i am as human as anyone

It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone. 

The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw. 

You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her. 

She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”

You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk. 

“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”

You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”

She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you. 

You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes. 

You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store. 

She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”

Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young. 

“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”

She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs. 

You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”

Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”

“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”

That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go. 

“We can play whatever you’d like.”

Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face. 

You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”

Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”

You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved. 

You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again. 

“Lena.” 

Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”

Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.

“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else. 

Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”

Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him. 

This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man. 

Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”

She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”

You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.

“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.

Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”

She’s gone before you can figure out what to say. 

You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter. 

But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty. 

She has to make up evil creatures to process things. 

You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway. 

——

You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now. 

The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice. 

$4.49

You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper. 

You put the first box back. 

Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty. 

You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt. 

Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny. 

You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.

“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles. 

Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”

You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”

“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. 

He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”

“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”

“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently. 

You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”

There’s that silence again.

“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”

Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him. 

“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”

Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things. 

One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home. 

Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular. 

You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear. 

The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights. 

You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over. 

You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly. 

You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all. 

You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.

So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”

He hums. “I don’t think so.”

You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail

“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”

He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate. 

“Dad-”

He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights. 

——

You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet. 

The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.

You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore. 

You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.

The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place. 

It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone. 

The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her. 

You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?

Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months. 

She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught. 

He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs. 

“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”

She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention. 

Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something. 

You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them. 

Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”

Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you. 

You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”

Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”

Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach. 

His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?

“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”

You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him. 

But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that. 

“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”

Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”

You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you. 

You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled. 

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously. 

He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.

He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”

“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you. 

You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”

Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers. 

“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”

He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.” 

He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath. 

He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change. 

“Keep the rest.”

He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct. 

“They’re four dollars.”

He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”

Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic. 

Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”

“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success. 

Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”

Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely. 

You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot. 

You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type. 

He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have. 

But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.

——

You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow. 

You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you. 

“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”

He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”

You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man. 

“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”

You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly. 

“Uh… no. Why?”

He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. 

You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her? 

“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”

Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”

“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”

Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him. 

“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”

“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”

You’d hope so, for all that. 

“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”

He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”

What the hell does this man do?

“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?” 

Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile. 

“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something  you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately. 

Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers. 

“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”

You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him. 

“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings. 

Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”

You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”

This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window. 

You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move. 

——

It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache. 

It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing. 

Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text. 

Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device. 

You have 1 New Voicemail. 

Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse. 

Uh hey it’s pope Cody—

You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute. 

There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him. 

God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself. 

He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date. 

Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties. 

You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought. 

Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit. 

Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom. 

“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot. 

Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking. 

“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”

You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you. 

“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”

You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want. 

He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms. 

He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you. 

“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye. 

Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off. 

Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone. 

Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?

You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour. 

You laugh and crack the window, letting the rain hit your face. You aren’t dressed for a chase, but to hell with it. The camp was having a barbeque, and another group was playing music earlier.You threw on your favorite white sundress and boots, figuring you’d be chilling in a fold-out chair among the fireflies for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Then the sky darkened, and your heart skipped a beat at the first rush of cool wind. You didn’t have time to change, so now you’re standing beneath a raging storm with your dress soaked through to the bone as you plant a tripod near the truck for some action shots.

“Good job! That’s gonna be beautiful!” Tyler yells over the storm from the tailgate. “Okay, everyone! Get your shots and then get back in!”

You record some shots of the storm as boatloads of other trucks and vehicles surround you, recording their own images and videos for various news outlets, social media, hobby photography, and data collecting. Those data scientists with StormPar are the worst - so uppity. Especially that one with the-

“Hey!” You shout, watching the horns on the grill of Tyler’s truck swing around and start in the other direction. “Wait!” You scream, sloshing through the mud and waving your arms. The truck doesn’t slow, and you quickly realize they’ve left you behind. The convoy of various vehicles are long gone except for one that drives up to you. The driver’s side window rolls down, “Are you fucking crazy or just stupid?”

“They left me!” You yell, getting more drenched by the second. Scott’s nostrils flare as he pushes the passenger side door open. “Get in.”

You know Scott from various chases - always lurking around the fray before the storm hits. He doesn’t interact with the commonfolk, unless of course he overhears you say something incorrect or offer an opinion he doesn’t agree with. Then he’s all chatter. “Hurry up,” he huffs, offering you his hand to hoist you up into the StormPar truck. You take it and let him haul you inside. His jaw flexes as you immediately soak the seats with your drenched dress.

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to get yourself killed?” He huffs, revving the engine and driving away from the small tornado back toward camp.

“No, asshole,” you huff, starting to shiver from the adrenaline and cold air conditioning blowing in your face. You cross your arms over your chest. “They left me. They always take headcount. I don’t know what happened.”

“Everyone scrambled when that thing whipped east. They must have miscounted,” he says, throwing a blanket from the backseat at you. “If you lot would just stay the fuck home, shit like this wouldn’t happen!”

You huff, but accept the warmth of the blanket. “What makes you guys more worthy of a storm than the rest of us? It’s how I make a living just like you.” The irritation in your voice grows. “At least we’re nice to everyone that comes out. You guys are just stuck-up dicks.”

“We’re tracking the storm to collect data, not to upload a shaky video to fucking YouTube,” he says, jerking the wheel to the left to avoid a spot where the road has washed out. Your body jostles in the seat - you didn’t have a chance to buckle up - and you steady yourself with a hand on Scott’s thigh. You immediately jerk back, muttering “sorry” before sitting back in your seat.

“People love storm chasin’,” you say, more quietly this time.

“Yeah, well, people love building homes where tornadoes don’t hit,” he volleys back. “And Tyler’s whole crew gets in the way of us doing our job.”

“Maybe you’re not good enough at your job then,” you huff, looking out the truck window at the receding storm. The tornado’s long dissolved by now. Mother Nature is done showing off for tonight.

“Always with the smart mouth,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can’t you just admit you’re not clever enough to do what StormPar does? Just a bunch of rednecks with cameras.”

You roll your eyes. “Sorry Mister MIT, I couldn’t afford to go to an Ivy.”

“MIT’s not an Ivy,” he says.

“Well, whatever the fuck it is!” You yell, wanting to get the hell out of the truck already.

Scott slows down to the speed limit and looks over at you. “You’re wound a little tight, aren’t ya? Shouldn’t you be thanking me for saving your sorry ass?”

You turn toward him and pitch your voice up an octave so it’s really bubbly, “Thank you so much for saving my life, Scotty! I don’t know what I’d do without you, big boy.”

“Now say it again, but just the “big boy” part,” he says with a smirk.

“Oh fuck off, perv.”

He laughs as you feel around the floor for your camera, but it’s not there. Didn’t you put it in the truck when you got in? “Fuck!” You yell.

Scott presses the brakes with an irritated, “What?”

“I left my camera back there,” you tell him, knowing he’s about to berate you again for being careless.

“Not my problem, kid,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Not your-? Scott, that camera is worth more than my monthly rent,” you scoff. “I need to go get it.”

“I’m not backtracking for some shitty camera,” he huffs.

“Scott,” you say, like stop.

He says your name in the same tone.

“Please?” You ask through gritted teeth. “Will you drive back so I can get it?”

“What do I get out of it?” He asks, eyeing the way the blanket he threw at you earlier is sliding down your shoulder. You nudge it back up and groan.

“The satisfaction of knowing you were a good person for once in your god damned life,” you say with a forced smile.

He tsks. “That’s not great for the spank bank, darlin’.”

“Scott!” You yell in frustration. “I need that camera. I need to get back to camp. I’m tired and soaking wet!”

“I’m sure you are,” he smirks, slowing down and making a three-point-turn back in the direction of the field.

“You’re sick,” you sigh.

You’re both silent on the quick drive back to the scene of the tornado. You hop out of the truck and run to the field, spotting the tripod quickly. It’s waterproof thankfully, and you cradle it like a baby as you walk back to the truck. You climb in and carefully place it on the floorboards before sitting back in your seat.

“What? No thank you?” Scott asks, drumming out a beat on the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes and look at him. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take the truck out of park so you look at him with a what the fuck expression.

“Are you gonna listen to me and stay the hell home next time?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Stubborn.”

“Asshole,” you spit.

“You love it.”

You turn your head at that. “You’re delusional.”

“I love it when you’re mean to me,” he says, biting his lower lip.

“There’s something wrong with you,” you sigh.

“Are you just figuring that out, Raindrop?”

You bristle at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Seems fitting - you chase storms, love the rain, you’re wet.”

You cross your arms over your chest and wonder where the blanket went.

“Nothing to say to that?” He asks, nudging your bare knee with his.

You ignore him and stare out the window at the cornfield. He laughs - he actually fucking laughs.

“What are you even tryin’ to do?” You finally shout, your voice slipping a bit with Southern twang.

Scott smirks, never letting his guard down. “Trying to get you to loosen up.”

“By what? Gettin’ into my pants? You wanna fuck the redneck storm chaser so you can go back to your stupid fucking Ivy League alumni dinner schmooze fest fuckboy party and tell them you bagged someone that’s not clever enough to work for StormPar? Is that what you’re tryin’ to do?”

“MIT isn’t an Ivy,” he huffs, looking at you. A light blush paints the tops of his cheeks, and you realize that something you said finally got through to him. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”

You snort. “Doubtful.”

“Try me.”

You look up at him again - his blue eyes are serious and searching. It’s no secret that he’s handsome, but he’s always so fucking irritating that you haven’t really given yourself the chance to notice it.

“Scott,” you start. “I-”

“Don’t say anything,” he says.

His knuckles brush your cheek. “I think you’re clever,” he says. “I think you’re smart. I’m just a hothead that can’t see past the numbers and data most of the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “And what would you see if you let yourself look past everything?”

“I’d see a woman with a passion for something that my laptop can’t quite capture or calculate. You’re chasing something wild out there, even if you’re reckless and crazy for doing it.”

You feel his breath, minty and cold, across your lips.

You laugh. “What, so I call you out for being a dick and you go all soft on me?”

He shrugs. “You’re feisty. I like that. And your dress is damn near see-through when it’s wet.”

“Ah, there he is,” you nod, but you let him haul you into his lap and press his mouth onto yours. Your butt hits the horn of the truck and you both break apart to laugh. “My dress is going to get you wet.”

“So take that shit off,” he says, already reaching under the hem to haul it over your head. He throws it into the backseat with a wet slap. The damp white cotton of your bra does nothing to hide the way you’re feeling about straddling his lap, and he homes in on it right away. “So stubborn, but look at you.”

“Can you be nice for ten seconds?” You whine as you start to kiss his neck.

He doesn’t reply with words, but by bucking his hips into yours, and suddenly you need him to have less clothes on. You start with the buttons of his crisp white StormPar shirt, working your way down to the buckle of his belt. He reclines the driver’s seat back with a smug smile and puts his hands behind his head.

“What are you doin’?” You ask.

“Enjoying the view,” he says.

“Scott,” you whine again. “Help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Jesus, Scott - really?”

“Tell me what you want,” he says more seriously. “Use your words, clever girl.”

You groan in irritation. “You’re such a prick.”

“It’s working for you,” he says, nodding down at the wet patch growing in your underwear. You blush as he starts to help you both get completely undressed. By the time you’re both naked his knuckles are brushing at the seam of your pussy, and you grind down on his hand with a moan.

“Take what you need,” he rasps into your ear, letting you ride for a few minutes on his hand alone. Two thick fingers make their way in and curl just right. You gasp his name and feel him twitch between your thighs where he’s hard and heavy. You come around his fingers, and suddenly he’s picking you up and notching himself at your entrance. He leans back and watches you slide down his length with a stifled moan. “Ride me.” It’s a command, not a suggestion.

His hands rest on your hips, fingertips digging in, as you start to rock back and forth on him, getting used to his size. “Fuck, Scott,” you moan, placing your hands on his chest for balance. He starts to meet you thrust for thrust, pushing up into you as you rock forward. One hand on your hip, and the other now toying with your breasts - he leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth with a wet pop. Your hands come up around his neck and tug on the ends of his dark hair. He moves one of your hands between your own legs.

“Touch yourself,” he groans. “Play with your needy clit.”

“Scott-”

“Play. With. It,” he says, punctuating each word with a harsh, delicious thrust. You start rubbing yourself in tight circles. “There you go.”

He presses your breasts together and worships them with his mouth - all tongue and teeth, licking and nipping, and “Oh.”

“Don’t stop,” he rasps. “I can feel how close you are.”

“No-”, you start, feeling overstimulated. “I can’t-”

“Oh, yes you can,” he grunts, pulling your hand away and starting the same movements with his own. He holds your hands together in front of your chest with his other hand now, not trusting you to finish the job. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his - your vision is hazy, and your lids flutter closed.

“I said look at me,” he grunts as you tighten around him. It’s never felt like this - not this intense, like you could… “Oh, fuck, there you go. Good girl.”

Your inner thighs are wet and you look down at your shaking body with a whine, not totally sure what just happened. Scott cradles your lolling head in his hands and leans forward to kiss your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod and shift your body so you’re leaning forward on him, and he picks up the pace again.

“Guess Raindrop was a good nickname,” he grunts into your ear, biting the lobe.

You let the dig slide, completely fucked out as you hang on to his body. “Scott-”

“I’m close,” he says.

“I’m on the Pill,” you manage to mutter.

“I don’t care,” he rasps, rutting into you with a moan. “‘M never pulling outta you.”

You feel him - wet heat filling your core and you somehow come once more, crying out his name.

You both stay there for a moment, catching your breath and kissing each other while you feel him start to leak out of you.

“I should get up,” you whisper. “I’m a mess.”

“Beautiful mess,” he whispers, helping you off of him. He leans back to grab the blanket from earlier and wraps it around you.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t have much in the truck to clean us up. Why don’t you come to my room when we get back and you can take a shower in something that’s not an RV?” He offers.

“I love the RV,” you say with a laugh.

“You’re going to love a long, hot shower,” he replies. “With me.”

“That’s probably a bad idea,” you say.

“We chase tornadoes for a living, darlin’. Bad ideas are our bread and butter,” he says, taking one of your hands in his. “C’mon, stay with me.”

You’re not sure how he’s gone from offering a shower to offering his bed, but sometimes bad ideas are worth the outcome.

“Okay.”

The End

“My…” The word came out as a harsh whisper that broke in the middle. “She’s…”

He took an unsteady step forward, then another. His legs visibly trembled as he approached and when he reached the bed, his knees gave way. He sank down onto the mattress, the disturbance causing Amelia to stir but not wake.

“Two years,” he breathed, doing the mental calculation. “She’s two years old. I missed two years.” It wasn’t a question.

You nodded. “Two years and three months.”

When his eyes finally tore away from her face to meet yours, they were full of such raw emotion you had to look away. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, voice suddenly sharp with concern. “Why are you here?”

The shift to worry, the parental concern from a man who’d only known of her existence for thirty seconds, touched something you thought long buried.

“It’s just an ear infection. It flared up and her fever spiked. I couldn’t get it down and she wouldn’t stop crying.” You brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “Jack says she’s looking better already.”

Robby’s eyes shifted to the IV line then back to Amelia’s face. His hand hovered in the air between them, uncertain, afraid. “Can I?”

You hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Yes.”

With a gentleness that surprised you, he placed his palm against her forehead. His hand, always large to your eyes, looked enormous against her small face. His touch was light as if she might break under the weight.

“Her fever’s down,” you told him. “It was 102 when we came in.”

He nodded but his attention remained fixed on his daughter. A tear slipped down his cheek, then another. He made no move to wipe them away.

He cleared his throat. “I know why you didn’t tell me. I know exactly why.” His hand moved from her forehead to gently brush her cheek. “The things I said to you, the things I did…I’ve relived them a thousand times. Waking up the next morning and finding your key…” His voice cracked. “I’ve never hated myself more than in that moment.”

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. “Why did you say those things?” The words broke as the left your lips, the wound still raw. “All I wanted was to love you.” You paused, then added, “Did you mean them?”

Please don’t tell me you meant them.

His gaze lifted to yours, eyes red-rimmed but steady. “I was drowning. After Adamson died I was drowning in guilt and grief and I was terrified I was going to take you down with me.” His hand moved from Lia to cover yours. “I thought it was better to push you away. I thought if I made you hate me, you’d leave and stop trying to save me. I didn’t deserve it.”

You glanced away and sighed before looking at him again. “Jack told me you’re in therapy. That you go every week.”

Robby nodded. “Almost three years now. You were one of the first things I talked about. My therapist knows your name almost as well as mine.”

His gaze drifted back to his daughter, studying her features with a wonder that made your chest ache. “I’ve missed so much. Her first steps. First words.” He closed his eyes briefly as if to ward off the pain. “Does she talk much?”

“She’s starting to string words together. She can be shy until she gets to know someone but—” You stopped yourself realizing how strange it was to have this conversation with a father meeting his child for the first time. To be telling him about things he should have known.

Robby seemed to sense your discomfort and withdrew his hand from yours. “I have no right to ask anything of you. But please…I want to know her. I want a chance to be her father.” His eyes met yours again, pleading. “I want a chance to know you again, too. If that’s even remotely possible.”

The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable but you had more than just your own heart to protect now.

“Small steps, Robby,” you said firmly. “I need to be careful. Not just for me, but for her. I can’t let her get attached to someone who might decide we’re not worth the effort.”

He flinched slightly at your words but nodded immediately. “I understand. Small steps. Whatever you need, whatever you’re willing to give me. I just want to be in her life, in any way that you’ll allow.”

You studied the face you’d once known better than your own. There were some new wrinkles and more gray in his beard, but the wild, bottomless grief was gone from his eyes. Now there was something deeper there. Something richer, kinder.

“Okay,” you said finally. “We’ll try.”

A smile spread across Robby’s face. Gradual at first, before transforming into something wide and bright. He looked once more at his daughter as if memorizing every feature of her face.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Jack let Robby go over the discharge papers with you. You could tell he was bursting with questions but was biting his tongue. He’d pulled some strings and gotten Amelia’s meds filled so you could just take them home with you. You didn’t want to think about how much this visit was going to cost you.

By the time you were ready to leave, the sky had started to lighten with the approaching dawn. Robby walked beside you, maintaining a careful distance. Amelia slept on your shoulder, her fever reduced and her breathing even. Her little hands were curled into the fabric of your sweater. The weight of her in your arms was familiar, comforting, even if your muscles ached from holding her all night.

“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked as you stepped outside.

“We walked. It’s not very far.”

Robby stopped abruptly, turning to face you in alarm. “You walked in the middle of the night? With a sick child?”

There was no judgment in his words, only concern. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. When was the last time someone worried about you?

“I had to sell the car,” you explained simply. “And an uber…” You trailed off, not wanting to admit that you couldn’t afford an uber, every bit of your paycheck carefully budgeted. “It was faster to walk,” you said instead.

Understanding dawned in Robby’s eyes, followed quickly by regret. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Let me drive you home then. You’re both exhausted.”

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, I doubt you have a car seat in your vehicle.”

His face fell. “No, I don’t.” He looked from you to Amelia then to the street. “I could go get one. There’s a—”

“Michael,” you interrupted gently. “It’s fine. We can walk. I’m used to it.”

He hesitated, clearly wanting to argue. “Fine. But I’m walking you home.”

It wasn’t a question but you found yourself nodding anyway. You were too tired to protest and frankly you’d feel safer with Robby beside you.

You set off toward your apartment. The streets were quiet at this hour. Robby matched his pace to yours and you knew it had to be driving him mad, but he said nothing. Neither of you spoke for several blocks.

Robby’s eyes kept drifting to Amelia, stealing glances at her sleeping face nestled against your neck. “She looks like my mom,” he said suddenly, his voice soft. “Around the eyes.”

You huffed a laugh. “Then you must have your mother’s eyes Robinavitch, because those are all you.”

The neighborhood gradually changed as you walked. The well-maintained buildings near the hospital giving way to older structures in various stages of disrepair. Most of the shops were still shuttered. And further down, an empty lot was filled with trash.

He took in the surroundings with careful neutrality, but you caught the tightening around his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed as he scanned the streets.

“It’s not usually this empty,” you said feeling oddly defensive. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner that has decent traffic. And the bodega owner gives Lia cookies when we stop in.”

Robby nodded, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost two years. After she was born, we stayed with a friend for a while, but a newborn wears out their welcome quickly I guess.” You didn’t want to think about those days, how all your friendships dissolved when you needed them most.

“Here we are,” you said as you approached a five-story brick building. A few of the windows were patched with duct tape and the front door had been forced open more than once.

Robby took it all in, his face carefully blank. His eyes had always betrayed him, however and you easily saw the concern, the guilt, the desire to rescue you. But he said nothing and you were grateful for the restraint.

“We’re on the third floor. It’s small but it works for us.”

You shifted her weight, her warm breath steady against your neck. “I’ll unblock your number. Jack’s too.”

His smile erased years in an instant. It reminded you of the man you’d first fallen for, before the grief had hallowed him out and anger and self-hatred had seeped in to fill the void. “I’d like that,” he said.

You hesitated, then added. “I’m off on Sundays.”

“Sunday,” he repeated.

You turned toward the entrance, fumbling with your keys before realizing the door was busted. Again. You pushed it open with your hip.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, eyes moving from you to Amelia and back again. “I’ll call you. If that’s okay?”

You nodded, then stepped inside, letting the door close behind you.

The stuffed bear was large, its plush brown body nearly half the size of the child it was intended for. Robby stood awkwardly in the doorway of your apartment three days after your trip to the hospital. The toy was clutched in his hands like some sort of shield. His eyes darted around the small living space, taking everything in. Not that there was much for him to see. Run down furniture, Amelia’s art adorning the walls, worn carpet that was older than you.

“I didn’t know what to bring,” he said. “Jack said stuffed animals are usually a safe bet.”

You let him in with a small smile. “It’s perfect. She’ll love it.”

Lia peeked out from behind your legs, one small hand clutching the leg of your pants, dark eyes wide as they took in the stranger with the bear. Her other thumb was in her mouth, a habit that emerged whenever she felt unsure.

Robby crouched down, bringing himself to Amelia’s eye level, the bear in his hands. “Hi, Amelia,” he said softly. “I brought you a friend. His name is…” He paused, uncertain of what to say.

“Bear,” she said around her thumb, her voice muffled but unmistakable.

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Bear. Good name.”

He set the stuffed animal on the floor between them. She stared at it then at Robby.

“It’s okay,” you told her. “It’s for you.”

After another moment of deliberation, she darted forward, grabbed the bear by one paw and retreated back behind your legs, dragging her prize with her. Robby’s eyes met yours over her head, hope shining in them.

“This is mommy’s friend Robby,” you told her, placing a hand on her head. “Do you want to say hello?”

Lia shook her head rapidly and you watched Robby deflate a little.

“That’s okay,” he said after clearing his throat. “We’ll get to know each other soon enough.”

“Would you like some coffee?” you offered. “It’s nothing fancy but…”

“Coffee would be great.” He rose to his full height and moved to the couch, sitting at one end, doing his best to look nonthreatening. “Nice place.”

You snorted. “You’re still a bad liar, Michael.”

As you busied yourself with the coffee maker, Amelia gradually emerged from hiding to stare at this new person from a slightly closer vantage point.

Weeks slipped by before you knew it. Each meeting was a small but significant step forward.

Children ran around the playground of the small neighborhood park, shouting in delight. You sat beside Robby on a peeling green bench, watching as Jack pushed Lia on the swings. Her delighted squeals carried across the playground.

“Higher, Jack! Higher!” she demanded, all traces of her earlier shyness with both men had long vanished. Jack obliged, sending the swing arcing through the air while keeping a careful eye on her in the baby swing.

“He’s good with her.” You were still surprised at the ease with which both men had woven her into their lives. Jack especially seemed to know exactly how to make her laugh.

“He had younger siblings,” Robby explained, eyes never leaving his daughter. “Helped raise them while his parents worked.”

You nodded, filing the information away. “As opposed to us, the only children.”

Robby huffed. “Probably why I have no idea what I’m doing.”

You laughed at that. “None of us know what we’re doing. We just make it up as we go along. That’s parenting.”

His hand found yours on the bench, his fingers covering yours. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

The touch was brief, just enough to send warmth spreading through you before he withdrew.

“Chocolate or vanilla?” Robby asked, holding Amelia in his arms as they studied the ice cream display case with equal intensity.

“Both,” she declared, hand pressing against the glass.

Robby hummed. “A woman who knows what she wants. A scoop of each please,” he said to the server.

Your daughter clapped her little hands together and you smiled. After Robby paid for their ice cream and your drink, the three of you settled at a small table outside the shop. The spring afternoon was warm and the ice cream would be melting soon.

Robby took a bite of the treat watching Lia out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, as he went for another bite she huffed. “Robby.”

He hummed as he looked at her. “Yes, Miss Lia?”

“My ice cream.”

“Amelia Marie Robinavitch,” you said, quiet but sharp.

Four identical eyes snapped in your direction.

“Sorry,” a little voice said. “Ice cream please.” She drew out the last word.

Robby nodded absently scooping up a bite of chocolate to feed his daughter who hummed in contentment.

He swallowed hard, eyes moving from you to her and back again. “Robinavitch?”

You suddenly found the top of the table very interesting. “I…um…”

“Take your time, honey,” he said softly as he fed another bite to Lia.

You sighed. “I couldn’t put you on the birth certificate without your permission, but I could give her your name. I figured it would be easier if anything happened to me.” Your fingers traced the rough surface of the table. “I told people how to find you if anything happened. Wrote a letter for you and everything. You can guess why I gave my last name at the hospital.”

His hand wrapped around yours and you looked up in surprise. “Thank you. I didn’t do anything to deserve it, but thank you.”

“Jack! Robby!” Amelia called, her voice carrying across the duck pond where you’d arranged to meet one Sunday afternoon. She broke free from your hand, running toward them with reckless abandon.

Jack swooped down as she reached them, lifting her high into the air as she giggled uncontrollably. Robby stood beside them, a bag of peas in his hand for the ducks. His smile was wide and unguarded as he watched Jack spin Lia around.

When he set her down, she reached for both of their hands, her tiny fingers wrapping around one of each man’s digits. “Ducks,” she announced, tugging them toward the water.

They exchanged a glance over her head full of adoration that had your heart twisting with emotion. There was pride there, and joy, but also something deeper. An acknowledgment of the gift they’d been given.

As you watched them walk toward the pond, your daughter between them, you realized how much had changed in just a few weeks. The careful distance and tentative interactions had given way to something that looked remarkably like family.

“Mommy!” Amelia called over her shoulder. “Ducks.”

You moved forward to join them, feeling lighter than you had in years.

The call came at 6:20 in the morning. You were already running late, trying to coax Amelia into her clothes while simultaneously trying to put on your shoes when your phone buzzed on the counter. Mrs. Patel’s raspy voice on the other end sent a spike of panic through you. “So sorry, dear,” she wheezed, clearly unwell. “This cold has gotten worse. I can’t watch little Amelia today.”

Your stomach dropped. “It’s okay, Mrs. Patel. Please rest.” Your mind raced through possible options as you hung up. The flower shop opened at 7:30 and your boss had been clear about the consequences of another absence.

“Sock!” Amelia demanded, waving a green sock in the air to pair with the purple one already on her foot.

“Good choice,” you replied automatically. She was two. Who cared if her socks matched?

You scrolled through your phone contacts. Your fingers hesitated over Robby’s name but you knew he was working today. Jack should just be finishing his night shift however. You hated to ask, but you didn’t know what else to do.

He answered after two rings. “Abbot.” He sounded alert despite having just worked twelve hours.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry to call. I know you’re getting ready to go home but—” The words tumbled out in a rush of desperation.

“What’s wrong?” he interrupted, concern sharpening his tone.

“Nothings wrong exactly, but my sitter’s sick and I have to be at work in an hour.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said simply, before you could say anything else. “When do you get off?”

“Five,” you said. “But Jack, are you sure? You know how rambunctious she can be.”

“I’ve pulled doubles on no sleep. I think I can handle one toddler.” His smile was evident in his voice. “Get her stuff together. I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up before you could properly thank him. You stood in the middle of your living room, phone in hand, relief washing over you.

“Who that?” Lia asked, now attempting to put her arms through the legs of her pants.

“That was Jack,” you explained as you knelt to help her dress properly. “You’re going to spend some time with him while Mommy goes to work.”

Her little face lit up. “Swing?”

You ran your fingers through her hair. “I don’t know, baby. We’ll have to see.”

Exactly eighteen minutes later a knock came at your door. Jack stood in the hallway still in his scrubs. “Come in,” you told him as you glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you still be on shift.”

“Got the tail end covered. Don’t worry about it.” Ameila ran to him and he crouched down catching her in a hug. “Hey, squirt. Looks like you’re stuck with me today.”

“Okay, here’s her bag,” you said handing it over. “And her car seat—”

“Don’t need it,” he cut you off. “Mike and I both had one installed.”

The casual mention made your throat tighten. You looked at Jack, standing in your apartment with your daughter comfortable in his arms, and marveled at how quickly your isolated world had expanded to include these two men.

“Thank you.” The words weren’t enough to convey everything you were feeling but they were all you had.

When you left work at five you were surprised to find Jack’s truck parked along the curb. Stepping over to it, you saw Amelia strapped into her seat in the back and waved at her when she called “Mommy!”

 “Hi, baby,” you greeted through the open window with a wide smile then turned to Jack. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Robby is having Shen come in early to cover for him. We were hoping you both might join us for dinner,” he offered. “If not, I’ll just take you home. Up to you, sweetheart.”

You hesitated briefly but the thought of not having to go home and make a meal was too tempting to pass up. “That sounds great, actually.”

His answering smile was wide and warm. “Well, get in then.”

Once you were settled and buckled in, Jack pulled away from the curb.

“What did you two get up to today?” you asked.

“Swing!” Lia called from the back.

Jack chuckled. “Yes, we spent some time in the swing and we read some books. Then we cuddled on the couch and watched a movie.”

“Sounds like a good day.”

“The best.”

You were still smiling at his quick reply as he pulled into their drive.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been to their home, a comfortable three-bedroom house about ten minutes from the hospital. It had always struck you as the embodiment of stability. Everything was well-maintained, clean and spacious. The furniture was comfortable and the walls were painted something other than the stark white of your apartment walls. Their shelves were filled with photos and books, real art hung on the walls.

What you found this time surprised you. A basket of toys was tucked neatly in the corner of their living room next to a small play kitchen.

Jack followed your gaze. “We might have gone a little overboard at the toy store last week. We wanted her to have options.”

Amelia had headed right to the basket and began pulling out all the toys. Wooden blocks, plastic animals and a toy doctor kit surrounded her. She settled on the rug, immediately absorbed in the toys she’d probably played with all day.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, though your tone lacked conviction. The sight of your daughter playing contently in this warm, safe space made you feel lighter than anything had in a while.

“It makes us happy, makes her happy too,” he said with a shrug. “We’ve set up one of the rooms for her so she has somewhere to nap when she’s here.”

“Thank you again for today.” You watched Lia line up the animals, making sounds for them as she did. “Mrs. Patel has been getting sick more often lately. I’m afraid Amelia is just too much for her.”

Jack rubbed under his chin with the back of his hand. “What are your options?”

You shrugged. “I don’t have many. Daycares, decent daycares I mean, would take too much of my paycheck. I’ll find someone.”

The front door opened and Robby appeared in his scrubs, a grocery bag in each hand. His face broke into a smile at the sight of you and Amelia in the living room as if finding you there was an unexpected gift.

“You’re early,” Jack commented, crossing to take one of the bags. “Thought you’d be another hour yet.”

“Shen showed up earlier than asked. I took advantage.” Robby set his bag on the counter. “I’m going to clean up real fast, I’ll be back.”

He returned in less than ten minutes and immediately crouched next to Amelia who showed him the horse she’d been playing with. “Good choice,” he said seriously. “Horses are very important animals.”

Lia chattered away, explaining something about the horse’s family while Robby listened with complete attention, as if her words were the most fascinating thing he’d heard all day.

When he finally stood and moved toward the kitchen, his eyes met yours, warm and direct. “I wanted to talk to you. Jack said Mrs. Patel was sick today. From what you’ve told me that’s been happening more often.”

You tensed slightly, defensiveness kicking in. “We’re managing.”

“Never said you weren’t, sweetheart,” Robby said gently. “But you don’t have to manage alone anymore.” He glanced at Jack who nodded encouragingly. “One of us can pick her up in the mornings. I can keep her on my days off. When I’m working, we can put her in the hospital daycare.”

You blinked in surprise. “The hospital daycare? Isn’t that just for staff?”

“I am staff,” he pointed out with a smile that crinkled his eyes.

“But the cost—”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he interrupted firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Your first instinct was to refuse. You’d been handling things alone for so long that accepting help felt like admitting defeat. But as you watched Lia playing on the living room floor you realized this wasn’t about your pride. It was about giving your daughter the best possible care, the most stable environment.

“Mommy look!” she called, holding up a toy stethoscope. “I just like Jack and Robby!”

Her joy was infectious and made your decision clear.

You smiled and turned back to Robby. “Okay. Thank you.”

Relief washed over his face. “Thank you,” he countered. “For letting us help. For letting us be part of her life.”

Jack stood at the counter, working on dinner. He cleared his throat drawing the attention of the both of you. “I…We…” He shook his head. “Hell.” He straightened and took a deep breath, looking you directly in the eye. “We’re not trying to push. To ask more of you than you are willing to give, but you are not alone any more. We’re here for both of you. You just have to ask.”

Your throat grew tight and you gave a quick nod, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

Robby wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed the side of your head. “We mean it. Anything you need. Either of you.”

“Yeah.” The word fell broken from your lips as a tear raced down your cheek. You cleared your throat and swiped it away. “Alright Jack, put me to work. Michael’s on Lia duty.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they answered in unison. Robby wore a wide smile while Jack sported his usual crooked grin.

He stilled, one hand gripping the edge of the nurses’ station. His mouth opened, closed then opened again. You didn’t see him, too focused on the child in your arms and the nurse asking you questions.

The shock lasted approximately three seconds before he reasserted control over his reactions. He straightened his scrubs and headed to the board, scanning the most recent entry. Your last name followed by Amelia Age 2F. Chief complaint fever and ear pain.

Jack grabbed a tablet and pulled up the chart. He entered the exam room with practiced calm even if he felt anything but. “Hello,” he said and your head snapped up.

Recognition, surprise and something unreadable flashed across your face in quick succession. You adjusted your hold on your still crying child. “Jack,” you breathed.

He gave you a half smile of acknowledgement, swallowing down all the questions he wanted to ask until he got the little one taken care of. “What’s going on with the babe?”

You swallowed hard. “This is Amelia. I’m pretty sure it’s an ear infection. She was fussy all day. The fever started after dinner. Tylenol’s not helping much.”

Nikki, one of the night shift nurses, glanced over. “Temps 102.2. Mom says she’s been refusing liquids for the past few hours.”

Mom. The word landed like a rock in Jack’s stomach.

He took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s have a look. You can keep hold of her for now. Just sit on the bed with her. I’ll work around you.”

You nodded, climbing onto the paper covered surface with Amelia clinging to you. Jack approached slowly, movements careful as he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I know you’re not feeling good. We’re going to try to help, okay?”

The toddler ignored him completely, burying her face deeper into your neck while she screamed and howled. Jack worked efficiently despite the challenge, listening to her lungs before examining her ears.

“Right ear is definitely infected. The membrane is bulging and bright red.” He glanced up at you. “You said this just started today?”

Your hand smoothed over her back in small circles. “She was maybe a little more tired than usual yesterday but nothing alarming.”

Jack nodded. “We’ll start an IV to get some fluids and antibiotics started. The faster we get ahead of this, the better she’ll feel.” He turned to Nikki. “Can you prep a pediatric IV kit? And we’ll need acetaminophen and ceftriaxone.”

The nurse gathered supplies while Jack pulled on a pair of gloves.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered and Jack wasn’t sure if you were talking to him or Amelia.

“For what?” he asked.

“For showing up like this. Disturbing your shift.”

His eyes met yours. “This is literally my job.”

The nurse returned with a tray of supplies and Jack explained the procedure to you. “We’ll need to place a small IV. It will hurt for a moment but then we can give her something for pain right away.”

You nodded, adjusting your position so you had a better hold on her.

“Talk to her,” he suggested. “Distract her the best you can.”

You began whispering words of reassurance as Jack and the nurse worked in tandem. The needle slid in and Amelia’s wails reached a new, higher pitch. You never stopped your soothing litany even as tears formed in your own eyes.

“Almost done,” Jack said, securing the IV with tape and connecting the line. “There we go. Nikki, let’s push the pain meds first.”

The effect wasn’t immediate but within five minutes, Amelia’s screams began to soften into whimpers. Within ten, her small body went slack against yours as she finally surrendered to sleep.

“Thank god.” Your shoulders relaxed as you pressed your lips to the top of her head.

Jack ducked out once to tell Lena where he’d be if she needed him and check in with his underlings. When he came back, he just stood for a moment and watched the two of you.

“We’ll need to keep her for a bit. Make sure the fever comes down and she’s tolerating the antibiotics.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. “Whatever she needs.”

He hesitated then asked the first question of many cycling through his brain. “Is there someone we can call for you?”

“No. It’s just us.”

Jack slid one of the stools over to the bed, eyes locked on the sleeping toddler in your arms. Now that she was peaceful, the resemblance was unmistakable. Those dark curls, the shape of her face, even the slight furrow between her brows as she slept. Jack had spent enough nights looking at those same features on his boyfriend’s face to recognize them instantly in miniature form. Amelia was Robby’s daughter, no question about it. He only wondered if you’d admit it.

He cleared his throat softly. “She’s two?”

“Yes.” Your fingers gently stroked her hair. The gesture was automatic, the movement of a parent who had spent countless hours soothing their child.

His gaze lifted from Amelia to your face. “The father?”

A shadow crossed your features, but you met his eyes. “You know who her father is, Jack. You knew it as soon as you saw those big brown eyes. She looks just like him.”

 Jack ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell him? He has a right to know.”

You arched a brow, your features turning sharp with anger. “Did he tell you why I left?”

The night you disappeared had been a defining moment for Robby, one that Jack had heard about repeatedly. “He said he woke up and you were gone. That you’d blocked his number and he had no idea where you were. He was worried sick. I tried to call only to find you’d blocked me as well.” And god, that had about killed him.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, though you swallowed the sound when Amelia stirred against your chest. “He’s full of shit.”

Jack blinked, caught off guard by the venom in your voice.

“That night I came home from a shift to find him drunk. Not just a few beers drunk, empty bottle of whiskey drunk. We’d been fighting for weeks. I was exhausted, working a lot of overtime. And you know what he was like then.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. This didn’t align with what Robby had told him but he couldn’t say he was surprised. Robby had been spiraling severely toward the end of your relationship.

“He asked why I even bothered coming home. That I was suffocating him by asking him if he was okay all the time. That I was too needy, wanting to spend all our time together. That I should stop trying to fix him because—” Your voice caught. “Because I wasn’t worth the effort for him to try.”

Jack’s face fell. “Jesus.”

“I packed what was important to me while he passed out on the couch. Left my key on the counter. I made the assumption he didn’t want me around. Wouldn’t you?”

Jack cursed under his breath, eyes dropping to the floor. No wonder you’d disappeared out of all their lives. Fucking Robby.

“I found out about Lia six weeks later,” you added. “I was staying with a friend, trying to figure out what to do next.”

The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant sounds of the hospital and Amelia’s soft breathing.

“I wasn’t going to expose her to that, Jack. He needed help and he refused to get it.” Your voice hardened. “You don’t get to make him the victim. I was all alone. I would have given anything to not be, but not at the cost of my heart. Or hers.”

His eyes searched your face, searching for lies or uncertainty. He found neither. “Why didn’t you at least tell someone? Anyone?”

“And say what? Hey the guy who told me I wasn’t worth the effort is about to be a father?” You shook your head. “I have no family I could turn to. My friends had been hearing about our problems for months. They bailed when they had to ‘work’ to be my friend.”

Jack winced at that. He remembered Robby from those days. Volatile, angry, drowning in grief. The man had been a walking hurricane destroying everything in his path. Including his relationship with you apparently.

“I thought about calling,” you admitted, voice softer. “So many times. When I was throwing up every morning for weeks. When I went to my first ultrasound alone. When they handed her to me in the delivery room and I had no one to share it with.” Your eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But every time, I remembered the look in his eyes, the things he said.”

“He’s different now,” Jack said.

You lifted a brow. “I’ve heard that before.”

He shook his head once. “No, I mean it. After you left…It broke something in him. Made him realize how far he’d fallen maybe. It was the wake up call he needed.”

You glanced down at Amelia’s sleeping face. “Good for him.” There was no warmth in your voice. “I’m glad he got help. But I made the right choice. I had to protect myself, then I needed to protect her. We’ve managed.”

The way your voice wavered on those last two words said more than you’d probably intended them to. The circles under your eyes, the worn state of your clothes, the fact you were here alone in the middle of the night with a sick child. It all painted a picture of struggle.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you said catching his expression. “Poor single mom, in over her head. But we’re fine. She’s happy and she’s loved. That’s more than I can say for what her life would have been like with him.”

Jack leaned back, taking a deep breath as he absorbed everything you’d told him. The version of events you described matched the Robby from then, the broken, angry doctor who snapped at interns and drowned himself in work to avoid facing his demons. But that wasn’t the man he knew now, the one who brought him coffee at the end of his shifts, who sat with patients’ families delivering difficult news, who attended therapy religiously every Wednesday without fail. Three years could change a person. Jack knew that better than most. But it didn’t erase the pain of the past or the consequences.

He looked at your daughter again, at the tiny hand curled on your chest, at the undeniable evidence of Robby’s genetics in every feature of her face. A child who had never met her father. A father who didn’t know he had a child.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why didn’t you call me? Why block me? I would have helped. You have to know that.”

His eyes betrayed his long-standing affection for you, one that predated his current relationship.

You adjusted Amelia’s sleeping form to a more comfortable position. “I wasn’t going to put you in the middle, Jack. I wasn’t going to make you choose. You were his friend first.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to his hands. “There’s something you should know.”

You tilted your head in question.

“I’m with Robby now,” he said. “We’ve been together for almost a year.”

Your eyes widened slightly. He watched your reaction carefully, unsure what he expected, but he found nothing but a sort of resigned understanding.

“He’s been going to therapy. Regular sessions every week. Has been since about two months after you left.” He paused. “He’s different. Not perfect. Still Robby, still stubborn as hell and too blunt for his own good, but he’s better. Healthier. And I know he misses you. We talk about you all the time.”

You looked at him sharply, a flash of something—fear, maybe—crossing your features.

“I won’t tell him,” Jack assured you quickly. “About any of this. That’s not my place.” He gestured toward Amelia. “But you should. If for no other reason than he can help. Financially, if nothing else.”

You looked down at the girl in your arms, uncertainty written in every line of your body.

“If you won’t let him help, let me,” Jack offered simply.

The kindness in his voice broke something in you, tears spilling down your cheeks. Silent at first, then accompanied by a shuddering breath.

“It’s been so hard,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I lost my job when I was pregnant. There were complications and…”

You trailed off and Jack bit the inside of his lip to keep from asking the million things he wanted to know about that. It wasn’t important right now. This was.

“Anyway, I work at this flower shop six days a week. The owner let me bring Lia with me when she was little. The pay’s barely enough for our apartment.” You wiped at your tears with your free hand. “We don’t have a car. I take the bus everywhere which means leaving at least an hour earlier for everything. My neighbor, who’s like eighty, watches Lia when I work but I feel terrible about it because sometimes she’s so energetic. I worry it’s too much for her.”

Jack listened, chest tightening with each new detail. He thought of their spacious home, their comfortable salaries, the stability Robby could have offered you both.

“The last time Lia was sick, I had to miss three days of work. My boss was understanding, but I still only got paid for one. I had to choose between the electricity and the phone bill. I choose the electricity of course, but then my phone got shut off and I missed a call for a better job because they couldn’t reach me.”

Jack moved to sit beside you, careful not to jostle Amelia, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I am so sorry you’ve been going through this alone.”

You leaned into him, body trembling slightly. He pulled you closer, feeling your tears dampen his scrub top. He held you while you cried, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You were breaking his heart.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

When your tears finally subsided, you straightened, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall apart like that.”

“Don’t apologize. You’ve been carrying too much for too long.”

You traced the curve of Amelia’s cheek with one finger. “I’ve thought about telling him. So many times. Especially when she started asking about her daddy.” Your voice caught on the word. “I know it’s just a concept to her right now, something she sees on TV, but it hurts. I just tell her he lives far away.”

Jack nodded in understanding. There was no way to explain to a toddler the complications of adult relationships.

“He won’t take her?” Your voice was tight with fear.

His brow furrowed, not immediately understanding. “What do you mean?”

“If I tell him about her, he won’t try to take her from me?”

The realization of what you were asking hit Jack like a punch to his sternum. You weren’t just worried about Robby’s reaction or his potential rejection, you were afraid he might use his resources, his position, to claim custody of the child you’d raised alone.

Jack’s response was immediate and certain. “I won’t let him,” he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

You looked up at him, brows lifting in surprise.

“I mean it.” His voice was low and steady. “If he tried anything like that, he wouldn’t, but if he did, I’d stop him. You’re her mother. You’ve been there every day of her life. No one’s going to change that.”

The conviction in his voice seemed to reassure you and your shoulders relaxed slightly under the weight of his arm. Jack knew making such a promise placed himself between two people he cared about. But looking at your exhausted face, at the protective way you cradled Amelia, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

“Robby can be impulsive, but not cruel. Not anymore. He wouldn’t hurt you like that. Not now.”

You nodded, considering his words. “He really goes to therapy?”

“Every Wednesday at seven,” Jack confirmed. “He either makes sure he’s off or someone comes in early to cover for him.”

A small, sad smile curved your lips. “I used to beg him to go.”

“I know. He told me. Said it was one of his biggest regrets, not listening to you then.”

You took a deep breath as Amelia shifted in your arms. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”

Jack couldn’t contain the grin that spread across his face, a sudden energy coursing through him. This was right. This was what needed to happen. He sat up straighter, already mentally planning the conversation.

“Good.” He stood up. “I’ll get him in here and you can tell him right now.”

You blinked in surprise. “It’s like four in the morning, Jack.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “He doesn’t work tomorrow. And I’d say he deserves to be dragged from his bed for this, don’t you?”

You shook your head at his enthusiasm, but there was a hint of amusement in your eyes. It was a good sign.

Jack pulled out his phone and tapped Robby’s contact, putting it to his ear as it began to ring.

On the third ring, the sleep-roughened voice Jack had grown accustomed to hearing answered. “Robinavitch.”

“Hey. Need you to come to the hospital,” Jack said, staring at the far wall, though he was aware of your gaze on him.

There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line. “Is everything okay? Is there an MCI?”

“No, nothing like that. This is more…personal.”

A pause. “I’m going to need more of an explanation that that, baby,” Robby insisted. His voice was a mixture of concern and irritation at being awakened.

Jack’s eyes flicked to you, holding your gaze as he said your name. “She’s here.”

The change in Robby’s voice was instantaneous, sharp attention replacing any lingering tiredness. “What? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Jack said quickly. “But she wants to talk to you.”

There was a long pause followed by Robby saying, “I’ll be right there,” in a quiet voice. The call ended with no goodbyes.

Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket. “He’s on his way.”

You nodded, hands soothing Amelia’s hair in that nervous gesture he’d noticed earlier. Lena appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. “We’ve got a possible appendicitis in three.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said before turning back to you. “I need to get back to work, but I’ll check on you both as soon as I can. Don’t sneak out.”

Your lips twitched. “Lia’s still on an IV, Jack.”

His expression turned sheepish. “Oh, right. Well, good.”

He slipped out of the room, leaving you alone with your daughter. He worked through the patient load, one eye always on the clock.

Fifteen minutes after the call, Robby strode through the ambulance bay doors. He was dressed in hastily thrown on cargos and a rumpled sweatshirt, his dark hair disheveled. His eyes swept the ED until they landed on Jack.

“Where is she?” Robby asked as he approached.

“She’s in South Four.” Jack put a hand on his arm to stop him from walking off. “Before you go in there—”

“Is she hurt? Sick?” The questions tumbled out, concern etched onto Robby’s face.

“She’s fine,” Jack reassured him. “Just…be gentle, okay? She’s been through a lot.”

He explained to you how his grandmother told him to break into new things he bought by doing something he liked with them like playing with his new toys or studying in his new sweatshirt.

But when you came around, the meaning began to change into something… less innocent.

The first time he showed you the tradition was when he bought a new phone and he asked if you’d like to take a selfie with him so the first picture in the new phone would have your memory in it.

Sweet, caring, very romantic. But that night he had you spreading your legs open while you held the phone and recorded him ravishing your cunt with his mouth, sucking on your nerves feverishly.

The second time was when he got his motorcycle and took you for a ride and showed off his skills, only to engulf your pussy with his lips and make your legs shake as he bent you over the seat of the bike. He was ravenous that night, like he had been starving himself for days just for this moment.

You came three times that night.

The tradition changed over time, it wasn’t doing something you liked anymore, it became ‘Robby eating you out until you couldn’t walk’ tradition.

Up to now that he has you bent over the middle console of the new car he got you for your birthday from the backseat, pants already down and his face buried between your thighs, breaking into the vehicle by doing something you both like — in his mind, there is nothing more he loves than feasting on your cunt — while you moan and push your hips back.

The position is… questionable, because he has to bend over just as much as you and keep you up at the same time, but he is not complaining as long as he gets to drink up your juices like a thirsty dog in the middle of the Sahara.

“Ugh, Robby–” you hiccup, pushing your ass back further into his face, enjoying the burn of his beard against your thighs as he shakes his head side to side and clutches your hips for dear life, “I’ll break the console if you stop!”

He doesn’t reply, he can’t even hear your words, and even if he does, he can’t process them because he is too deep into making you come to care about anything else.

“O-oh! ‘M coming, ‘m coming!”

Robby doesn’t let go of you when your orgasm has you trembling and crying out his name, instead, he latches his lips to your clit and sucks on the nerves until you are pushing his head away while whimpering.

“Jesus, Robby, that was–” you turn around and find him sitting back against the seat, beard soaked and hands playing with the flesh of your thighs, a satisfied smile on his face as he stares at your dripping pussy, “You’re fucking crazy.”

You grin at that, hand moving to grab the pack from your scrub pocket. You open it, a soft shit leaving your lips when you realize it’s empty.

“Sorry, Jack. This was the last one.”

Jack just shakes his head, waving it off like it’s no big deal.

“Probably for the best.”

You bite your lip for a moment, glancing down at the cigarette still burning between your fingers.

“We can share,” you say, pausing when Jack looks at you, brow slightly raised. “If you don’t mind swapping spit, I mean.” Your voice drops into a teasing smile.

Jack’s eyes move from your outstretched hand — the one holding the cigarette out to him — up to your face, lingering on your lips for a split second.

“I mean…” Jack huffs a soft laugh, eyes flicking to your mouth before he can stop himself. “Yeah. I’d love to swap spit with you.”

The line lands halfway between teasing and absolutely sincere — the kind of thing he says lightly, but his voice betrays the honesty beneath it.

He stares at you a little too long. It’s that quiet, loaded stare that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what those words are doing to you, or if he’s just being his usual cheeky self. 

When his fingers brush yours as he takes the cigarette, skin bumping against skin, you almost visibly shudder. And when he doesn’t break eye contact as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a drag, you have to physically stop yourself from whining.

If this had been anyone else—literally anyone else—you wouldn’t be reacting like this. Wouldn’t feel your pulse jump every time Jack’s fingers grazed yours as he passed the cigar back. Wouldn’t let your gaze linger on his lips as he took another drag. Wouldn’t feel that sudden rush of heat sweeping through your body.

Because the truth was that you wanted him. Wanted him for longer than you’d cared to admit.

It wasn’t clear when the crush started.

Maybe it was the first time you noticed his stupidly strong forearms while he showed you how to place an IV. Or maybe it was the proud smile he gave you after you managed a difficult procedure without his help. You didn’t know exactly when it began—but you remembered the day you realized it clearly.

The realization hit you during one of your many night shifts together. Things had been normal enough until you told a joke—just something stupid that made you smile—and Jack had laughed so hard he had to brace a hand on your shoulder. His hand was warm. Even through the barrier of your scrubs, you felt the heat radiating against your skin.

It was enough to make you walk away and splash cold water on your face like some teenager.

Oh, and to make matters about a thousand times worse? This man is a fucking silver fox. The gray in his beard, the streaks in his hair — they ruin you. Completely. You spend entire hours pretending you’re not staring at his jawline or the way his curls cling to his forehead after a particularly rough shift.

So sharing a cigarette with him?

Yeah. Sure. Why not?

Let’s just add fuel to the entire bonfire already burning in your chest. Great idea.

You try to play it cool. You really do. But your brain is doing laps around the fact that you’re basically mouth-kissing him by proxy. Every time you take the cigarette back, it feels more intimate than it has any right to.

Jack exhales his next drag to the side, slow and controlled, and his eyes flick down to your lips again before he looks back up. And that look alone makes you almost do something reckless. Almost.

“Jack! Hey—Jack, we need you inside!”

You both jolt a little at the shout coming from the double doors. It’s one of the new nurses, out of breath, waving him over.

Jack gives you a look that says duty calls without needing a single word, then hands the cigarette back to you before jogging inside. And just like that, you’re alone again in the cool night air.

You stay frozen for a moment, staring at the space where he’d been, trying to convince your heart to stop beating so loudly you can practically hear it in your skull. A tiny piece of the cigarette crumbles and lands on your finger, burning you just enough to snap you out of it.

“Ow.” You wince, staring down at the cigarette still between your fingers, its ember glowing steady and uncaring.

You lift your hand like you're about to flick it to the ground—but pause. Instead, you take one last drag, slow and unsteady, before snubbing it out and making your way back into the ER.

The lights inside feel too bright after the quiet outside. The hum of monitors, distant beeping, clipped conversations — all of it blends together, but your pulse hasn’t settled. You’re still replaying Jack’s fingers brushing yours like some kind of masochist.

You head toward the nurses' station, pretending you’re totally normal, totally composed, totally not about to combust. 

Jack’s bent over a chart, forearm flexed as he scribbles something. His hair is a little mussed from running back inside. And when he glances up and spots you walking in, the small smile he gives you is so soft you feel it in your knees.

“Thought you’d ditched me,” he says lightly.

You roll your eyes, desperately ignoring the way your stomach flips.

“As if you’d survive two hours without me.”

He chuckles — that stupid, warm, fond sound — and your heart does that annoying skip again.

You want to stick with him, want to trail behind him just so you can keep an eye on him as he works. Just to watch him a little more. Unfortunately, you don’t get your wish, because before you know it, you’re both being called to help with different cases.

“Fate seems to like separating us today,” you joke, not expecting anything from it.

“Seems like it,” Jack answers, giving you one last look before starting toward where he’s needed. “It’s rather unfortunate.”

You don’t have time to answer him before he steps behind a curtain, but the smile that spreads across your face could probably blind someone with its brightness.

Things had been going smoothly for most of the rest of the shift. Even without seeing Jack, you’d been able to handle your patients with quiet confidence, checking vitals, giving instructions, and managing small procedures with precision.

You felt confident. Sure of yourself. And then something changed.

You were in the middle of assisting with a minor procedure, improvising slightly to keep the patient comfortable, when a sharp voice cut through the hum of the ER.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Emery Walsh’s tone was crisp, deliberate.

You froze for half a second too long. “I… I just—”

“This is not how this procedure is supposed to be done. You don’t have the authority to make these changes,” she continued, her eyes narrowing.

Your stomach sank, heat rushing to your cheeks. You opened your mouth to explain, but the words seemed to vanish.

And then — unexpectedly — a familiar presence loomed at your shoulder.

“Emery,” Jack said, calm but firm, his voice carrying in a way that made everyone stop. “She made the right call.”

You blinked. Jack? You hadn’t even realized he was anywhere nearby. You hadn’t seen him in a while, so you’d assumed he was busy with patients or with some other med student.

“She’s still learning, yes,” Jack continued, eyes locking on Emery with an intensity you hadn’t expected from him, “but in this moment, what she did kept the patient safe and prevented further complications. I stand by her.”

Your heart jumped — not only because of his words, but because he was defending you. Jack, who never seemed to have an issue with anyone and always acted as if everything was fine, was actively defending you to another doctor.

Emery raised an eyebrow, clearly weighing whether to argue, but Jack’s gaze was unwavering, commanding. “Understood,” she said finally, a slight edge of respect creeping into her tone. “Make sure you document it properly.”

Jack’s attention shifted back to you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come on,” he murmured quietly, just for you. “Let’s finish up before I have to chew someone else out.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh, feeling a mix of relief, disbelief, and something else entirely — the kind of rush you only got when Jack Abbott was with you. 

You walked through the ER, eyes scanning the place for Jack. Your brows furrowed when you didn’t see him anywhere, shoulders lifting in a moment of worry. Maybe he had already left. But he hadn’t said goodbye—and Jack always said goodbye. That meant he was probably still here, hidden somewhere you couldn’t see him.

You were halfway down the hall when a familiar pair of voices stopped you in your tracks. One was unmistakably Jack, calm but laced with that edge you’d come to recognize. The other… Robby.

A small smile lifted on your face—you were glad to have found Jack so you could give him a proper goodbye. But just as you were about to turn the corner and step into their field of vision, one of them said something that made you freeze.

“So, how’s it going with your girl?” Robby asked.

You could hear Jack sigh softly.

“I told you she’s not my girl.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Robby replied, his tone clearly sarcastic.

Your chest constricted. His girl. Jack had someone. And it wasn’t you. 

Of course you should have seen it—he was handsome, charming, older, it was likely he already had someone outside of the ER. But… what about all those little moments? The glances, the grazing of skin, the flirty words, the long stares? Had your brain been distorting everything, making you think your feelings were mutual?

Your back leaned against the wall, a soft frown tugging at your lips as you told yourself Jack didn’t share your feelings. Just as you were about to push off and leave the ER before breaking down in the hallway, Jack said something else.

“I almost told her,” he sighed. “A couple hours ago… we were sharing a cigar—”

“I thought you quit smoking?” Robby interrupted.

“I said I’d try. Anyway, that’s not what’s important right now. She gave me this look, brother… I swear to God, I almost pulled her into a kiss right there in the ambulance bay.”

Your heart stutters. It hits you all at once—he’s talking about you.

“Maybe you should have gone for it then,” Robby says, and you hear Jack scoff in return, lowering his voice.

“…Come on, Robby,” Jack says, voice low and careful, but impossible to ignore. “You know I can’t do anything about it. That would be… highly unethical. I mean, you, of all people, should be telling me not to go for it.”

Robby chuckles softly, the sound carrying just enough to make your stomach twist. “Man…I’m the worst person to give advice on something like this. You should know that by now.”

You don’t know exactly what Robby means, but it’s clear Jack does, because you hear him let out a laugh—an incredulous, yet somehow relieved sound. You’re so caught up in the realization that Jack likes you that you almost forget you’re hiding, like some weirdo, listening to them talk. At any moment, they could turn the corner and catch you.

As if to remind you of reality, you hear footsteps and voices drawing closer. Panicking, you dart in the opposite direction, nearly running into a couple of nurses who give you strange glances as you rush past.

Jack’s been wandering around for a while now. After his conversation with Robby, he remembered he needed to say goodbye to you before leaving, but he was having a hard time finding you. He was starting to think you’d already gone home, just as you walked out of one of the rooms. 

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Jack says the moment your eyes find his.

Your eyes widen a little as he walks toward you, the words he’d said to Robby echoing in your mind. Your heart flutters at the soft grin he gives, and you can’t help but return it.

“Good. Because I need you.”

He blinks—a small, subtle shift—but you notice it. Jack always reacts the most when he says nothing at all.

“Need me for what?” he asks, standing before you. 

“Our last patient,” you say. 

His brow furrows. “Our shift ended thirty minutes ago.”

“I know,” you reply, a corner of your mouth twitching. “Come on.”

You step back into the room you’d just slipped out of. Jack follows after you, glancing up at the number on the door before stepping inside.

“I didn’t know we had any patients… here.”

His words trail off as his eyes land on the empty bed. Then they move to you—standing beside it, hands fidgeting together.

“Well, you’re right. We don’t have a patient here.” You try to sound calm, but your voice betrays you, thin with nerves.

Jack’s brows pull together immediately, worry flashing across his face as he moves toward you with purpose. He takes hold of your arms, warm hands wrapping gently around them, and your gaze snaps to where he’s touching you.

“Hey,” he says softly, steady as ever. “Look at me.”

You lift your eyes to his, stomach flipping at the tender, searching expression there.

“Is everything okay? You seem nervous. Did something happen? You know you can talk to me, right?”

You almost feel bad. It’s clear that your nervousness is making Jack worry. But you can’t bring yourself to speak just yet. You stare at him as he tilts his head slightly, questioning you with a soft raise of his brows.

A small smile creeps onto your face, and you bite your lip, trying to contain it. You fail miserably, of course—you can tell just from the look of surprise on Jack’s face. Your gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips. It’s quick, but Jack catches it.

“God, this is ridiculous,” you say with a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I have no problem looking at someone’s internal organs, but the second you stare at me like that my brain just… short-circuits.”

Jack’s brows pull together in surprise, his hands still resting firmly on your forearms. He doesn’t even seem aware he’s gripping you a little tighter. Truth is, he’s nervous too—he’s always a little nervous around you—but there’s something different in the air now. Charged. Inevitable. It makes him a little unsteady in a way he’s not used to.

You inhale slowly, eyes sliding shut for a beat as you try to steady yourself before forcing your gaze back up to his. You let your eyes trace the shape of his face, lingering longer than you probably should, committing every detail to memory. And then—because pretending isn’t sustainable anymore, because wanting him is starting to feel like a physical ache—you speak.

“I overheard you talking with Robby.”

Jack’s eyes widen just slightly, enough to tell you he knows exactly what part you heard.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask quietly. And when he gives you that look—confused, thrown—you clarify. “Kiss me, I mean. Why didn’t you kiss me?”

Jack’s face shifts—surprise, relief, embarrassment, something warm and unguarded flickering all at once. By the time he settles, he looks… happy. A little shy, even. Jack Abbott. Shy. Wild.

He avoids your gaze, which only makes you poke a finger gently against his scrub top, right over his chest.

“So?” you whisper, looking up through your lashes.

A soft flush creeps over Jack’s cheeks, something you’ve never seen on him before.

“Wasn’t sure if you wanted me to, I guess,” he says quietly, his thumbs brushing your arms without him seeming aware of it.

You let out a sound—half laugh, half breathless disbelief. His head snaps up at the noise, eyes catching on the grin spreading across your face.

“Jack, I literally made a joke about swapping spit.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters, flustered, “but I wasn’t sure if it was just… you know. A joke.”

You shake your head softly and press your palm to his chest, letting the weight of his words settle. You stand there for a long moment, holding onto each other, not quite sure who’s going to push this over the edge.

“If you had been sure,” you say finally, “would you have done it then?”

Jack’s lips twitch, that signature sideways grin threatening to break free. One of his hands slides up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before settling gently against your cheek. His thumb sweeps once across your skin. You know the look on your face is dangerously close to love-struck, but honestly? You can’t bring yourself to care. You want him—you’ve wanted him—and from the warmth in his eyes, he feels exactly the same.

“Yes,” Jack murmurs. “If I was sure, I’d have done it without a second thought.”

You step closer, breath brushing his lips. Close—so damn close—just waiting for him to meet you halfway.

“I want you to,” you whisper, barely audible.

“What was that?” he teases, even though he absolutely heard you.

You narrow your eyes at him, all mock annoyance. Your hand fists in his scrubs, pulling him down just enough.

“I said,” you breathe, moving until your nose nudges his, “I want you to.”

The sound Jack makes is practically ripped from him—a low, involuntary groan, the kind a man makes when patience has officially left the building.

Then his mouth is on yours—urgent, hungry, finally.

Your arms loop around his neck instantly, pulling him flush against you. His hands slide to your waist, hauling you in until your chest is pressed to his. You bury your fingers in his curls as he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing your lips in a question you answer without hesitation.

Jack kisses you like he’s been waiting months for permission. His hand cups your jaw, the other gripping your waist firmly enough that you feel grounded and dizzy at the same time. You let out a small sound into his mouth and Jack responds by pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he loosens his hold.

His tongue slides against yours, slow but sure, confident but still a little shaky around the edges in that way that only he ever is with you. You feel his breath catch when you tug gently on his curls, and the soft groan he lets slip sends a shiver through your entire body.

It’s messy and sweet and urgent and perfect — the kind of first kiss that makes you forget you even have lungs, the kind that hits you low in your stomach and high in your chest all at once. When you finally break apart, it’s not because either of you wants to. It’s because oxygen is a thing, apparently. 

Jack presses one last quick kiss to your bottom lip like he can’t help himself, his forehead dropping gently against yours as you both try to steady your breathing. You stay like that for a moment — chests rising and falling in sync, breaths mingling, his fingers still resting against your cheek, your hands still looped behind his neck.

And then reality creeps back in.

Jack opens his eyes first. You feel the shift in him before you see it — the awareness settling in, the sudden realization of exactly where the two of you are. His gaze flicks around the room, and the image is almost comical: two fully grown adults, in scrubs, making out in the middle of an empty patient room like teenagers hiding behind the gym.

He pulls back just an inch, eyes wide, cheeks flushed in a way that feels deeply unfair because he looks good like that.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “We’re… actually at work.”

Your laugh comes out soft and breathless and a little hysterical. “Yeah,” you whisper, lips tingling. “We really are.”

Jack scrubs a hand over his face, then immediately reaches back out to touch your waist like he can’t stand not holding you for more than two seconds. His eyes dart once more to the open doorway.

“We probably shouldn’t be doing that in here,” he says, voice low and still rough from kissing you.

“Probably not,” you agree, even though your body is already leaning into him again like it didn’t get the memo.

Jack notices. Of course he notices. He huffs out a soft, helpless laugh, forehead resting briefly against your temple. 

“You’re gonna get me fired,” he murmurs, and the way he says it sounds nothing like an accusation and everything like a man who would still gladly let you ruin his life if you asked nicely.

You smirk, sliding your hands down from his neck to his chest. 

“Then maybe,” you breathe, “we should relocate before someone finds us.”

Jack looks at you for a long moment — that same charged, inevitable look he had before kissing you — and then nods once, slow, lips curling.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do that.”

The two of you don’t say much after that—just these ridiculous, breathless grins that you try and fail to hide from each other. Jack bumps his shoulder into yours as you head down the hallway toward the lockers, and the second you’re out of full view, he steals another quick kiss. Soft, warm, way too short. It leaves you both laughing under your breath like you’ve just pulled off a heist.

“Stop smiling like that,” you whisper, swatting lightly at his arm.

“I literally can’t,” Jack whispers back, leaning closer as you walk. “My face is broken. You did this. This is your fault.”

You’re trying to shush him, but you’re grinning just as hard, and anyone with a pulse could read the energy radiating off both of you. It’s honestly a miracle you make it to your lockers without lunging at each other again.

You grab your things and the two of you walk back through the ER side by side, fully convinced you look completely normal—just two coworkers heading out after a long shift. But people have eyes. And you and Jack are nowhere near as discreet as you think.

As soon as the door swings shut behind you, Dana leans back in her chair, smirks, and goes,

“Someone’s getting lucky today.”

Robby doesn’t even look up from the chart he’s pretending to read.

“Please. They already did. Did you see his hair?”

Dana snorts. Robby allows himself a tiny satisfied smile, quietly pleased his friend finally got there.

The hit blindsided you like a car accident, snapping your head sideways and sending you sprawling. Your skull cracked against the concrete, white noise roared in your ears, stars burst in your vision, and the phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the pavement with a sickening sound.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before a boot drove into your stomach. You gagged on a choked wheeze, folding instinctively, arms wrapping around your middle, then your head as you curled into yourself. The kicks kept coming, your hip, your ribs, your side. Pain bloomed hot and sharp like stab wounds, flaring in your back, your skull, behind your eyelids.

They spit on you, and their footsteps retreated somewhere behind down the street.

You lay there in the harsh light of the store’s fluorescents, shaking violently, tears dripping into your hair, your whole body throbbing in time with your hummingbird heartbeat.

Minutes felt like hours before you were finally able to lift your head. Your purse had exploded across the sidewalk. Your keys, lip balm, wallet, receipts, all strewn out like an I-Spy game. Your phone lay a few feet away, screen spider-webbed, a dirty print across the back where it had been stepped on and shattered.

You dragged yourself upright, using the glass door as leverage. Your vision went blurry, then slowly steadied. Your ears rang like cymbals crashing. With shaking hands, you gathered your things back into your purse, then pushed the door open.

The bell over the door chimed and the owner appeared from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. She stopped dead when she saw you.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “What the fuck happened to you?”

You shook your head, wiped under your nose, and your hand came away bloody. “Can I use your phone?” you rasped, pain flaring in your ribs.

She frowned, but nodded, gesturing you behind the counter. “Sit.” She dragged a chair out at the little back table and handed you the landline.

You dialed Pope’s number by heart.

It rang twice.

“Yeah.” His voice was low and rough.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “…Andrew,” you whimpered.

There was a beat of silence. Then rustling as he stood.

“Where are you.” Not a question. A demand.

“The little corner store,” you whispered. “Block from my place.”

“Stay there.”

The line went dead.

You handed the phone back.

“Can I get you anything?” the owner asked sympathetically.

You fumbled in your bag and came up with a crumpled five. “Water.”

She scoffed. “Girl, keep your cash.” She grabbed a bottle from the cooler and pressed it into your hand. “You want me to call the cops?”

You shook your head. “M-my boyfriend’s coming.”

She studied you, then nodded once. “Okay. Sit back here till he gets here.”

You curled into the chair, clutching the water, and waited.

***

Pope stepped into the store like a storm cloud on two legs.

His gaze swept the place, sharp and narrowed, jaw set so tight the muscle was jumping. Worry and anger simmered under his skin, barely contained.

The owner pointed toward the back table. “Boyfriend?” she guessed.

He didn’t bother answering.

He came around the counter, boots heavy on the tile, and stopped when he saw you. Dried blood under your nose and on your lips, hair askew, face already swelling, tear tracks on your cheeks.

Something in his expression flickered dangerously. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped.

He stepped closer, then knelt beside you. His hand lifted, slow, and hovered over your thigh, hesitating before he let it rest there; you flinched.

He pulled back immediately. “It’s me,” he said quietly. “Hey. It’s me.”

You looked up at him, really saw him, and whatever thin dam you’d built between the attack and now, cracked. A sob clawed out of your throat as you lurched forward into him.

He caught you easily, one strong arm around your waist, the other hand cupping the back of your neck. He pulled you into him, tucking you under his chin like he was trying to fold you into his ribs. His fingers pressed into your spine in slow, grounding circles.

Your tears soaked his shirt. You heard his breath catch, then steady. You felt the anger in him change shape, no longer wild, but focused, sharpened. Deadly.

After a minute, he eased back just enough to look at you.

“C’mon,” he said. The softness he reserved for you was gone, but the edge wasn’t pointed at you either.

He helped you to your feet, took your purse, and guided you out to his truck with a firm but gentle hand at the small of your back. He got you in the passenger seat, buckled you in when your hands shook too hard, and shut the door, then rounded to the driver’s side.

He pulled away from the curb, one hand white-knuckling the wheel, the other planted on your thigh, heavy and possessive.

“What happened.” He asked lowly.

You swiped at your face. “I stopped by the store to answer your texts.” You swallowed. “Someone came up behind me. Asked if I was your girl. Next thing I knew, I was kissing the sidewalk.”

His fingers tightened, digging into your leg; you whimpered softly.

He realized it immediately and loosened his grip, thumb rubbing the spot in apology. “They hit you anywhere else?”

“Caught a few kicks to the stomach. One to my hip.” You rubbed your temple. “Hit my head when I fell.”

His jaw worked harder. He didn’t like that last part. All he could see was you collapsing from a brain bleed.

“I’m taking you to the ER.”

You let your head fall back against the seat. “Just take me home, Andrew. Please. I want to go home.”

“You hit your head,” he snapped, still not looking at you. “You need to go to the ER.”

“I want to go home,” you repeated, voice small. You slipped out of the top of the seatbelt and laid down, your head on his thigh, fingers digging into his jeans. His hand shifted, resting on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse like it could steady him. “I just…want to be home.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes briefly closing. At the next light, he flicked the turn signal, turned down the street toward your complex, and didn’t say another word.

***

Contrary to the popular Cody belief that Pope was only capable of violence, he was capable of terrifying gentleness.

He guided you into your bathroom, crowding the tiny space with his broad frame, and helped you out of your clothes piece by piece, movements efficient but gentle. He didn’t stare, didn’t linger like he would’ve on a different occasion. He checked for bruises, for swelling, for anything that made his eyes go darker. He noted the tenderness in your ribs and stomach, the bruises forming.

He wet a rag with warm water and wiped the blood and grime from your face, his touch gentle around the bruised cheek already blooming darker across your skin.

“You should’ve called me when you were leaving work,” he said. There was no bite in it, just a flatness. “I would’ve picked you up.”

Your throat tightened, tears welling again, and you dropped your gaze. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to bother you. You’ve been busy.”

He set the rag aside and tilted your chin up with two fingers so you had to look at him.

“You call me,” he said seriously. “When you leave. When you get there. Any hour. Any day.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, checking the split carefully. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You understand me?”

You nodded.

“Say it,” he demanded quietly.

“I understand,” you murmured.

He accepted that, helping you into clean clothes, then he led you to bed, tucking the blankets around you like you were something breakable he’d been entrusted with.

He disappeared down the hall and came back with a glass of water and a couple of pills in his palm.

“Take these. All the water,” he muttered.

You obeyed, swallowing the pills and draining the glass, then sank back into the pillow with a pained moan.

“Are you staying?” you asked.

“Until you fall asleep,” he replied.

“Then what?”

He looked toward the front door. When he looked back, there was a hollow, dangerous calm in his eyes. “I’m going to look for whoever put their hands on you.”

You held his gaze. “What are you gonna do?”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then he reached out and brushed his knuckles over your bruised cheek, soft and achingly tender.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he murmured.

You knew that was all you were getting out of him about the subject.

“Promise you’ll stay until I fall asleep?” you whispered.

His eyes softened in a way he almost never let anyone see. “I promise.”

You stared at him, and something in his face eased. He bent down, looking into your eyes as he promised, “No one is coming through that door. And if they do, I’ll kill them before they touch you.”

It should’ve scared you, how deadly serious he was.

But your heart thumped steady and sure, and you nodded, closing your eyes, letting yourself relax under the weight of his gaze.

***

When Pope crawled into your bed four hours later, his knuckles were busted and bandaged.

You rolled toward him in your sleep, curling into his chest like you always did. He was too wired to sleep, muscles tight, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, but he wrapped his arms around you, pulled you in, and rested his chin atop your head.

He stared at the thin strip of light under the bedroom door until his eyes finally slipped shut.

***

For the next two weeks, Pope drove you to and from work.

You tried to argue. You told him you didn’t need it, that you could take the bus, call a cab, walk with coworkers. He didn’t bother fighting with words. He just kept showing up like he didn’t hear you. Like he didn’t care to hear you—and he didn’t.

Every morning, he was there, truck outside, engine idle, leaning against the hood, arms folded, sunglasses on, expression blank. And every afternoon at four-thirty on the dot, he was there. Same truck, same spot, watching the door like a sentry.

Your coworkers teased you about your “hot bodyguard” waiting outside every day, about the silent, sexy man who never acknowledged anyone but you. You rolled your eyes, but secretly, you got used to scanning for that familiar shape, that familiar truck.

One afternoon, on the way home, he blew past your usual turn.

You blinked and straightened. “Andy?”

He grunted.

“We, uh, missed my turn.”

“Going somewhere else,” he said.

You looked at him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer.

You narrowed your eyes. “This isn’t a murder thing, right? Because if you need an accomplice, I got you, but I’m weak. If the cops question me, I’m going to cry and sing like a canary.”

At the next red light, he turned his head and gave you the dead, flat stare that made most people shut up.

You pursed your lips and mumbled, cheeks warm, “Just checking,”

He looked back at the road.

He drove into the nicer part of Oceanside, where the buildings were new and glossy and out of your price range just by existing.

“Reconnaissance?” you tried again, hopeful.

“Not staking out complexes,” he muttered. “Quit asking.”

“Rude.”

“Nosy,” he shot back, and you smiled, despite it.

He pulled into a lot, slid into a parking spot, killed the engine. “C’mon,” he said.

Inside, the building gleamed with polished floors, chandeliers, security cameras, the whole nine yards of “I’m rich and I know it.” He led you into the elevator, swiped a keycard, and hit the button for the third floor.

“Are we meeting someone?” you asked.

He exhaled through his nose, giving you a brief, irritated glance. “You ever stop asking questions?”

You folded your arms and retorted, “No. I ask them specifically to get a rise out of you.”

“It’s working,” he muttered. “Worse than my brothers.”

“Wow. Rude. Those guys get on your nerves like no one else.”

“Exactly.”

He walked you down the hall to thirty-one-B, pulled out a silver key, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and jerked his chin for you to go inside.

You stepped in and immediately forgot how to breathe.

The living room alone was the size of your old apartment. Soft couches with throw pillows and blankets of velvet. Dark shelves lined with books, all your favorites. A TV mounted on the wall over an entertainment center, cable box and router already hooked up. The kitchen was open space, with marble counters and brand-new appliances that gleamed. A dark oak table with four upholstered chairs sat between the two spaces, already neat with a table runner and matching plates.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This…is a nice apartment,” you said softly. “Very, very nice.”

You turned toward him.

Pope stood just inside the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at a spot above your head like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s better than your old place,” he muttered.

“It is,” you agreed. “Whose is it?”

His eyes slid to yours. “Yours.”

You blinked. “What?”

He frowned, like he didn’t understand the confusion. “It’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“…Andrew, I can’t afford a place like this.”

“Don’t have to,” he said. “Already took care of it.” His hands left his pockets, fingers tapping against his thighs. “Rent’s paid through the year.” His cheeks went faintly pink and he mumbled, “Moved your stuff while you were at work.”

“You did what?” you yelped, eyes wide. “You—you moved my—”

You broke off and rushed down the hall instead.

Sure enough, your clothes hung in the walk-in closet, your makeup bag sat on the massive bathroom vanity, your robe on the hook behind the door. Your bedroom furniture had been upgraded, bed, dresser, all of it, but your things were in all the right places.

“Andrew Cody!” you shouted, appearing in the bedroom doorway.

You marched back into the living room, gaping. “You moved my stuff when I was at work!”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused why this was an issue. “Some guys owed me a favor. I moved everything for you.”

You pressed your hands over your mouth, staring at him.

“How long have you been working on this?” you asked, voice softer.

He shifted, eyes sliding away. “A while.”

“How long.”

He let out a pointed breath. “Since the night you got hurt.”

Your hand went instinctively to your eye. The bruise had mostly faded, but he still looked at that side of your face first, every time.

“Andrew…”

“Your building’s shit,” he said bluntly, like he was stating a fact—a very true fact. “No cameras. No lights in the back. Doors don’t close right. Manager doesn’t care.” His jaw clenched. “Bus stop’s too far. Street’s too dark.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Landlord’s not fixing it,” he cut in, talking over you now, words coming faster like he needed to outrun his own discomfort. “Cops aren’t gonna do shit if something happens again. So.” He jerked his chin at the apartment. “This.”

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, shoulders hunching. “If you hate it, I’ll…fix it,” he muttered. “Can get your stuff back. Find another place. Whatever.”

You just stared at him.

At this man who had absolutely committed felonies for you, and now looked like a kicked dog for buying you an apartment.

“You are genuinely insane,” you said, matter of fact.

He flinched like you’d hit him—like you’d just confirmed his worst fears.

You crossed the space between you two, and took his face in your hands.

“You bought me an apartment?” you asked gently.

He nodded, very slightly between your palms.

“I’ll fix it if you don’t like it,” he whispered, desperate to make it all better. “I…I can fix it.”

Your fingers pressed into the back of his neck, at the base of his skull. His eyes fluttered closed, a quiet sound escaping his throat.

“I just…want you safe,” he muttered. “Somewhere I know you won’t get hurt again.” His jaw worked. “I don’t sleep. I don’t sleep when I don’t know if you’re safe. You forget to text me and I just…” He broke off, shaking his head once, frustrated with himself. “I wait. For you to say you’re okay. And I—”

“I love you, Andrew Cody,” you said, cutting him off gently.

His eyes snapped open, staring at you in disbelief.

You sighed, all fond and exasperated, and in love. “You absolutely crazy-in-love man. I love you so much.”

His cheeks went crimson. He did everything in his power not to look directly at you.

“’m not in love,” he muttered.

“Uh-huh.” You arched an amused brow. “And what do you call buying an apartment for your girlfriend?”

“Assurance,” he shot back, trying to scowl. “Security.”

You giggled, nuzzling your nose against his. “Mhm. Assurance, he says. Security, he says.”

“It is,” he insisted with a growl.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Andy.”

He huffed. “Door auto-locks,” he said firmly. “Alarm sets at night on stay mode. You’ll be safe here.”

You hummed, leaning up to kiss him. He went stiff for a heartbeat, then melted, hands finding your hips, pulling you closer as he tried to press deeper into your mouth.

“You bought me an apartment,” you mumbled against his lips.

He lowered his head to your jaw, nipping softly. “Was gonna buy you a car too,” he admitted.

“Oh my God.” You laughed breathlessly. “Andrew, no.”

“Car’s a piece of shit. It’s an oh-six.”

“No.”

“Why.”

You pulled back and looked him dead in the eye, smirking. “Because I have a handsome chauffeur who drives me everywhere.”

His cheeks went warm again. His fingers tightened at your hips.

“Handsome,” he scoffed—you knew he didn’t believe you.

“Handsome. Beautiful. Ridiculously gorgeous,” you teased. “Rockin’ body, muscles, cute bu—”

“Stop,” he growled, cheeks aflame.

“Never,” you grinned, pecking his lips, once, twice, a third time, before slipping out of his hands and heading for the kitchen.

He followed at a slower pace, leaning against the doorway as you opened cabinets and drawers, checking everything out.

“…you like it?” he asked quietly, unsure now.

“I love it,” you replied honestly. You turned, meeting his eyes. “I love it so much. No one’s ever done something like this for me.” Your throat tightened, and you admitted, “Not without wanting something in return.”

Pope pushed off the wall and came up to you, placing a calloused hand on your cheek. You leaned into the warmth and his thumb brushed your skin, slow and sure.

“I just want you safe,” he murmured.

“I’m always safe with you,” you said gently.

He inhaled, exhaled. “I’ll do everything to keep it that way.”

You smiled and turned your head to kiss his palm. “I love you, Andy.”

His jaw worked. He pulled his hand away, scratched the back of his neck, and then gestured awkwardly at you. “…you too,” he muttered.

Your smile hit him right in the sternum like a hollow-point round. You turned to open the fridge, the double-door fridge to see it fully stocked.

“Oh?” you mused, glancing back over your shoulder. “Andrew Cody, you bought me groceries?” You grinned cheekily. “Are you buttering me up to make you dinner?”

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Definitely wouldn’t say no.” he shifted on his feet. “I love your cooking.”

You melted, all ooey and gooey. “Go sit down. Relax. I’ll make us something.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He lingered for a moment, watching you rummage in the fridge and start pulling things out, before finally retreating to the couch. He sank down, let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the night at the corner store, and pressed a hand to his chest.

His heart was still beating a mile a minute.

But warmth spread through him as he listened to your humming, the clink of pots and pans, the sound of you moving around in the apartment he’d bought to keep you safe.

For once, the noise in his head went quiet and one thought became true to him.

Clark is fully stepping into your personal space now to look at the puzzle with you.

"Do you mind?"

He fully pulls away, raising his palms up, "sorry! I just…" Clark pauses, scratching the back of his neck, "…really like puzzles, is all."

You hum, twisting around to look back ahead and the painfully slow-moving line.

Though, that same, overly perky voice sounds up from behind you again.

"I'm…Clark."

Normally, you wouldn't exactly be entertaining strangers, especially not ones that looked so buttoned up. You drag your gaze over Clark, and to the hand he had extended out.

Oh. One…two dimples. Your eyes glisten at the sight of them deepening.

You hesitantly hold your hand out and a softer introduction, which he shakes with both his palms eagerly.

"I don't normally do this — drink, outside, or at all really."

Polite, friendly conversations. That was how the night had started out.

"What changed, then?"

You'd humour him for now.

"I suppose…" Clark swipes at the base of his nose with his thumb, smiling stiffly. "I feel different with the — …"

" — red sun," you continue with a sip of your drink.

"Mhm." He hums, folding his hands over each other. "One more, please, for her too."

"…Make that double, for both of us." You pipe up, offering him what seemed to be the first smile you'd offered him for the night.

"New sun, new us, hm?"

It started off relatively okay.

Clark likened his stages of drunkness to how he'd felt, mostly quick notes he jotted down in his little black leather-bound book.

You noticed it when he downed his first drink. He'd begun writing barely a minute in, brows tensed in concentration, with the little pink of his tongue sticking out.

Drink One — Dizzy. Drink Two — It doesn't feel very good. I'm not sure why people drink. Drink Three — My mind feels lighter. Brink Drink Flour — zznot too bad anymor for four fiv fuv fivix

"Whuzzthat?" You perk up beside him, clearly a little more looser, resting your cheek onto his thick biceps. A loud giggle leaves your lips when he tenses.

"Wan'ed to record it n'stuff…bein' dunk."

You fiddle at the pages, squinting as it flutters to the next few pages. A loud gasp rips through you as you snatch it, turning it to face Clark.

"Omygod! Tis'your fuck-it-list!"

The man beside you groans loudly, grasping for air as he attempts to snatch it back. "T-Thas'! Notfor…anyone.."

"Geeezzzz. Y're nastyyyyy. I meannn, number one being holdhands onna date?"

You blew raspberries, ignoring Clark's pout. "Two…cook…breeffast…watch movies…"

"Clark, lit — errul highschoolers have more game. I mean what is this! Come over to her house????"

With a clumsy grab at Clark's breast pocket, you pull the pen to cancel over the words.

3. Come over to in her house & watch movies.

"W-Why would you write that?!" He squeaks, shaking his head quickly. "Thas'…so disrespectful…"

"What? Cummin' in a girl?" You slurrr with a teasing edge.

"Shhhh!" He counters, pressing a finger to his own lips, "don't say that out loud…a-and yes…S'not..a polite thing t'do…"

You raise a brow, letting him rustle his book into his jacket pocket.

"Prude. Have you never c—uhmmm…." Your words quickly gets cut shut to the sudden squish of your cheeks.

"S…Stop that…please…" he implores, gaze darting away. The burning red of his ears has you leaning into his grip, a lazy smile curling into the meat of his palms.

"Y'wanna?"

Clark frowns confusedly, even more so when you lean over, resting your chin into his shoulder, whispering softly into the sides of his cheeks.

"I'll letchya cum'n me…"

It was an instant no. Any decent man would say the same. The most Clark had even known about you was that you'd talked to him, given him the light of the day. And gosh — you were pretty. An incredibly gorgeous, pretty, girl who gave a loser like him such a tempting offer.

So, no.

"G — od, yes! Cl…ark, so…so fuckin' good!"

He doesn't exactly remember how he found himself balls deep in the girl he'd thought was way out of his league.

"L-Like that? Right here?"

Much less fucking her raw in a cramped bathroom in a public space.

Your teeth catch your lower lip when his heavy hands squeeze the flesh of your fever-hot hips, leveraging the newfound stability to snap his hips into you.

It was relentless, every thrust accompanied by his loud, noisy groans mixed in with your mewls.

Gosh, you were so insanely pretty like this.

That was what he meant to say out loud.

"Pussy's…creamin' all over me…ugh…"

Your hips arch involuntarily at that honest praise, eyes rolling all the way back to the thick intrusion rubbing deep into your G-spot.

Clark, on the other hand, presses his palms at the base of your spine, head perked up slightly. It was an unfamiliar feeling, the tightness in his balls he'd recognised, but that dull churn in his belly?

Was that what an orgasm felt like? A human one?

"Mmhff—fuck…don't…don't stop…don't don't don't stop!" Clark slumps his head onto your shoulder blades, pressing his palms flat onto the marble, letting his hips show you just how badly he wanted to empty out into you.

"I-I think…I think I'm gonna cum." He whispers, unsure. You nod quickly, balling your fists up where your forearms rested onto the fogged-up mirror. His thrusts only grew more uncoordinated, and you held on, with the rickety mirror moving at your every move.

"Mmhn…mhm! I-In me…y'can cum in me, p—lease!"

He's nodding quickly, panting into the shell of your ears as his hips still. But it wasn't the feeling of release, no.

Clark blinks slowly in realisation, thighs slowly quivering with the dull stream filling your pussy. Your head snaps up, warmth pooling in your belly steadily.

"I-I don't know — …w-what's…what I —…"

You're both too far in shock, and he doesn't pull out, far too lost in the pulsating coaxes of your cunt, as if begging more of his release to plug you full.

"I…it's ok…?" The words come out unsure, but you're holding yourself, trying not to let your eyes roll back at the sudden spike in the stream when he pushes more. "Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Your body tips forward, up to your tiptoes, when Clark finally cums in the aftermath, shakily pulling out of you. Watching the sight of his eventual corruption, in the form of clear liquid dripping down your thighs, to the panties loosely hung over your ankles.

Hazily, you look over your shoulder, squeezing and relaxing your cunt to push out the rest of the liquid.

"…H…ey…do…that…again…" ‎‎mai's kinktober 2025 masterlist ❤︎