Y/N scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"We need to make this work," Harry said, running a hand through his messy curls. "For the fans, if nothing else."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you care about the fans. This is about your ego, same as always."

Harry's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to retort, but a stagehand interrupted.

"Five minutes to showtime," she called, hurrying past.

Y/N and Harry locked eyes, the tension between them electric. Without a word, they turned and walked back into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind them.

But today, everything was different.

Because Harry was here.

His presence electrified the air, making Y/N's heart race and the small room feel claustrophobic. They hadn't spoken a word to each other. Across the room, she felt him tuning his guitar, tension visible in his rigid posture. The space between them was thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. They both pretended this was an ordinary gig, but beneath the surface, they knew there was a sea of unfinished business.

"Alright," Mitch clapped his hands together. "Setlist. What are we doing?”

They tossed around some ideas, including the obvious hits that still got radio play. For a while, it felt safe. Easy.

Then Adam mentioned the song.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. In her peripheral vision, she saw Harry shift, heard his soft exhale.

Unspoken yet understood, it hung in the air like a shared secret. The song wasn't just a melody; it was their anthem, born from the chaos of their lives.

Harry finally broke the tense silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have to do that one," he said, the words heavy with an unspoken tension.

Y/N's head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and his tone sent a jolt through her chest.

Sarah interjected, her gaze darting between them. "It's what the crowd wants," she asserted, her voice unwavering.

Harry remained mute, the weight of his silence hanging thick in the air.

Y/N steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Fine," she declared, her voice edged with resolve. "Let's just get it over with."

The atmosphere was heavy as they began. Their initial try was a disaster. Mitch sighed. "Alright," he remarked, "that was terrible." Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "No shit."

The festival grounds were teeming with people—thousands of fans crammed against the sturdy barricades, their voices a deafening chorus of screams and songs, each one surrendering to the magic of the moment. Y/N stood under the intense stage lights, gripping the microphone tightly. She used to revel in this sensation, the electric energy coursing through the air, the exhilarating rush, the way the music drowned out everything else around her. But tonight, it was different. Because he was here.

Harry was just a few feet away, his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like stepping back into this world was easy. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension between them, simmering beneath every note.

The first few songs went fine. They hit their cues. Their harmonies were technically perfect. They moved around the stage as they used to—carefully choreographed chaos. But there was distance. They didn't look at each other or acknowledge the weight of the past pressing against the present. The crowd loved it, but Y/N knew better—they weren't really performing together.

Y/N's pulse halted as a wave of recognition and excitement swept through the crowd, amplifying the noise. She instinctively turned her head towards Harry on the other side of the stage who was already watching her—their eyes met for the first time that night.

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. A mutual understanding was there, along with a disquieting dread. Yet, beneath it all, an unshakeable yearning existed, a pull that was both comforting and terrifying. The cheers became a distant hum as she tightened her grip on the mic. The opening notes hung in the air, sharp and clear. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a steady breath. This is just a performance. Just another song.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been just a song.

The first verse was hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle on her tongue before they escaped her lips.

“I told myself I’d be fine without you…” As she sang, the words felt like a shield, keeping him at bay.

Her voice cut through the noise with deliberate sharpness, each syllable carrying composure and defiance. There was a rawness she couldn’t hide, even though she tried to mask it with control. Yet within that steadiness lurked something else, something unrestrained and impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if he could hear the truth under her voice, but she could. And it terrified her.

Harry’s fingers flexed over the guitar strings, his knuckles paling from exertion. He seemed to ground himself in the music as he came in on the next line, his voice low and measured, contrasting her tremulous tone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care.” He sounded convincing enough. But she knew him too well. She knew how he sang when he was trying to believe his own lies.

She opened her eyes and for the first time all night, really looked at him—looked at him as if she could see past their constructed barriers. The moment held them captive, fragile yet fierce. Her heart pounded in her chest and throat like a tidal wave. The way his lips shaped the words as if he still felt them. His tense shoulders, as if holding something back. His eyes, dark and unreadable, burning into hers.

The air between them thickened, charged with raw emotion. Each lyric was a dagger from the past, every note a fresh wound ripped open anew. By the time they hit the chorus, restraint had vanished, leaving raw passion in its wake.

"You swore you’d never leave me— But I watched you walk away."

Propelled by an invisible force, Y/N surged forward, not even aware of her movement until she was right there, invading his space.

Harry stood his ground. His voice dropped to a deeper, more resonant timbre as he sang the next line, his gaze unrelenting.

"You said you’d never forget me— But I knew you would someday."

The words hit. Like a challenge, like an accusation, like something too real to be ignored. His intense stare made her breath hitch. Her conflicted expression caused his fingers to tighten around the guitar. The tension cracked, spilling into the next verse.

It wasn’t just a song anymore. It had transformed into a battle, a clash of wills wrapped in harmonies, cloaked in melodies of nostalgia. It seemed like something they could simply walk away from once the music stopped. But deep down, they both knew the truth. This confrontation wasn't over. It had never truly ended.

The song ended, but the intensity of the moment hung in the air. Y/N stood too close, breath ragged and quick, adrenaline surging like wildfire. The crowd's screams were a deafening roar that barely pierced her consciousness.

Because Harry was right there. His gaze met hers, eyes dark and unreadable, filled with an intensity she couldn't understand. His fingers clung to his guitar as if it were his only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

The silence between them stretched into tension, hanging for a fraction of a second too long before the next song erupted, a tidal wave of sound that forced them apart and broke the spell.

The rest of the set was a blur.

By the time they played the final song and took their bows, Y/N could barely remember a second of it.

All she knew was that she needed to get off this stage.

She turned the second the lights dimmed, ignoring Harry's hesitation before he followed.

The moment they were backstage—hidden from the crowd, away from the cameras—she whipped around.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry barely had time to stop before she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

He scoffed, yanking his guitar strap over his head. “You tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pull that shit.” She snapped. “You—”

“What, Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know if it was from the show or him.

“You were looking at me like—like—”

“Like what?” His voice was lower now, rougher. He took a step closer. “Like I meant it?”

Her breath hitched.

Because he did.

And she did, too.

And that was the problem.

She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I did?”

“You sang that song like—”

“Like it was real?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. “Because it was, Y/N. It still is.”

She felt it like a punch to the chest.

Anger, confusion, want.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

His expression flickered—just for a second—before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake it off.

“Right,” he muttered, voice hollow. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pretend it never happened.”

Y/N’s hands clenched. “And what do you do, Harry? You throw it in my face? Make me relive it just so you don’t have to be the only one still stuck in the past?”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually faced it instead of running every damn time.”

She froze.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The tension was thick, suffocating, too much.

She could hear the others in the dressing room down the hall, feel reality creeping back in.

But in this moment, it was just them.

Same fight, different place.

Same pain, different years.

Silence fell between them.

There was nothing left to say.

“Oh, stop.” She giggles, and lightly taps your shoulder as she takes your coat and hangs it up in the closet. 

“No, really. I wish my house was so… Christmassy this time of year.” You shrug, knowing that your dad isn’t the festive type after divorcing your mother.

“Aw. Well, we have love to spread here.” It’s a strange unseen sympathy coming from Donna, and she pulls you inside, and you take off your shoes, shuffling around in your socks and your comfy, hopefully chic, green loose turtleneck sweater. “Except you might have to wait a bit, because some of these fuckers are late.”

There’s that bitter tone you remember from Donna. You don’t really care for that– you tend to have an avoidant personality especially with how your own mother acts sometimes– and she yells out for Carmy and Mikey to greet you.

“Boys! Birdie’s here!” She calls from the stairs, and you suddenly feel self conscious.

Ever since your dad, a former co-worker and friend of Cicero’s, starting taking you as a teenager to these Berzatto hangouts, you have always had a eye for Carmen. It was hard not to be, seeing this bashful, slightly angry, awkward boy, around the same age as you, with dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. You felt like sometimes, he really, really listened to you, and that was all you needed.

You wish you could be there for him too. 

It’s something you’ve never acted on, never bothered to actually approach him about– he always seemed so absorbed by his own thing.

You relished in the fact that he never had a girlfriend. You felt secure in that, because he just seemed safe. And it’s not like he would’ve been mean about rejecting you if he knew– you were always close to the Berzatto siblings. You were Bear and Birdie, ready to head out on a walk together, while the adults gossiped and drank.

Of course, you haven’t seen him in about… two years now. Around after he left to his apartment, and did his chef-education-training (you’re a bit vague on the details, honestly), and ever since then, as far as you know he’s slowly been doing what he loves. He does text you from time to time, but you’d be overstating those texts’ importance if you pretended it really quantified a relationship.

Mikey clambers down the stairs, wearing what looks to be pajamas, or very chill homebody clothes, and he raises his arm in a big, Italian gesture.

“Oh! Is that little Bird I see?” He exclaims, and pulls you into an eager hug. Maybe a little too eager– you think it’s almost as if you’re comforting him as you hug him back, his face coming down onto your shoulder, as he encapsulates you– and he pulls away, grinning.

He actually looks really good. You don’t know when you started thinking that Mikey was good looking, but it’s true– he has a certain, rough around the edges appeal that you find yourself drawn to.

“Merry Christmas. You’ve been keeping away from us.” Mikey points as you, intended as a stern remark, but you snort.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. I’ve been busy with work and law school, Michael. I’m not a kid anymore.” You resist the urge to comment on his beard, and then do it anyways. “Are you sure I’ve been keeping away? You’re the one with a hermit-ass beard.”

“Oh… they grow up and just start taking shots at you, don’t they, Ma?” Mikey places his hand over his heart, as if he’s wounded, and Donna shakes her head in agreement, before heading back to the kitchen, already seeming annoyed about something. “Beards are fashionable in 2017, Bird. Maybe come back to our current time– no reason for you to start dressing like a grandma already.”

You scoff at that, pointing at your sweater. “It’s semi-formal, c’mon! It looks nice. Respect the gathering’s rules.”

“It’s my house, babe.” Mikey leans in with maybe a little too much comfort, his eyes shining with some warmth, mirth even, and you don’t exactly pull away– the guy is like thirteen years older than you, and even if he does kid around, play up an older brother thing, you’ve started feeling like he’s restraining something more as of late, maybe some primal level of attraction that he knows better than to mess around with. You know that the feeling is kind of mutual– but you really don’t know how to quantify it. “I’m man of the house, and I say you should wear something that maybe, uh, shows off the pretty twenty-five year old that you are.”

The last part of this sentence has you swallowing a little, and you feel your face turning warm, and Mikey himself looks embarrassed that he’s said it, that he’s given a bit of evidence to your theories– he seems to brush something off, inside himself. 

You have never thought you were all that. You’ve always been pretty sure you should be glad that you’ve gotten by without having to worry about your looks. The idea of wearing a nice, somewhat revealing dress to the Berzattos’ house has you cringing, because you know it would just be… bad. 

“I’m not–” Mikey scowls at himself and you can visibly see himself fighting something, looking a little anxious, and you tentatively grasp his forearm.

“I know what you mean. I’m not offended.” You smile slightly, making the effort to calm him down a little, because you would never want Michael to beat himself up over you (he really seems to do that as of late and you know you’re not worth the trouble), and he nods and inhales. “You look good, too.”

“Right. Right on, Birdie. You can do what you want, anyways. Not up to me.” He seems to really dial back some of what he said, and before you can respond, Carmy walks downstairs.

“Hi. Hey, Birdie. Merry Christmas.” He says, kind of quietly, and you find yourself somewhat happy to hear him say your nickname again. Carmy looks especially nice– deep blue has always been his colour, it brightens up his eyes– and he has slightly longer hair than you remember. 

He leans in for a brief but firm hug, and glances at your eyes once, before looking towards the floor again.

Mikey nods and proceeds to exit to the kitchen, and you’re left with Carmy grappling with what to say.

“How have you–”

“How’s law sch–”

Carmy coughs awkwardly, and you find your face turning warm as he looks towards you.

“Sorry, Bear.” You let him speak, hoping not to scare him away. “How’s everything? You okay?”

“Yeah. Uh… well, I’ve been training at Copenhagen?” He furrows his brows, runs his hand through his hair. “Just learning as much as I can.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Your curiosity is piqued– you didn’t know he was in Denmark, much to your disappointment– but you want to pry more of an answer out of him. He doesn’t seem interested in talking about it more than that. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Stupid answer, there’s just not much to say.” Carmy shrugs, and then realizes suddenly that you’ve been standing at the foyer of the house for quite some time now, which isn’t very polite or inviting of him. “Wait, hold on. Let’s go sit inside and talk.”

Carmy makes some offhand comment about how you need to speak up sometimes and stop being so nice and accommodating to idiots like him, and you snicker, knowing that this is the Carmy you remember– snarky, ready to fight people on sometimes, even if he is a little weird and bashful. Although he’s short– he makes up for it with his resilience.

Carmy leads you through golden-lit hallways, a certain pepperminty, pine tree scent seeming to overlay the entire house, and there’s bushels and wreathes and mistletoe everywhere, and somehow even more baubles, ornaments, trinkets, knickknacks, all gold and red and warm tones that do make you feel a little fuzzy.

Carmy sits you down in the living room, on the sofa, and you’re next to him, and you place a foot under your knee, trying to feel casual. Not freaking out about him sitting right next to you. Weirdly enough… you don’t think you feel anything anxiety inducing. 

Perhaps you’re just getting more reassured of yourself with age. 

“So? How is Copenhagen, otherwise? I know Denmark is really interesting, but you’re probably busy with chef stuff, huh?” You prod just a little further. Just out of your own personal curiosity to see how far Carmy will go for you, and he nods. “Any friends?”

“Ah…” Carmy winces a little. “Can’t say if he’s a friend yet, but there is this guy that’s out of this world with pastries. I don’t know if I can meet his standard on that.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes. “Bear, you make my dad cookies all the time. Or, well, you used to. You can’t be that bad at it, considering that he always eats all of them.”

“Oh, really? Fuck, man.” Carmy looks at you in disbelief, settling more into his corner of the couch, closer to the tree, but looking more openly at you. You feel yourself cower a little under his watchful gaze. “I didn’t know your dad enjoyed them that much… I would’ve made more. Did you ever try them?”

“Hm?” You were getting lost in the details around Carmy– the dark blue shirt, the little bits of stubble around his jaw, the tattoos peeping out from under his long sleeves– and you nod. “Ah, I tried a batch around the last time you gave him some. I think it was… macadamia, matcha, white chocolate? Really good.”

Carmy is unreadable, his eyes flickering from the ground to your eyes– you think maybe you’ve embarrassed him a little– but he thanks you. “Where is your dad, anyways?”

“Ah. He’s got the flu, and he was kind enough to not want to infect you guys.” You admit. “Even though he was trying his best to walk over here from our house.”

Carmy remembers that you live in the neighbourhood over. You two used to hang out a lot during elementary and high school. He kind of missed you– something he’d never say out loud, but Carmy knows friends are few with him, and you were always a good friend to him growing up. You were always a comforting presence for him– you never asked him for too much, and he could tell you were being careful to do so. No pressure.

You just became really busy with law school, and he became really busy with chef stuff, and now you’re both… you both just lost touch. He feels bad about it– bad like he always does, with former friends and acquaintances from high school that he’s accidentally ghosted and lost– but at least you don’t seem to be annoyed about it. 

He thinks it’s probably because in this case, you pulled away just as much as he had to.

“How’s law school, anyways?” Carmy counts the years in his head. “You’ve either just finished or you’re in your final year?”

“I’m in my final year.” You stretch out your arms, looking eager. “It’s a lot of work– I’m only here because I’m lucky enough to have a bit of a break in the winter months, and I’m ahead on my courses. But, uh… I don’t know. It’s fun.”

“Fun? Wow.” Carmy grins a little. 

“What?”

“I don’t know, Birdie. Fun is more… fucking, I don’t know, fireworks or something? Drugs, maybe, yeah.” Carmy watches as you laugh, and laugh, at what he’s said, and again he’s never really sure what’s so funny about what he’s said, but he likes to hear you laugh.

“Clearly you don’t know either.” You snort, and lightly punch his arm. “When did we become workaholics?”

“Probably when we became, uh, adults and entered the workforce.” Carmy states, and you wrinkle your brows.

“We’re not really in the workforce yet, but–”

“What, really? C’mon. You’re a fucking receptionist or some shit, right?”

“Business administration specialist.”

“Yeah, there you go. That’s work, especially with all the school you have to do.” Carmy shrugs. “But what do you really want to be, then?”

“Oh, we getting into dreams, then?” You cock an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you cared that much, Bear.”

Carmy, for some reason he can’t detect, turns a little red. “No, of course I do. We’re still friends, right?”

“Acquaintances.”

“For real?” Carmy looks back at you, affronted, but you have a little smile and he knows you’re teasing. “Oh fuck you. Stop it.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You shake your head, giggling a little, glad to have so easily fallen back into a comfortable, friendly banter. “Of course we’re friends, it’s just that… I always thought very highly of you, Carmen, and I can’t always be sure that feeling was returned. You know? I assumed that you’d be out doing sophisticated cooking in big, upscale restaurants, and the rest of us would just be reading about it. Forgive me for feeling a little behind it all.”

“No, no, no. You got it all wrong, Birdie.” Carmy half-laughs at how you put him on such a pedestal. “You were always the one doing real work, as Mom would call it. You’re the one who’s actually smart and good at arguing, debating– that’s a real skill coming from me, because I just yell fuck at everyone and hope it works. I always thought you were the impressive one out of all of us.”

You snicker, but you’re actually quite pleased with that, and you feel your heart warm at his praise. “Ah, that’s so sweet. Thank you. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been surviving off of ramen and convenience store food for the last month. I can hardly make the time to cook efficiently.”

“...” Carmy shakes his head. “That doesn’t make me feel better. You’re gonna eat good food today then, I hope.”

Almost as if on cue, Donna calls for Carmy to come help her with something– and you’re left sitting as he tells you that he’s going to hear about your dream job when he gets back.

/

Fifteen minutes later– Carmy is still MIA, and you’re starting to get a little hungry. 

You know it’s rude, but luckily Michael comes by and asks if you want a snack.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” You ask, and Michael snickers.

“You’re the same girl that can eat a whole number four combo at the Beef. I’m pretty sure you were hungry before you got here.” Michael jokes, and you blush in embarrassment.

“Oh my god, stop it.” You shake your head. “Anyways, yeah. A snack would be nice.”

Michael gives you a wink that strangely has you a little twitterpated, before you shake that off. He comes back a few minutes later, chewing on something himself– and he hands you a bowl full of Italian sausage stirfry.

“Thanks, Michael.” You smile up at him, and he nods, trying not to smile too much back at your gratitude, but he likes how you take a bite and look super relieved, happy with the food. He’s always loved giving food to people– taking care of them. Especially you, for some reason.

Michael heads back to the kitchen, and Natalie comes by and takes his place.

“Birdie!” She hugs you tightly, and you hug her back, equally happy. “Oh my gosh, if I knew you were down here I would’ve come by ages ago!”

“Aw.” You beam at her. “That’s okay, Nat. I’m happy to see you too.”

She’s off ranting about how Pete, her husband, is late, and how she can barely manage everything going on, and you’re sympathetic. You know Nat gets more of a harsh treatment from Donna, and you tell her that you’re there if she needs a person on her side.

“Oh, Birdie. I couldn’t do that to you. Even if you are amazing at talking, Miss Lawyer-to-be.” She lets you continue to sit down in your corner of the living room, as she heads off to check on her mom– maybe pour out some alcohol.

 Carmy comes back in, slightly powdered with flour on his forehead– and he sits back down, sighing, as he drinks a glass of water.

There’s the slightest air of awkward tension still– even if you and Carmy have fallen back into your old ways, he still keeps a slight distance, one that he’s grown into, and you feel that you have to break the silence. You don’t know if he’s just tired or if there’s some level of irritation of having to deal with all the holiday bullshit, but you take a guess it has to do with Donna.

“That bad?” You grimace, and Carmy matches your expression.

“That bad.” He shakes his head. “She always gets a little woo-woo around these fucking events. Like, I never wanted her to do all of this– but she insists and insists and doesn’t know how to let go of the, uh…”

“Hubris.” 

“Yes. Hubris.” Carmy sighs, glad you still have the perfect word for everything. “Whatever. Anyways, haven’t forgotten. Hit me with your dream.”

“Okay, it’s going to sound a little weird, but, um… I’m really interested in becoming a labour relations lawyer?” You feel almost too much glee at the fact that Carmy remembered, and you see Carmy bite his lip, a little confused, so you continue, hoping you don’t sound like too much of a fucking nerd. “Meaning to help employees get out of their shitty situations with wages, working hours, benefits and fight for their rights. Union stuff. I don’t know, just feels like everyone is struggling with this nowadays… might as well push forward and try to help them out.”

“Wow, now that you’ve said that, it makes a lot of sense.” Carmy blinks. “I mean, uh, it’s not just that you’re good at arguing– you always go for the justice part of things. Remember when Michael and Sugar were arguing about cleaning the basement?”

You do remember that. You suggested dividing up either equally or by who owned what, and they eventually came to an agreement based on that. Michael wanted to dip because he was older, and Sugar thought it was demeaning to ask a girl to clean.

“Or when Lee said that women can’t think analytically, or what was it… mathematically?” Carmy laughs as he watches your face turn angry again.

“Yeah. I especially remember that. I told him to think about Ada Lovelace and to shut up.” You wince. “Maybe not the most mature thing I’ve ever said. I don’t think that’s such a great thing… sometimes I don’t know when to let go of arguments.”

“It’s alright, it was funny.” Carmy plays with his fingers. “That being said, I think you’ll be good if you choose to be that. A labour relations lawyer. You’re smart, and god fucking knows we all need the help. You should check out how many chefs get fucked over because they work at places for the prestige of doing so.”

“Damn.” You make a mental note of that, feeling embarrassed over how much praise Carmy has freely given you. “Is that going to be you?”

“Doesn’t matter if it is. Sometimes you gotta do what you can.” Carmy doesn’t really give you a clear answer, and you feel bad for him. Bad that he’s still stuck in that mindset.

/

You can hear people hooting and jeering near the stairs, as you walk around the house, exploring a little. Tiff was grateful that you visited her for a brief moment– she told you being pregnant was not all it was cracked up to be– and now you’re just on the upper floor, near the stair railing, on your phone.

You’re not really one to eavesdrop, but you hear– you believe it’s Mikey and Richie– they’re chanting “Claire! Claire Bear!”

Your stomach drops, as you hear them hoot about how hot she is, whoever this Claire girl is– how stacked she is, apparently, the banging body she has, the glasses no longer ruining her appearance– and although you know it’s gross men talk, there’s a small, sad part of you that wants to be perceived as attractive, too. 

Still, even as you find yourself frowning and turning away in disgust, you can’t stop yourself from listening.

You remember her. Claire, one of the neighbours down the street. Went to the same high school as you and Carmy. She was really something, someone of note if you remember the popular kid cliques correctly, but she had largely gone unnoticed by you, and it wasn’t for any reason in particular. You can’t be close with every person in high school.

But still– you feel jealous. Just a teeny bit. What was so different about her?

Sure, she was a nice girl. But weren’t you? You arguably had more history with the Berzattos, and yet… it’s as if you’ve simply blended into the wallpaper, their assortment of home decor and furniture. You’ve always been here, and so you don’t stand out.

You might never stand out.

You can hear Carmy trying his best to argue against them, asking them what they did, telling them to fuck off with their teasing– but he sounds sheepish, embarrassed, righteously mortified in the telltale way one would be when they have a crush, and you feel sick. 

They’re heaping compliments on her. You know what they mean when they talk about her like this– she’s the clear, obvious choice, probably closer to the family, more interesting, more affectionate, a genius. You don’t really know Claire that well, but apparently, she’s perfect. And you know you, in your silly frumpy sweater, in your attempts to dress up– you are not. You feel humiliated that you even believed Mikey when he said you were pretty– he was clearly complimenting you just to be nice. 

You weren’t even an idea in their minds, not for Carmy, anyways. You don’t even think Carmy is capable of seeing you like that now, and it’s with a crushing blow that you realize you were holding out hope. Mistaking familiarity for affection.

It’s a rookie mistake. One that you thought you were self aware enough not to make, because you’ve always known Carmen Berzatto was just out of reach for you.

You wait for them to leave, and come down the stairs, running into Carmy as he groans in annoyance.

/

Carmy says he needs to wipe some of the flour out of his hair, and you let him go upstairs, not really wanting to look at him, doing everything you can to make your way back to the living room unnoticed. In the meanwhile, Michael comes back and flops into Carmy’s seat on the sofa, next to where you sit, sullen.

“Hey, Birdie.” Michael starts, and you can’t read his tone, and you’re a little annoyed with his fake-nice attention. “Why not sit with me, the Faks, Michelle and Stevie? They’re really good people, I promise.”

“How do you know I’m avoiding people?” You snap back, maybe a little too aggrieved.

“It’s written all over your face, little Birdie.” He touches his knee to yours, and you bite your lip, swallowing your confusion, and Mikey enjoys the fact that you’ve chosen to wear a deep, brick-red Christmas lip colour. It’s hot– he doesn’t get how you don’t seem to be aware that you’re attractive.

He wants to kiss you. Maybe mess up that fancy lipstick and that sweet, annoyingly justice oriented, always-right character of yours. But he keeps it to himself.

“Don’t be antisocial. You of all people shouldn’t be alone during the holidays.”

“I’m not trying to be antisocial. I promise.” You shrug, trying to keep your emotions, that sinking feeling in your gut at bay– the last thing you want is for Michael to see you upset. “I was keeping Bear company, but I can come sit with you guys.” 

“That’s my girl.” Michael pulls you up by the arm, and you can feel your face warming at his choice of words– you like being in Michael’s good graces, even if you feel less than great right now.

Michelle, cousin of the Berzattos, has always been sweet to you. She’s impressive in her own right, and as you sit down in front of her and Stevie– she gushes about New York.

“Ah, that’s not to say Chicago isn’t impressive. Right, Birdie?” She smiles at you, not unkindly, and you feel happy to be included. 

“Right.” You shrug, knowing that the law firm you work at isn’t all that crazy. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re nothing special, not after what transpired just a few minutes ago, and you voice it. “It’s just okay.”

“No, c’mon. You work at one of the top fucking law firms in the city– you’re gonna make it.” Michael admonishes you. “Out of us Chicagoans, I mean, Michelle, before you take offense.”

“Yeah, Mish.” Richie echoes, popping up out of nowhere.

“None taken.” Michelle fixes her eyes between you and Michael– perhaps reading on something that you’re not even really sure how to understand, let alone explain– and she laughs. “Anyways, what was I saying? Right.”

She launches into a story about hating a woman who didn’t understand the Berzatto name. It’s quite funny– you find yourself laughing every now and then, the dull ache in your heart less noticeable, especially with how good Michelle is at telling stories, and somewhere along the story, Michael’s hand has stayed intertwined with yours, without you really noticing. You only notice when he lets go, and again– a pitfall in your stomach, wondering if Michael just feels familiar around you because there’s nothing to be attracted to and thus respectful of– and it’s such a stupid thought, but you still just know you want to feel wanted. You want to get a hold on yourself– remind yourself you’re not owed attraction and there’s nothing wrong with Mikey or Carmy seeing you as just a friend.

You realize with a start that you’re feeling confused about Michael, too. Was it just a weird quirk of his, calling every single girl pretty just for laughs? Could you even trust what he said? Why does Michael’s opinion of you feel way more pertinent and important than Carmy’s does?

You find yourself mulling over these thoughts, not sure of what’s going on around you, and you hear Michael tell the Fak bros, Ned and Ted, to shut up about California, which they do.

Donna starts screaming in the background, which causes you to turn abruptly. “Oh, fuck me!”

Michael turns and looks at you with some caution– he’s used to his mother’s outbursts, but he never ever wants you to face them. You don’t deserve that, you’ve probably never done anything to deserve it. Not like him.

Stevie gets up, much to the surprise of everyone around him. “Looks like Auntie D needs help, huh?”

“No, no, no.” Everyone tries to stop him, including you.

“What?”

Michelle pushes him back down, but he gets back up, resilient. 

Lee decides to comment in. “Let him, why not?”

“I’m sure she could use a few extra hands. I’m going.” He goes, and you stand up to follow, not willing to let an innocent person get dragged into Donna’s insanity.

“Wait, Birdie. Where are you going?” Michael holds your hand again, and you turn red at his action– a little angry, a little glum that he seems to care for you, and you can’t even be grateful for it. “Don’t throw yourself to the wolves. It’s not fucking worth it.”

“Not throwing myself– just want to make sure Stevie is protected.” You move forward, your face stony, and Michael lets go of you, sighing as he wraps his blanket around himself, wondering when you got all pissed off, but glad that you’re not so upset that you wouldn’t act all lawyer-y for Stevie.

Lee is glancing at him, while Michelle looks pleased as punch.

“What? What the fuck are these expressions?” Michael looks around questioningly, and Richie gives him a side glance.

“When’d you get all sweet on her, bro?” Richie gags a little. “Not that she’s not your type, but, uh–”

“I’m just being friendly.” Michael dismisses him, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the holidays, she shouldn’t be lonely.”

“Bullshit you are.” Richie sniggers, and Michael lightly shoves him.

“Yeah, I call bullshit too.” Michelle grins. “I can see it– you’re blushing.”

Michael groans, hating to be so obviously vulnerable in front of everyone. 

“Well I, for one, think it’s a huge, fucking catastrophic mistake.” Lee starts, and Michael feels himself blanch under the judgement of this guy. “You’re going to ruin that young woman’s potential if you go around messing with her.”

“Lee, she’s not that young–” Neil starts. “I think she can decide that herself?”

“Whatever. This one knows he isn’t right for her– always wants what he can’t have.” Lee mutters, and Michael feels that white-hot rage– the anger he feels bubbling inside of him as of late. 

He does his best to swallow it down, but a part of him knows that it’s true. As much as Michael enjoys your random visits over the past two years, he knows– you’re too good for someone like him. Too young, too selfless, too honest and good and pretty, and he feels an overwhelming wave of shame that he came so close. It’s like he just… doesn’t know how to be a good, responsible person, and it kills him on the inside that he could be so shameful, be so abhorrent and take advantage of you like that, and even if there is a tiny part of him screaming that it’s not so black and white– that you could be just as interested, of your own volition, in him as he is in you– he feels guilt. 

Michael is ashamed of who he is. Over, and over, there’s that feeling again– kill yourself– that he doesn’t know how to suppress, and he ignores it as he starts up a new story.

/

Natalie is tearing up as Stevie hugs her.

You came towards them in the midst of Donna yelling for Stevie to get the fuck out of the kitchen, and Sugar shushing him and shoving him away, and you now place a hand on her shoulder– clearly Stevie has it handled, somewhat.

When he lets go, she sniffles and you smile encouragingly, albeit a little sadly, and Natalie wipes away a tear. 

“It’s okay. It’s fine, it’s nothing. You don’t need to talk to her.” She starts, and you shake your head.

“I’m not going to. I can see that would make things worse.” You squeeze her shoulders, and Stevie nods.

“Yeah, Natalie. But we’re here. We’ll always be here if you want to talk.” He tries, and you smile at her– but something about Nat’s slightly upset, off putting expression, and Donna’s grumbling in the background– you feel your heart seizing a little at the tense emotions, so similar to your own, and you excuse yourself.

You walk until you reach the pantry, hot tears already working their way down your face. Every single negative emotion have come to a head, and you’re in terrible danger of having to explain things if you don’t get it together in under ten minutes or so.

You sit on the high table in the pantry, trying not to cry anymore than you already have, your head between your knees– but something about today has all your nerves on edge, and you know it’s because you put in some effort to come here, to see your dear friends, to look appealing enough, to be someone worth talking to, and now you feel as if they never really cared about you at all. 

You know these are lousy, immature feelings. You know you can be above them if you really, truly tried, but you let yourself sink into them further, because something about this environment is terrible and you just can’t let it go.

Even worse, no one has really done anything wrong. If this was a court case, you wouldn’t even have any evidence to make a claim. You’re simply confused, perhaps looking at things from the wrong angles– but the fact that you can’t look at this rationally makes you feel worse. As if you’re not as smart as you believed.

You don’t know how long you’ve been in here, when you hear someone shuffle into the pantry, next to you– it’s Michael.

He’s quick on his feet– you try to move away, let him grab whatever household ingredient he needed– but his full attention is on you as his eyes narrow, scanning your tear stained face and your hunched over body.

“Birdie?”

You can’t quite look at him, and you desperately try to wipe your tears, burying your face more between your knees. 

“Hey, no. Birdie.” He shakes his head, grabs your arms. He thinks it’s a little strange he’s had to cheer up two different people in the pantry, but he chalks it up to how his house always is. “What happened? Was it Ma?”

“No.” You sight and swallow down the sobs in your throat.

“Then what was it?” Michael’s eyes turn steely. “Fucking ‘Uncle’ Lee? Asshole. Told me I can’t finish any fucking businesses.”

“But… you run the Beef, don’t you?” You say, amid sniffles, entirely honest about it, and Michael’s eyes soften. “That has to count for something.”

“Yeah, little Bird.” He’s glad to have you here– he doesn’t care if it’s fucked up, not when you’re the only person on his side at this moment. “But why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

“I–” You shake your head, and feel your head hang heavy as you slouch over the table, and Michael leans over you, pressing your head to his chest, and you feel yourself crying silently into his shirt, as he shushes you and combs back your hair, his other arm caressing your back.

Michael’s not the best person– not the most comforting to be around– but he knows, by being an older brother, by being someone people want to be around, he knows how to make it count when he does give in to comfort. 

He just wishes he didn’t feel so goddamned depressed himself, so he would know the right things to say. He doesn’t want to be so useless all the time.

“Mikey?” You voice is timid. Small. 

He feels both elated that you would trust him with this, and devastated that he’ll never be good enough to deserve your trust. 

“Yeah, Birdie?”

“It’s so juvenile, but I…" You shake your head and decide to commit to it. "I wish I was pretty."

“Is that it?” Michael’s arm wraps around your shoulder as he squishes onto the seat of the table, next to you. “You think you’re ugly, huh?”

“I don’t think I’m–” You inhale deeply, and wipe away your tears again. “It’s not about being ugly. It’s more like an objective reality that I have to accept. I’m just not… I’m not anything special to look at.”

“Wow, kid.” Michael tuts and shakes his head. “Ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? That stupid fucking mantra, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s true.” Michael almost starts laughing, but you look so solemn and serious, he resists the urge. “You’re not ugly. You might not think you’re all that, but you don’t see what I see.”

Michael tenses, and you watch as he falters over how to explain.

Michael thinks you're so damn annoying with that ardent, sweet expression– even if your tears are staining your face, you still look so grateful to hear him say those words– and it just crushes him. It crushes him to know that you look for his approval so much, when he knows you're worth so much more than that.

He doesn't want to let you down. You and Carmen– he will never be enough for the two of you. 

"I don't– I'm fucking stupid, Birdie, don't listen to me." He swallows, but you're hanging onto his words and your face falls again. 

"But I can listen to you get all poetic about Claire, right?" You mutter, angry, and you get up to leave– but Michael grabs your forearm, and he's quite a bit stronger than you are. 

“Hey. That’s different.” Michael tries, but you shake your head, and you’re left sitting on the table again. “I was only teasing Bear. It has nothing to do with you.”

“I know.” You turn even more glum, and Michael is left feeling terrible, wondering what was so wrong with what he said. 

You’re silent for a moment– you know that you like Carmy, but something about telling Michael about it feels weird, like you’re pre-emptively rejecting him rather than Carmy by confessing feelings that are slowly disappearing– and you just don’t want to.

But you know you need to. You need to accept that Carmy would never see you that way.

“I just… for a really long time, I thought that I…” You fall to silence, again, and Michael is staring at you, hanging onto every word, watching your side profile shake as you try to gather your thoughts. “I really liked him, you know? I don’t even know why– maybe he was just the clearly available, safe option, and now that’s not even true and I feel like I’m mourning something that was never even real. How stupid and childish can I get?”

“Wait, Birdie–”

“And I just… I know I’m not like Claire. I don’t know what I got myself into. I don’t even really like him anymore– it’s just that the situation makes it so damn apparent that I am just average.” You huff out your words with an air of finality that even has Michael flinching a little, and he runs his hands through his hair, unbelieving of what you’ve said. “You can’t even say I’m not, Mikey, because I know how you talked about her and it was just so different to how anyone here has ever thought about me.”

“Birdie, shut the fuck up.” Michael breathes out really heavily, pinching his brows, thinking that he regrets everything he said and he wishes he could take it back. “I didn’t really– I was trying to tease Carmy, you know? It didn’t mean the shit you think it does. Hell, I would be way more serious if I was talking about you.”

He takes a beat of silence– should he read your reaction to that, or keep going? And he decides to keep going.

“You can’t just act like you can read everyone’s minds because you’re a lawyer, Birdie.” Michael says it with a slightly lighter tone, and his hand traces the small of your back as you lean against your knees, staring up at him. “Didn’t you learn about intent or whatever the fuck it was? In school?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You admit despite yourself, and Michael smiles but continues seriously.

“I don’t think that about Claire, okay? If anything, I’m fucking embarrassed you heard me talk all of that shit– that was just meant to be, uh, guy talk. I swear.” Michael swallows, feeling guilty that he still had to be so low about it. “I don’t– I care so much about him, I just went too far in working him up. I think it would be a good thing for him, right?”

Hurt flashes across your face– you still don’t think you like Carmy anymore, you just don’t know how to feel about someone else being portrayed as a “good thing.” But you inhale– you know part of getting over it is having to accept this, and you let yourself think and then nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I could see that.” You agree, and it doesn’t hurt as much since Michael is looking at you sympathetically. “I just… I want to be a good thing, too. Not for Carmy, just…”

“For someone?” Michael answers as you trail off. 

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Birdie. I’m gonna tell you something you gotta hear.” Michael has that determined look where you know he’s going to say something smart– he has his fleeting moments of wisdom even if he doesn’t believe in himself– and he goes for it. “I can’t believe no one has ever told you just to, I don’t know, fucking love yourself a little? Like, c’mon, you should be able to like yourself! You’re an incredible person and you deserve– you have the right to be insanely fucking confident and it’s so fucking annoying that you don’t see it.”

In the heat of his argument, Michael’s come too close again, and he can feel your breath on somewhere near his jaw or neck, and he has to remind himself to pull away again.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and Michael combs back a strand of your hair.

“Don’t be sorry. Just listen to what I’m saying.” Michael inhales, thinks over why he can’t do this himself– Tina always tells him to be a little easier on himself, but he just struggles– and he thinks that you look terribly cute so it’s just a lot easier to root for you. “Don’t do it for some idiot guy who will never really appreciate you, little Birdie.”

You can feel the conclusion of that sentence, even if Michael doesn’t quite say it: do it for yourself. Be there for yourself. Listen to the good part of yourself, rather than him.

“Oh. I guess that’s…” You swallow, taking it in, knowing the value of his words. “It’s true.”

“See? You know it.” Michael leans in a little too close again, his face a mere breadth away from your own.

“I think you’d actually make a fantastic lawyer.” You slyly comment amid wiping your face, and Michael blinks and then laughs.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d get to see me and hear my advice all the time.” Michael mumbles a little over his words but to his surprise, you nod. 

“Yeah, then I’d get to see some idiot who really does appreciate me.” You murmur even more quietly, and Michael, feeling stupid, has a wistful smile on his face that he maybe has not felt in a decade. It’s so sweet– he thinks his heart is bursting with something. 

Maybe love. Maybe that jovial, Christmas spirit that seems to emanate as the food smells closer to ready, maybe what Carmen gave him as a kind gift, most likely the closeness he feels with you– not just being close in familiarity, more like– he can make out the little spots and freckles adorning your face, every single eyelash your still watery eyes have, the faint lines in your still-red lips, and it occurs to him that he’s too close. Somewhere during this talk, his hand has stayed around your back, and you have been tentatively tracing his right hand’s knuckles with your own thumb. 

Michael knows how it looks. If anyone was to walk in right now (and he’s sure Michelle or Richie have already put it together that the two of you have been gone for a while) they would assume you two are a couple.

He has a sudden air of regret– it’s not because he wants to reject you, he just… he struggles a lot with feeling wanted. He struggles with the standards that people seem to put on him. Michael has always known he’s not a good guy– he doesn’t know how to be the person that everyone seems to think he is. Carmen, Natalie, Richie, you– you all seem to think the best of him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He nearly had a breakdown watching Carmen look up to him so lovingly.

Before he can pull away– with another responsible refusal, telling you that he’s too old and washed up, and that you deserve the whole world and he is not enough to offer that to you– you gently but firmly grab his face, tracing his cheek, and he thinks it could be wrong– what if you’re just feeling all confused and willy-nilly about feelings because you’re displacing what you felt about Carmen, what if you don’t actually like him and you’re assuming that you do because of his clear attraction to you, what if you’re just feeling the moment and the sweet guidance he’s given you?

Tons of questions seem to flow from his mind, things that he wants to ask you, but Michael thinks fuck it, because you’re leaning in first and pulling him in and it’s something he would’ve never expected in a million years, that you could be just as attracted to him.

He kisses you maybe a little too hard– maybe it should’ve been softer, more gentle since you’ve opened up to him so much, but you kiss him just as eagerly back, and he doesn’t fucking care to be gentle anymore. He’s leaning over you and Michael knows he’s quite a bit taller, so he has to pull you upwards to really reach your lips, and the table the two of you are sitting on is quite small– it shakes a little and there’s not much room for Michael to really feel you.

Until you climb into his lap, because of course you do, and now you’re just tangling your fingers in his hair, and he thinks he can feel whatever migraine that the day’s events have spurred on him slipping away, and his hands wrap around the smallest part of your waist as he pulls you in, pressing his chest against yours. 

You feel like Michael’s beard tickles a little– but you don’t mind that. You weren’t sure until you did it that you’ve wanted to kiss him for a while. You feel like maybe you’ve actually been more attracted to him than you ever were with Carmy, maybe even just going for Carmy due to his aforementioned security. 

Michael groans, and he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you sharply inhale as his tongue roams around your own, and he knows he likes hearing you gasp when his hands come up under your sweater, just to feel your bare skin, and you pull away.

Michael comes in too close again, placing a soft yet firm kiss on the corner of your mouth, and you laugh at him, and it’s one of the best sounds he could hear. No longer are you all gloomy and sullen in the corner of the room– but there’s still an air of heat around you two, and he knows he should let you go before things go too far. 

“Consider that a Christmas present.” You murmur softly, tapping his face, genuinely smiling despite the smeared lipstick, and you clamber off his lap, and peek out the pantry. “I think you’re good to go eat dinner– let me just…”

You wipe the red lipstick from his mouth using the corner of your sweater sleeve, so not to leave evidence, and it’s an intimate moment that has Michael staring at your hand, to your eyes, and there’s something in his eyes– maybe sorrow, maybe appreciation, but most of all, tenderness, and he takes a silly, soft moment to just kiss your hand. You beam at him.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” You tease him, because you know that Michael has always had that look, and he stiffens for a moment.

“Ah… maybe around when you came back from graduating college.” Michael admits, feeling weirdly high and low all at the same time, but he questions you too. “What about you? Don’t tell me you just decided to kiss me right now. That would fucking… that would be too much.”

His heart falls for a split second– thinking about how again you could’ve just been having a little fling– why would you ever like him? He struggles to think how you could, even after having kissed you.

“No, no. I swear it’s not like that.” You turn a little red and play with your hands. “Um. You’re not like a rebound, Mikey, I just… I think I liked you ever since I started coming around more, maybe around last year? I probably just didn’t notice because I thought I was into Carmy. You know? Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michael tries not to let the relief show through his face too much. “I thought maybe I was… reading too much into it. Putting pressure on you.”

“No, you’re good.” You shake off his concerns. “I don’t think that at all. I really do like you… might’ve just been obsessed with the idea of a childhood friend turning into a lover.”

Michael grins. “Well, who’s to say that didn’t fucking happen, Birdie? Are we not childhood friends?”

“Eh… kind of. You’re a bit old.” You give him a so-so motion, and Michael jokingly pushes you a little. “I’m kidding! This is more like– your friend’s hot older brother gives you a chance and it’s crazy and exciting and you just want to know more.”

You were half kidding, but you’re so honest about it, and Michael loves it, but there’s still that undercurrent of agony– he wants to just openly like you, too, but he doesn’t want to be such a fucking failure about it.

“I’m gonna just head to the dining table, I think.” You check your watch. “Gotta go think about this a little more– is that okay? Not in a bad way, I’m just overwhelmed with everything that’s happened today…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s okay, Birdie.” Michael presses a kiss into your hairline. He knows it is a lot for anyone to handle– getting over a crush you thought you had, realizing that you like someone else– he gets it. “Take all the time you need.”

“Okay.” You smile eagerly at him and then walk outside through the hallway, wiping your mouth so it looks less kiss-stained, and peek around so no one is looking at you. 

Michael feels a million emotions hit him at once, and he knows he has to cool himself down before explaining to everyone where you’ve gone, what’s happened– or he’s certain to implicate himself, and he can’t have that. 

/ 

It all goes to shit not even twenty minutes later.

You’re sitting pretty between Richie and Tiff, who seem to be a little bit… awkward, maybe arguing mentally about something you don’t completely understand. No one has really commented on your disappearance, but you’re sure it’s obvious based on how Michelle and Stevie are whispering and smiling at you.

Michael gets a massive, depressive episode right after you’ve left him. He can’t exactly pinpoint why– he feels like a creep even if he isn’t one. Hell, he only actually met you when you were nineteen– he was in a different state when you started visiting the Berzattos. But even if Michael ignores his potential, old-man creepiness… he also feels like you’re headed for so much more than he ever was, and he knows he’s holding you back if he does this. 

For once in his life, he just wanted to be happy. He just wanted to be wanted without the stigma of not being good enough. 

You, Carmy, and Nat. He knows you guys are on your way. Michael feels a pit in his stomach as he imagines why you guys all have to look up to him so much– he just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

He can’t ignore the feeling that he is just a major fucking loser.

That’s why Michael goes and gets high. He knows he’s making a mistake, and he doesn’t want to do something so disappointing– but he figures he’s already a disappointment anyways. He’s grateful you’re not here outside to see how pathetic he really is– how much he craves a hit just to feel a little less shitty. And yes, it calms him down as he feels the high of the painkillers exacerbate positive memories, like with you, Carmy, Natalie– but it still makes his anger, his depressive tendencies strong, too. 

When he sits down at the dining table– he’s not that intoxicated, but he knows it’s a little apparent on his face, based on the mild alarm on your own. You’re sitting just far enough from him for there to be plausible deniability, but still– you are worried about him.

“You good?” You mouth, and he waves away your question with an air of fake nonchalance. 

You don’t look convinced. You can see the red in Michael’s eyes, the general tension in his shoulders, the unnerving sense of resentment in his expression. You wonder what could have happened in the last ten minutes that you’ve been sitting at the table, why Michael decided to go and get intoxicated just minutes after kissing you.

Were you too much for him? Maybe.

You know Michael gets high. In fact, last Easter, you’re pretty sure he spent the entire time high on something– but you only vaguely know about his anger flare ups. About his negative emotions, the supposed depressive periods he goes through. You’ve seen him argue a bit with Richie, you know he’s gotten a bit harsh with Carmy, but you know he’s a bit more troubled than that. The whole family seems a bit troubled. Natalie has told you that much, and you have your experience with that– your mother and father’s fights are ones that still make you quiver to think about. But with Michael?

You don’t know how much you believed it, until now, because Michael always seemed kind of… like he always had the right thing to say. You almost feel like he’s in the right to get upset, because he’s had a hard time, with his family, some of his luck surrounding his career– especially with how Lee continually riles him up.

The table is formal and nice for a bit. Michael and Tiff converse about something, Carmy asks if you’re okay and you mostly are. Michelle asks Mikey to say grace, and he sounds resentful, again, of Lee cutting him off so often. 

Cicero, being the responsible uncle that he is, tries to push off grace to Stevie, who promptly rejects it, and Michelle decides to ease the tension by asking what the hell the seven fishes are all about. Lee, of course, gleefully answers, about the dutch potatoes and the bible.

Michael glares at him and throws a fork. A real, honest-to-god, heavy piece of silverware. It clatters on the carpeted floor– you feel yourself flinch, and you watch Natalie and Pete’s expressions crumble into the realization that Michael is not okay, and everyone seems to look towards him in fear.

“You see what you did, right? You already did that. You already bitched about the dutch oven.” Michael retorts at him, not completely coherent, and you can feel the lights glazing over– the Christmas tree, the wreaths and baubles, everything seems to lose focus in comparison to the red-hot anger that Michael is bubbling over with.

Cicero and Carmy try to call him off, but Michael isn’t listening, and you can tell– he’s in a place to be upset. It’s like a slowly proceeding car crash– as much as you don’t want him to do it, you understand why he’s going to. You feel like there is a bit of a double standard in place here– Cicero seems to want him to respect his elders, and Michael is being kind of childish, but you can’t say you don’t understand why.

Michael asks for Fak’s fork, in direct opposition to Lee’s attempts to play the father in this house. Despite Fak’s insistent refusals, Michael successfully takes it. Everyone speaks with the intent to stop him, and he’s too focused on Lee to stop.

You know you hate Lee too. But such a severe reaction, coming from Michael? It has you wincing a little. You want to pull him away– tell him to be the nice older brother you’ve always known him to be– but you know it takes time. You know it’s probably going to get worse. You try to catch his eye– and he can't quite look at you.

You have faith in him. You know Michael can do better than this– you just hope he can see it, too. 

Michael throws the second fork, and you feel regret in trusting him, again, because he’s making things bad but it’s almost as if he can’t help it. You catch Natalie’s eyes– she’s clearly disappointed, too.

Michael feels a sick sense of pleasure, as he often does when it comes to acting out his worst desires. But he feels a flash of anger with himself– is that what he did with you? Is he really this guy? He thinks that he is, he is a bad dude and he can commit to that role if that’s what’s needed.  

“Cousin, you’re scaring the normals.” Richie tries, looking at Tiff and you, but you’re still yearning to catch his glance– and Michael can only respond that it’s nothing, everything is fine, and you’re suddenly reminded of when your parents used to fight and how you used to have to be the middle man and convince them that things were alright.

Michael looks towards you this time– but you’re not looking at him. You have your hands neatly clasped in your lap, your eyes are focused on the set of candles in the middle of the table, and you look horribly upset, with your neck all tense as you wait for things to blow over, and he can tell– he’s fucking up big time. Stevie, Carmy, everyone is looking pained, and Michael can only think that he doesn’t give a shit. He wants to make Lee feel just as terrible as he does.

"You see– I can throw forks because this is our father’s house." Michael scoffs back, and there's real agony in his tone. “My father’s house.”

Michelle inhales. “We have lift-off.”

“Okay, you got everyone's attention, so go ahead, tell us a story we've all heard a million times already.” Lee spits out, barely holding back his own contempt for Michael, and Michael starts laughing as if everything’s alright. “Tell a story about how you're living with your mom and you're borrowing money off of her and any other sucker who'll listen to your bullshit.”

Everyone looks towards the table, feeling terribly awkward about Lee’s accusations– it’s not that it’s necessarily untrue, but there’s a hefty amount of his own assumptions, his own bias thrown in there, and you want to speak up.

“Lee, shut the fuck up.” Cicero looks absolutely pissed off at him, and you’re grateful someone has taken some of the heat off of Michael. It’s Lee’s fault, too.

“I’m sorry. I told you not to be a sucker, Jimmy.” Lee comments, and Cicero exhales, exasperated.

“Lee. That’s not really fair– you’re being too hard on him.” You utter through gritted teeth, and Lee’s eyes narrow on you. It's the first time you've spoken, and Michael glances at you– his eyes are bright and he genuinely looks sorry. Sorry he had to go this far.

“Oh, am I? Really, Birdie? I would suggest I’m not being hard enough.” Lee raises his hands, invites you to speak more, and you know that it’s not really your place to do so, especially because Lee and Michael seem to have a lot of history.

But you have your almost-lawyer tendencies, and of course you’re not exactly unbiased either, because you want to see the best in Michael– you want to like him. 

"Please, Lee… Michael's working on himself. You don't need to lie to him." You stare at him, and Lee’s face seems to turn darker with that. “I’m sure we all have our issues… it feels like a lot.”

"Is that what he's told you, Birdie?" Lee sneers at you, and you suddenly feel small. "He's a sick, fucking twisted man, and you would trust him, wouldn't you?"

He doesn’t go further than that– but it’s enough that you feel humiliated for being read so thoroughly. It’s obvious what he’s implying– you’re a silly little girl who doesn’t know any better. 

“It's fine. It's fine. Because this guy's nothing and he's nobody.” Lee points at Michael again, and his expression sours so much. You watch as Michael seems to zero in on what Lee’s rambling on about. 

Natalie shakes her head in little no-no motions.

“Hey… Petey… I just need to, uh… I need to borrow this for one second.” Michael’s got that nonchalant expression again, but there’s pain in his eyes, and there’s a clamour of everyone again telling Michael to stop, calling his name, trying to distract him.

"Michael. Michael. Please don’t do this. Hey. Hey. Hey!" Natalie calls at him, and you know she's just begging for him to leave it alone. “I love you. Okay?” 

You watch as Michael, holding the fork, just holding it, clear malicious intent in his eyes, tension building in the air and you feel a little sick, but his eyes are watering and he clearly doesn’t want to do what he thinks he has to.

“I love you too, Sug.” Michael says honestly.

Stevie giggles, Cicero de-escalates things further, and you think you see the light at the end of the tunnel, if not for the fact that Michael is still holding the fork. Still standing up, taunting him, acting like a big old child as Carmy rebukes him– and it’s really just two grown men beginning to get all macho and toxic about who’s tougher, who’s really the man of the house, and they start screeching at each other and you watch as Michael’s eyes glaze over with something, with Lee’s final insult that “he’s nothing.”

You watch as Michael takes his seat. He seems ambivalent, hard to read– he’s not meeting anyone’s eyes and you feel terrible about it.

Donna comes in and takes her seat– she seems rather drunk, too, and the last thing you need is more evidence that substance abuse is a bad thing– and Stevie starts the most wonderful prayer that still isn’t enough to dissuade Michael. You catch his gaze– he’s mulling over something, his eyes are watery, and you want to go over there and talk him down, even if that idea is unwise.

Donna cries over the prayer, and Natalie commits the most cardinal sin that she could at this moment: she asks if she’s okay.

You flinch with recognition as Donna starts screaming at her, about how she is okay and could a person who isn’t okay make such a gorgeous meal, and she exits the room in visible anger, and Natalie begins to hyperventilate, while Michelle tries to calm everyone down.

Donna throws a plate down on the floor, and exits the room continuing to scream– and there’s a beat of tense silence, full of angst and what-nows, and Lee decides to take initiative breaking that silence with a silly joke– almost in a paternal role, again, a hot topic between him and Mikey– and you watch Michael’s eyes start narrowing as he leans against his hand.

Michael throws the third fork.

It’s like every single nerve you felt, every bit of tension that was already in place, comes to a head as Michael starts going batshit, trying his best to attack Lee, while the Fak brothers and Richie are between them, and you can barely think straight as everyone starts screaming at each other. 

Tiff almost gets dragged into the chaos, and you're left shielding and comforting her from the fight. Pete and Richie hold Michael off and you're thankful– the last thing you want is to go up in there and get caught in the crossfire yourself. It’s genuinely a blur– you have no idea how bad things are getting until Cicero starts telling them to get the fuck out.

Suddenly, the wall of the living room bursts inwards, the Christmas tree getting dragged in the crossfire, and you realize with shock that someone’s driven a car inside.

Not just any car– that’s Donna in there, driving, and you think for a moment she’s dead. You can’t believe what’s happening– you can feel your heart hammering through your chest.

Michael runs towards the car, tries to open the front door, yelling and asking her what she did, asking her to open the door. She stirs a little.

Everyone else is standing there, in shock, not focusing properly on what to do, and you pull yourself away from the crowd of people, as they stare on in horror. You don’t want to be a part of this, but you are, and you know what a responsible adult would do. 

You go outside, into the December night’s cold air, and call 911. Specify for the firefighters and ambulances, because Cicero has a big thing against narcs and cops and you’re not getting into that right now.

Even though you’re freezing, and that’s what you should be focusing on? You’re in an incredible amount of despair because of what’s taken place. You hang up the call and feel exhausted by everything that’s happened, and you wonder if Michael really knows better. If he can be more than this. It’s not something you’re judging him for– but you feel terrible about his circumstances and you want him to get out of there.

Worse, you can’t help but feel a little upset with him. Because you know that Michael didn’t have to stoop that low– he chose to, and that’s what bothers you the most. He let his emotional responses dictate how he was going to act, and you know it’s hard to not be so provoked in this environment, but still: you are concerned and upset with him, and you know you need to take a step back. As much as it hurts you to stay away, you feel like it’s going to hurt even more if you intentionally stay around.

You wait for the ambulance and fire trucks to show up– you take a minute to direct them through the house, and then you trust that someone else has got it from there. Carmy, Natalie, Michelle, Stevie– they’ve got each other, they’re whispering about something, and you know where you’re not needed.

You grab your coat and leave, leave as silently as you can without interrupting everything that’s going on. It’s an strange walk home– ten minutes of you thinking about everything.

You hope next Christmas will be better.

/

Michael comes down from his high hard. Someone’s wrapped a blanket around him, and he’s sitting on the front porch’s staircase, wondering what the hell is going on. Donna’s apparently been taken to the hospital– and there’s a makeshift tarp where the wall has been crashed in. Everyone has gone home.

Where did you go? He has a moment of panic. Are you okay? Did he fuck it up that badly? That you would leave without saying goodbye? Michael can picture the disappointment on your face, and he wishes– he really wishes he was someone else.

He’s stressing really hard, his eyes are beginning to tear up. God, he knew he wasn’t really worthy of your attention– you’re young still, you have the whole world ahead of you– and he wonders if he can apologize. He wonders what he could possibly say to make it right. After such an insane situation, he can’t even blame you for taking off.

Natalie tells him, kind sister that she is, that you were the one to call emergency services. Of course you were– you have a strong head on your shoulders and Michael feels strongly that his family is in debt to you. And then you headed home, but Natalie doesn’t know why.

He does have your number. But he’s not going to call you, not right now– he’s not going to make a bigger mistake and fuck things up further. 

But to your dismay, you show up at work this morning to see Steve sitting in his chair again, back from Miami. Show’s over you think to yourself as you say hi to him and Javi, walking past them to find yourself a new desk in the corner of the room. You unpack your things and brainstorm, trying to think up another way to innocently flirt with Javi now that these Spanish lessons have nowhere to take place, not with the two agents working overtime most days, leaving Javi with no time for you and your stupid little problems. 

“Looks like we’ll have to move your tutoring session today,” you hear Javi say before pulling up next to you and leaning against your desk with his arms folded, subtly tilting his head towards Steve. It quickly dawns on you that he’s taking time out of his day for you, even now that he’s likely busy again, and it makes your heart race. “I’ll take my lunch break at noon, meet you here then?” he suggests, and you feel yourself perspire from his attention on you, dark brown eyes tracking your every move and looking straight into your eyes when you smile, shyly saying suena bien and try not to blush. 

-

“Nos ha llamado la atención” he says, tracing the words on the letter with his index finger, then looks up at you, “Dime lo que dije”. You look at him, blink a few times, look down at the letter again, narrow your eyes and try to gesture at your confusion. “Tell me what I said” he repeats, and you give him a sheepish smile, shrugging carefully. 

He tilts your chin up and whispers, “Gotta pay closer attention”, before his eyes flick down to your lips for just a split second, and back up. You can feel your face getting hot, hoping and praying you’re not visibly blushing as you look into his eyes. 

His hand is still under your chin, and he spreads his fingers to grasp your jaw and gently turn your face to the paper. “What does this sentence mean?” he asks again, and points to the top of the letter. “Th-.. Uhh” you stutter and look up at him again. 

He chuckles a little, looks up and down your face, and chews on the inside of his lip for a second before he gets up and takes a few steps over to a bookshelf, pulling out a dictionary and tossing it onto the table with a loud thud. “Look it up” he says and snaps his fingers before he sits back down, and you follow his orders, flipping through the pages and finding each word one by one, writing them all down in your notebook. 

“It’s been brought to our attention” you say slowly as you look at your notes, “Nos ha llamado la atención, nos ha llamado la atención”. You turn your head up and look at him, repeating the sentence, “Nos ha llamado la atención”. 

“Muy bien” he says with a smile, and watches you as you use the dictionary to translate the next sentence, picking up a few words you recognize from the previous lesson. 

-

You’re not entirely sure why Javi had to move your tutoring session, considering it’s five PM now and he’s still sitting at his desk, pouring over some documents, but you figure he has his reasons, not point in trying to prod. Everyone else has left and you're still there, all other offices are dark and empty, but you still have a stack of documents to go through before you can think about going home for the night, knowing more will pile up tomorrow. 

How is there so much paperwork? You can’t help but wonder if maybe you really are here just to file, if there truly are this many letters coming in that need to be read and sorted. It still doesn’t make a lot of sense no matter how you spin it. Why don't they have an intern? You look up when a thought strikes you - you probably didn't read the contract and now you’re actually a fucking intern and you just didn’t realize until now cause you spaced out so hard looking at that guy’s hairline. Shit.

“Come on, let’s go get something to eat” you hear Javi say, startling you a little and snapping you back from your thought spiral. He stands up and you stay seated, your head tilted up at him and your brows knitted in disbelief. “Now?” you ask, and point to the documents in front of you. “This is your work I'm doing, if you didn’t realize”. 

“Exactly” he says, pulling his blazer off the back of the chair before snatching the pen from your hand and tossing it onto the table, “It can wait”. You look at the letter in front of you, still not having much of a clue what it says, and slowly shake your head. 

“Javi..” you sigh. “I really need to get this done, it’ll just be another..”, you look at your watch and feel defeated already, “Hour, maybe?”. “You’re gonna stay here till almost six, unpaid?” he asks with narrowed eyes and a condescending smile. “I guess..” is all you have in response. 

“You don’t even know what that letter says”, he points to the document on the desk before folding his arms, his face full of amusement. “Yes, I do, Javi” you argue, knowing it’s a lie and that you’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes, a sudden influx of new words you couldn’t seem to familiarize yourself with flooding the page. “Tell me then” he says and raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side and waiting for you. 

You groan and squint at the paper, making out a few words but not nearly enough to figure out the sentence. “It’s something about a meeting, next week, with the ambassador” you say with your hands at your sides, shrugging a little. He cranes his neck for a second to look at the paper. “It’s about the embassy’s janitorial services” he says, dryly yet amused. 

You close your eyes and try to gather the will to argue, to translate, to work - to do anything, really. You glance around the room and, in the corner of your eye, you can see him put his hands flat on your desk next to you and lean over, hovering close to you. “Stop fighting me on this” he whispers, and you tilt your head up, catching his gaze.

You both stay like that for a few moments, half a smile tugging at the corner of his lip and you struggling to resist his coaxing. He glances down at your lips, then quickly looks back up, “Let me do something nice, you’ve done all this filing for me and I feel bad”

Then he tilts his head towards the door, stands up and straightens his jacket, and you scoot the chair back with a screeching sound before you rise, pushing off the armrests and looking at him unamused as you grab your bag and follow him out of the office. 

-

“What are you in the mood for?” he asks as you stand next to the cash register, looking at the menu and understanding all the words but getting so distracted by the scent of Javi’s cologne that you can’t think. “Surprise me” you say with a smile, what an amazing save, and he orders for you while you gaze at his side profile, lips parted and eyes wide. He looks so good in that collared, white t-shirt that it should be illegal. 

“So,” he says, interrupting himself to take a drag from his cigarette while he watches you take the last few bites of  your food, his already inhaled while you rambled about your life the past seven years and asked for advice on how to feel like less of an idiot at the embassy and in a new country. “What made you decide to work in.. Filing et cetera after all that time in school?” 

“I didn't decide” you say, covering your mouth and huffing a laugh with your mouth full, “I applied for a few jobs at the embassy, interviewed, they said I’d get one of three jobs”. You swallow and push your hair back over your shoulder, straightening a little in your chair. “And then, two weeks before I was moving, they told me I’d be doing admin work.. But I’d already made all the arrangements, you know? I gave up my apartment, took all these Spanish classes, bought plane tickets.. The embassy had already gotten an apartment for me. Figured it was better than staying in my hometown, even if I was just doing ‘filing etcetera’ as you so nicely put it”. 

He looks at you and nods as you talk, takes a drag and flicks off the ashes as he casts his gaze down for a second. “Angelina’s gonna get fired” he says, and looks off into the distance before his eyes flick back to yours. “The advisor?” you ask, vaguely remembering a woman in a pants suit you think might be her. 

“Mhm”, he takes one last drag and stumps the cigarette, “You're probably here to take over for her”. Your eyes shift a little side to side, and you can’t quite make sense of the very straightforward sentence he just uttered. “Why is she getting fired?” you ask, feeling like you shouldn’t even be privy to this information at all. 

He takes a breath and leans back, throwing his arm over the chair next to him, frowns and shrugs a little before he answers. “Doesn’t really give a shit about her job and it shows.. Nothing gets done in her department, always late, constant complaints lodged against her”. 

“Why me, though?” you question, genuinely baffled by his theory, “I’m just a lowly.. Office-admin-paper-person, I don’t know..”. He leans forward and over the table, scanning your face up and down, “Do you think they'd send some idiot down here and pay for their apartment, just so they can run around sorting letters for god knows how long, doing shit Murphy and I should be doing?”. He pauses for a second and tilts his head, “Come on”. 

There’s no fucking way, you think. Sure, you have the qualifications, you had an interview for an adjacent job that went well. Very well, actually, so well you were sure you’d gotten the job until the admin bomb was dropped on you and you assumed a better fit had suddenly swooped in and they changed their minds last minute. Why would they suddenly want you for this?

“How do you know? How-”, you shake your head a little and lean in, “Are you supposed to know that?”. “I can tell” he answers and clears his throat, “I sit in meetings with her and people from her department all the time. She’s had two strikes and they’re waiting for a third so she can get canned, simple as that”.  

Your eyes dart around the room a little, across the chairs and tables in the restaurant, the other customers, the trees outside blowing in the wind. Javi's eyes are on you the entire time, but he doesn’t say anything until your gaze travels back to him again. “Ambassador will want someone to take over immediately and”, he turns his hands a little, gesturing towards you, “There you are”. 

“Why me?” you ask with a grimace, waiting for a serious, legitimate reason you’d suddenly be getting this job, this much better job, more demanding and better paid, actually challenging, with real responsibilities. He chuckles a little and looks between your eyes, studies you a little. “You're capable, intelligent, organized” he says, “Good at talking to people, have your shit together.. Why not you?”

You don’t get the opportunity to answer before the waitress comes by and drops the check on the table. You reach over and grab it, earning you a dirty look from Javier. “You’re not paying” he says, almost condescendingly but with a hint of a laugh, and rips the check out of your hand. 

You roll your eyes, mutter thanks, Javi and lift your hand to your cheek, rest your elbow on the table and look out of the window, onto the street, while he pays for dinner. He drives you back to the embassy and you say goodnight, lingering for a little in front of the door to your car, him standing close to you, until someone drives into the empty parking lot and he takes a step back. You smile and get in, about to put your key in the ignition when it suddenly hits you that there’s a planned power outage in your building this week. 

Not this week, today. 

It also hits you that you got a notice regarding the outage under your door last week and had spent the evening translating it. You lean your forehead into the steering wheel and sit there for a few seconds, trying to figure out whether you should get a hotel somewhere for the night, when you’re startled by a tapping on the window, and you turn to see Javi standing outside. 

You roll your window down and he leans into the door, bending over until he’s nearly eye level with you as you shake your head and tell him about the outage. “Stay at my place tonight,” he says and taps the door, “We’ll go to yours and get your stuff, then I’ll drive you to and from work tomorrow”. You lean into the steering wheel again, weighing your options, but realize this is probably the safest, regardless of how inappropriate it might be. 

Javi unlocks the door to his apartment and nods for you to walk in first, and your eye is immediately caught by the large windows in his living room as well as the sizable balcony stretching from one corner to the other. “You have a balcony!” you exclaim, realizing you sound way too excited, and even though it’s dark out, you pad over to the glass and peer through it, looking at the city lights. 

“Yup” you hear him say, equal parts amused and confused. “Man,” you say as you keep staring out, “All I see from my place is trees, tops of buildings and flashing lights from restaurants on the street, not all this”. Javi gets on the couch and flips the TV on, clicking through the channels and landing on some sort of show while you look out of the window for another minute, then coming over to him and sitting down. 

“Free Spanish lesson” he says and glances at you, and you roll your eyes before turning to the screen and trying to understand what’s going on. You get comfortable after a while and find yourself understanding more and more, only catching Javi occasionally looking at you from a few feet away, out of the corner of your eye. An hour or so goes by before you start to yawn and look at the time, and Javi is quick to say that you can have his bed and he’ll sleep on the couch. 

“No, no” you say, waving your hand, “Don’t make me feel like a burden, Javi, I’m totally comfortable sharing your bed if you don’t mind it”. He tilts his head a little side to side, trying to look like he’s mulling it over. “If you insist” he says and flips the TV off, then helping you up and showing you where the bathroom is. You grab your toiletries and a t-shirt from your bag and head in to get ready for bed, listening to Javi brush his teeth in the kitchen sink while you quietly peek around in his cabinets a little, just to see if there’s anything interesting to find - which there unfortunately isn’t. 

Javi is already in bed, bare chested and stretching his arms when you come out of the bathroom. You smile shyly, walking around to the other side, unable to ignore his eyes following you as you slip into the sheets a respectful distance away from him. Two feet, maybe, it’s a pretty big bed after all, much too big for just one person. 

“Thanks for letting me stay over” you say, pulling up the blanket and sweeping your hair up over the pillow, trying not to look at him, knowing that the awareness of him laying next to you, both of you half naked, will keep you up for hours if you think about it too hard. 

If you think just a little too much about what he might be like in bed. How we might use his hands and lips and tongue on you, how he might feel inside you. You try to quiet your thoughts, try to breathe through your mouth so you don't feel yourself getting wet from his proximity. “Anytime” he groans and reaches over to turn the lamp on the nightstand off, “Sweet dreams”. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and lay completely still in the quiet, dark bedroom, trying to ignore the ache between your legs that rises every time you inhale and smell his cologne on the blanket right below your nose. You push it down a little, wrap it tightly around your chest, and you cool off for a second before you feel him shifting next to you and he throws his arm over his head. 

A whiff hits you as he groans quietly and settles - an unmistakable, masculine, musky whiff coming from under his arm, the inevitable sweat from merely existing in Bogotá combined with the cologne that’s been developing on his skin under the suit, which is already intoxicating enough without the added pheromones, making your core tighten at the scent.  

“I haven’t had sex in ten months” you suddenly whisper, and you wince as the words leave your mouth. How the fuck did that make it past the filter? A silence follows, and you’re not quite sure whether you prefer for him to have heard you or not. 

“Wha-, sorry, did you say something?” he murmurs. “I said I haven't had sex in ten months” you repeat, admitting defeat and feeling your heart thumping. “Is this-”, you can hear him shifting towards you but you look at the ceiling, unwilling to make eye contact. “Are you.. trying.. to seduce me?” he asks, sounding amused. 

“Javi..” you mutter, and he can probably sense how hard you’re rolling your eyes at him. “Worth a shot” he says, and you can tell he’s moments away from laughing. “I’m just telling you in case I crawl on you in my sleep or something”, you say, surrendering your hands with your eyes still closed, “Don't- don’t take it personally”. There’s another bout of silence, and you can feel your heartbeat all the way down in your stomach.

“Why don't you just.. Crawl on me now then,” he suggests softly, “Won’t matter if you do it in your sleep if you’re already here”. You don’t answer his question out loud, but you scoot over to him and lay your head on his chest, taking a deep breath and getting overwhelmed by the scent of him, making you jerk your hips a little and throw your leg over his to hide your reaction.

“Don’t take this personally” he mocks, and reaches around to lay his hand on your back, starting to stroke the skin that's been exposed from your t-shirt riding up as you shifted around. You lay still for a while, or what seems like a while, feeling his warm palm stroking you soothingly and molding to the curves of your back as you relax into his chest, inching your pelvis a little closer to him, noticing your panties make contact with his boxers, and trying to brush it off as just shifting around. 

His hand lowers a little, sweeps down to your lower back and keeps gently rubbing. You whimper a little at the touch and hope he didn’t hear it, but his hand stills at the noise, right above the waistband of your panties. You close your eyes again and try to somehow reel in your aching for more, take back the wetness that already soaked your panties and at this point is most likely dampening the fabric of his boxers. Hopefully he can’t feel it. 

He squeezes a little and your hips roll in response, your breath hitches, and you ask yourself where your self control went when you suddenly feel his hand wrap around your jaw before your head is tilted up, his lips meet yours, and he’s kissing you, parting your lips and licking into your mouth. Fuck, he's a good kisser.

Your hand quickly leaves his chest and your fingers find his curls, tugging at them and hearing him groan. His hand slips down, your thong getting caught between his fingers, and he pulls the lace covered string down until he reaches the swell of your ass. He covers as much of it as he can with his large hand, uses his grip on your flesh to move you subtly, pulling you up and pushing you back down so your clit drags against the wet fabric of your panties that have absolutely leaked onto his boxers by now.

Another whimper escapes, this one long and drawn out, into his mouth. “Let's take these off” he whispers, and you nod in response while he traces the top of your panties, making you shiver when his fingers pass below your belly button. He hooks two fingers into the strap and moves his hand a little back and forth again, brushing the back of his fingers along your hip. 

Your eyes have gotten used to the dark now, and the light coming in through those pesky venetian blinds illuminate him just enough to where you can watch him as he slides your panties down your legs, tosses them off the side of the bed, and comes back with a hand going up your shirt as he leans down to kiss you again. 

His palm brushes up against your firm nipple and he hums in acknowledgement, retracting his hand to bunch up your shirt and pull it over your head. “I gotta see this” he mutters and turns on the lamp on his bedside table, casting a warm light all over the bed, allowing you to see how intensely he’s looking at you. You could never get tired of those eyes on you. 

He lets his hand drag down your side as he licks and kisses along the side of your neck, takes in your curves, travels all the way down, as far as he can reach, and squeezes your flesh. He watches your eyes as he traces up your inner thigh, stops right at the apex, and ghosts his fingertips along your slit, seeing how your lips part and your eyes widen. 

“Ten months, huh?”, his voice is so raspy, so deep and dark, and it reverberates through your entire body when he speaks, “That’s a long time”. “Yeah” you whisper with a hint of a laugh. “You wanna keep that streak going or?” he asks smugly with his eyes trained on your lips. “Does it seem like I do?” you respond breathlessly, still half smiling. 

“Not really” he says, and plunges one finger deep into you. The moan you let you is embarrassingly loud and desperate, and he chuckles in response. “Fucking tight, though, huh?” he mutters while working in another finger. He slides them in and out, pausing deep inside you to curl them at the spot where you want him the most, your slick running down along his fingers and into his palm, and he kisses and bites your lower lip as you moan into him, unable to close your mouth. 

The sensation of his thick fingers is overwhelming after nearly a year of trying and failing to reach the crevice he’s so effortlessly rubbing now. “So good, Javi, so good” you whimper into his mouth, nipples hardening and pussy throbbing, desperately needing release. Then he kisses along your jaw and down your neck while he listens to your little noises, pushing his clothed erection into the side of your thigh. 

You pull at his waistband and he moves to retract his fingers, soaked and dripping, pulling his soft pajama pants off with one hand. You glance over as he leans down again and returns his fingers to your opening, slipping inside and curling. The blanket has slid off, down to the mattress, and he’s laying completely bare while his cock lightly bobs from how hard he is. 

He lets you take him in, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you stare at him, at the wet head, precome leaking from the slit and threatening to drip down, a few thick veins running from the tip, down his overwhelming length, reaching the thick base, covered by soft, brown hair. “Like what you see?” you hear him murmur against your hairline, and he chuckles a little when you nod. “Yeah” you say softly, and he hums a little before tilting your head back and continuing to place kisses along your neck. 

You reach your hand towards him as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out, landing on his stomach and sliding further and further down till your fingers comb through the patch of hair above his shaft and finally circle around him. You can’t even reach all the way around, and you gasp at the realization, dragging your fingers up to catch his precome, slick your hand and start stroking. 

The stifled moan he lets out as he licks the underside of your jaw sends shivers through you, and you can feel your clit swelling, so achy and sensitive. Your hand is getting slicker as more precome keeps dribbling out of him, turning you on even more and making you louder until he shushes you with a kiss, his tongue reaching deep into your mouth and your shared spit smearing across your lips. He retracts his fingers and licks off your juices as he looks at you, not letting you glance away. 

“Quiero comerte” he mutters to himself, “Taste so fucking good”. He shifts around so he's on his stomach between your thighs, and you notice a worry creeping up when you realize what he’s about to give you. “Should I maybe shower first?” you ask with concern, leaning back on your elbows and trying to close your legs, pushing against his hands holding you open “Sorry I’m so sweaty, I didn’t-”.

“Nah, baby, nothing to apologize for” he says with a calm smile, his eyes burning with desire, “Want you just like this”. And with that, he grabs your hips, pulls you closer to him and hooks his fingers over your thighs to spread you apart. You squeeze your eyes shut and dread his reaction to your scent and taste, your pussy having marinated in sweat all day under the soft fabric of your panties, the heat outside making it impossible not to come home with your inner layer of clothing soaked. 

He runs his hand up your inner thigh and pauses, uses his thumb to carefully pull your soft pussy lip to the side, and you tense with self consciousness as he gently opens you for him and runs his tongue up along one side, licking up all your accumulated sweat and gently brushing your clit when he reaches the top. He gives it a slow lick, almost like a wet kiss, and you moan softly, holding your breath.

You feel the vibrations of him groaning against your skin as he shifts to the other side, splays his hand across your inner thigh and pushes his tongue under your outer lip, dragging all the way from your opening and to your clit again, licking up a combination of sweat from the day and slick from him fingering you. 

He looks up across your body and waits for you to open your eyes, and you meet his gaze right as he covers your slit with his tongue and drags it up, kisses your clit softly, nips at your folds, then licks the crevice between your mound and inner thigh. Your breathing is shallow and your head is empty, all your attention occupied by the throbbing sensation deep within you, and your clit aching to be rubbed and licked until you come. 

He makes his way back, swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud and gives it a suckle, then dives down to push his tongue into your opening so far his nose is touching your clit, a soft whimper escaping you and your chest lifting, rewarded by his dark eyes tracking yours when he comes back up and sucks your clit up into his mouth, flicks at it, increasing the pressure as he squeezes your thighs and you fist the sheets on either side of your head.

“J-Javi, I’m gonna- ” you moan, breathlessly and soft, and he raises an eyebrow, maintaining his pace, covering your clit with his saliva, rolling his tongue and suckling while your own arousal leaks out of you. “I'm gonna come, I-ah” your sentence trails off as you come apart under him, walls pulsing and clenching, back arching off the mattress and your eyes rolling back as your mouth hangs open, gasping for air. 

He gently licks until your back hits the mattress, then kisses along your inner thigh and comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand and kiss your neck. “Get on top of me, baby” he whispers, his breath hot over your skin, giving you goosebumps. He sits up and shifts back, leaning against the headboard and watching you pull off your t-shirt as he reaches into his nightstand and grabs a condom, looking at you as he rips it with his teeth. You stare down at his cock, mouth half open and borderline watering as he rolls the latex down and and gestures for you to come to him. 

You shuffle over on your knees and he holds his cock up for you to sit on it, reaches out his other hand to wrap around your waist and pulls you closer. He tilts his head up and gazes at your lips, and you kiss him while you lower onto his length, whimpering against his mouth as he fills you. “La tienes tan dura” he mutters to himself, under his breath, and you gasp a little. “Javi” you scold and smack his chest with the back of your hand, interrupted by your breath hitching again at the sensation of his tip reaching the very end of you. “So you understand that but not what's relevant to your job, hm?”, he shakes his head in disapproval, “Dirty girl”. 

You roll your eyes a little, starting to wind your hips up and down, feel his hands running up and down your back and over your ass, while his cock fills you and rubs the sensitive little spot deep inside you. “You look so pretty all stretched out, mi amor” he says, grasping your jaw and neck with one hand and bringing your face close to his so he can lick inside your mouth and nibble at your bottom lip while he grunts and thrusts up into you, reaching the very end of your pussy. 

He keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, the underside of your jaw, your neck and your chest as you moan incoherently, tighten your core and roll your hips, feeling your clit rubbing against him and your eyes rolling back. His hips move with yours, pushing his length all the way into you, massaging your walls just right. You look down at him and he angles your head down so that your faces are almost touching. You pant into each other’s mouths and he starts smiling, picking up his pace just a little, holding your jaw and forcing you to look him in the eyes while you moan and squirm, your head cleared of all thoughts, your sole focus on how good he feels inside you. 

He leans over and grabs the pack of smokes on his nightstand, effortlessly slipping out a cigarette with one hand, sticking it between his lips and picking up the lighter, all while keeping one eye on you, as you lean back with your hands on his knees and move your hips. "You're enjoying yourself too much, cariño" he says, slightly muffled, and lights up while clicking his tongue, "Should’ve known you'd take advantage of my kindness". He groans as he throws the lighter back onto the nightstand and takes a drag, exhaling up and to the right while he gazes at you. 

You huff a laugh as you watch him through half closed lids, distracted by how he’s filling you to the brim, how his free hand squeezes the flesh of your ass so firmly it almost hurts a little, and his eyes follow your hips as they lift up, high enough for him to see part of his length slide out before it disappears into you again. 

“Fuck yourself on it” he says and takes another drag, “I have to take a timeout, you look way too good on my dick”. He exhales, and leaves the cig in his mouth so he has both hands free, running them down your thighs before throwing one arm over the headrest and leaning over towards the opposite side to flick the ash off into the small ceramic tray. You can barely hear what he’s saying, too overwhelmed by his size still stretching out your hole and putting pressure on your cervix, the movement of his hips burying him so deeply in your cunt you're unable to think straight. 

“Can tell you're close, angel” he coos, his voice sounding buttery smooth as he grabs your hand and brings it to your core, “Can you come for me?”. He returns his hand to your hip, and you follow his lead, licking the pads of your index and ring fingers then bringing them down to start circling your clit, feeling your stomach tightening and his tip nudging your most sensitive spot when he pulls you further down into his lap. 

He brings his hand up to carefully grasp your breast, smoothing his thumb over your sensitive nipple in circular motions, pushing you closer to your release as you look up at the ceiling and feel it starting to take over your lower half. You hear him grunting, breathing heavily, and feel his tongue on your nipple, licking and sucking it while you ride him.

It feels like he’s prodding at every nerve in your body as his hand on your back holds you close to him and your most sensitive areas are being stimulated, and you need to come so bad you could cry. “Javi, fuck” you moan in an uncharacteristically high pitch, your voice straining to get a single word out as you tumble over the edge, clenching down on him and digging your hips as far into him as possible. He pulls back, raises an eyebrow and smirks, calmly observing as you arch your back while you ride the waves of your orgasm. 

“So beautiful” he says and puts out the cigarette, kissing between your breasts while you come down. He places one hand on your back and lifts your thigh with the other, crossing his legs under you so he can lift up to his knees and lay you down on the mattress, his cock still fully sheathed inside you as he settles between your legs. “How do you feel?” he murmurs and noses your neck. “So good” you whisper while you push your heel into his spine, and he slips both arms under your knees, lifting your ass up into the air. 

He fucks you so deeply your hands shoot out to grab the front of his knees, preventing him from pushing in any further. Your back arches when you hear him moan, opening your eyes to see his face scrunched and his mouth half open, his gaze roving over your body as he grabs your thighs and pulls you back, letting your ankles rest on his shoulders. He pounds into you, hitting your g-spot with overwhelming speed, your moans getting more and more desperate until his thrusts slow and he growls with each one, burying himself in you for one final push, holding your hips and looking at you while he comes with a rough moan.  

He leans over you, lowering down onto his elbows to kiss your lips, then your jaw, then your neck, and eventually your chest, before he pulls out with a groan and discards the condom, pulling you up and onto him as he settles back against the headboard. 

-

“Let’s air the room out a little” he says with a laugh as he puts on his boxers, then picks up a cigarette, nodding towards the door. He waits for you to put on your shirt and panties, takes your hand and guides you out of his bedroom through the kitchen and out onto the balcony you were looking at earlier. 

He lights up as you lean over the railing and look down onto the street, comparing the view from his apartment to the view from yours. “Tutoring on Thursday?” you ask as you stand back up. “You only want me for sex” Javi says and rolls his eyes, “This is all just a ruse, baby”. 

“Javi…” you murmur softly. “Don't patronize me” he says, making you giggle. Nodding at the cigarette in his hand, you look up at him with a raised brow, “You mind?”. He gives it to you and you take a drag, exhaling slowly as you look out onto the city and feel his eyes on you. “I've learned a lot” you say, still looking out. 

“Yeah?” he asks and snakes his hand around your waist. “Mhm.. It's fun”, you look at him, not quite smiling but at the very least looking amused. “That’s good” he says, and pushes his hand into your back so you stumble into him and he kisses you, slowly and tenderly, taking back the cigarette and flicking the ash off. “You're a good teacher” you purr while watching him take a puff. “Lo estoy intentando, hm?”, he exhales. 

You look at him and blink a few times, feeling dumb. “I’m trying” he whispers with narrowed eyes and pushes your hair back over your shoulder, tilting his head a little. You roll your eyes at yourself, “People really lodge formal complaints about Angelina?”. He looks down at your chest for a moment while his hand slips down to squeeze your cheek, before he keeps talking. “You translated one, so..” he says and shrugs, “You tell me”. 

“I did?”, you grimace and try to remember what little you gathered during that lesson, too damn distracted to even read English. “Yeah, first lesson” he says, and watches you with amusement, “Or were you not paying attention?”. You giggle and tilt your head, biting your tongue between your front teeth, “Might’ve been a bit distracted”. 

“Fair enough” he concedes, then takes a drag, “I’m looking forward to her being out, hate to say it”. He exhales out into the air and you admire his side profile, watching as his eyes narrow and his gaze follows the lights from an airplane in the distance. “Is she that bad?” you finally ask.

“Nightmare.. You prepared for the amount of Spanish you'll have to know to take over?”, he looks back at you, and moves his hand back up to the small of your back, spreading out his fingers to hold you steady while he pulls you a little closer. “What” you say, not even as a question. 

“There's gonna be a decent amount”, he smirks while taking another drag. You look unamused as you snatch the cigarette back, leaning back into his hand. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve just been tutoring me so I can take over for her sooner and you don't have to deal with her shit?”. Javi tilts his head and looks at you, leaning in for a kiss you dodge, and he laughs at your disapproval. 

“Positive side effect, you could say..”, his gaze holds you hostage as you try to look annoyed, “But mostly I don't mind helping a damsel in distress such as yourself”. “Damsel in distress” you mutter, rolling your eyes and slapping his arm. “Nah,” he chuckles, “I like you, why wouldn't I wanna help?”. He looks at your lips, then your eyes, brushing his thumb along your skin. “I like you too” you say, biting back a smile. You gaze at each other for a moment, before you get shy and peek over the railing while he runs his hand up and down your back. “Seeing anything interesting?” he asks. “Eh,” you shrug, “Not really.”

-

Nos ha llamado la atención = It has caught our attention

Dime lo que dije = Tell me what I said 

Quiero comerte =  Want to eat you

La tienes tan dura = You get me so hard