you watch as he pushes his stool forward, his head and shoulders lowering between your legs. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself closer to your pussy, his gaze roaming over your skin.

he presses a warm peck to your inner thigh. "there," he murmurs. "let me take care of you, honey. do you trust me?"

"yes," you reply, and you barely have time to exhale before he's pressing a feather-light kiss to your clit, making you gasp. "doctor abbot?"

his chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze. "just making sure everything's working right," he mutters, the clinical distance in his tone at odds to the way his tongue flicks over your clit in a quick, teasing stroke.

his hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. "relax," he orders, lips brushing your inner thigh again. "let me show you what your boyfriend should've been doing."

then he lowers his mouth to your cunt properly and licks a hot, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "what– what's this test for?" you breathe out, your chest heaving with arousal.

his mouth moves against you, tongue taking broad, languid laps. "it's called the clitoral glans test," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "to see how responsive you are. and you're being a very, very good girl, i must say."

it's not long before you're leaking all over his tongue, your slick pooling onto the paper sheets. "sweet girl," he praises. "taking my mouth so well. your boyfriend ever do this to you?"

you exhale shakily, the shame gnawing at you again as you shake your head. "no... he... he said he doesn't like doing it..."

his tongue swipes over your hole again, almost thoughtfully lapping up your juices, the ones that spilled out of you just for him. "he doesn't like it, huh? well, he's an idiot, honey, because you taste incredible."

"t-thank you," you stutter out at the praise, your hips bucking up against his mouth. "ah- sorry-"

"no apologising, sweetheart," he says, his breath hot against your folds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin for reassurance. "i like your desperate little movements. keep going, honeygirl. let me see just how responsive you are." then his tongue is back between your legs, stroking slow, up and down, as he gauges your reactions.

"and don't you worry, honey," he says conversationally between licks, as if he wasn't making a mess of your pretty little cunt, "you make another appointment, i will be teaching your boyfriend how to eat your pussy very thoroughly, no matter how much he says he doesn't like it. cunt like this deserves to get eaten."

Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding. 

And your patio?

A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close. 

You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.

You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.” 

Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.

And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night. 

Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show. 

You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.

He doesn’t. He just knocks again.

You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together. 

You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now. 

“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation. 

“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off. 

“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.

He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside. 

Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience. 

Just Abbot. 

And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like. 

You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them. 

 He probably doesn’t. 

And you definitely don’t have time.

“Cute place.”

“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”

“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”

That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for. 

You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.” 

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what I heard.” 

He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.

You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all. 

Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway. 

“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems. 

You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.” 

He looks. 

There’s a faint pause. 

“She’s, um—”

“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow. 

“I was going to say compact.”

“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.

It is now very clearly the opposite of that.

“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”

“I’m thinking.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”

He finally meets your gaze.

“...No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”

“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”

“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”

You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”

“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.

“Sorry?”

“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”

“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”

“Yes.”

“And you being there.”

“I live there.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”

“And you couldn’t say no?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”

He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”

“Why not?”

“Because it solves your problem.”

“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”

He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.

It does not. 

“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”

You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”

“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”

“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head. 

“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”

“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago. 

“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated. 

“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back. 

You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative. 

Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family. 

Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.

Your boss.

Who you might be slightly crushing on. 

And your earlier exchange?

Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.

You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.

It hasn’t been working. 

If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off. 

“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”

He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”

“You still haven’t changed your mind?”

He glances at you again. “About?”

You stare at him. 

You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences. 

It’s incredibly annoying. 

Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him. 

Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want. 

Exactly how you want it. 

And look at him while you do it. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.

“Everything okay?”

“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”

“You just said you had everything.”

“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve. 

“That wasn’t a question.”

You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.” 

He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”

“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”

“You are. It’s very polite.”

You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.

“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest. 

“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity. 

You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”

“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”

“Am I?

“Yes.”

“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.

“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual. 

You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air. 

This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse. 

Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house. 

And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings. 

You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again. 

With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing. 

By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown. 

You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier. 

“Got everything?” 

“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal. 

When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either. 

You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of  room to spare. 

The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used. 

You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.

You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better. 

That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway. 

You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave. 

Or just to soak up the sun on days like this. 

“Ready to go?”

Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”

He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”

“Does it very well.”

You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.  

You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill. 

You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him. 

These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them. 

“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat. 

Abbot doesn’t answer straight away. 

You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here. 

Your stomach continues to drop. 

“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.

He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”

You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked. 

You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest. 

“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling. 

“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not. 

“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”

You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly. 

“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.

His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again. 

“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open. 

Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around. 

When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.

Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably. 

So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.

“Is it okay?”

You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.

“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”

“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.

You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain. 

There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince. 

“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use. 

And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in. 

Great. 

You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution. 

“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.” 

“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”

You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.

“You’ve cut yourself.”

“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”

“Give me your hand.”

You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.

“It’s really no big—”

“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist. 

You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light. 

He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor. 

You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again. 

You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down. 

“Thank you.” 

He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.” 

Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out. 

It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind. 

But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it. 

“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact. 

You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.” 

“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought. 

Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said. 

“Good to know.”

Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.

Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…

“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out. 

“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir. 

“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”

“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”

He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time. 

“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”

“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”

He’s mocking you. Funny.

“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”

“No complaints on my side.”

Now he’s…flirting?

“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.

“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly. 

You grin at him. “Thank you.”

“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.

“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway. 

“Mm.”

The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help. 

You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.

What was that?

Does he even realise he’s doing it?

You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long. 

Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair. 

After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset. 

Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.

You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless. 

On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work. 

Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice. 

You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside. 

The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing. 

You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing. 

You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time. 

There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient. 

He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep. 

“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him. 

“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”

“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.

He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from. 

“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill. 

“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”

He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”

“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”

“You always like having the last word?”

You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”

“Thought you had a problem with those today.”

You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”

“Is that so?”

You nod, taking another sip. 

“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”

“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.

He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”

“Why go through all this trouble?” 

He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.

“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”

For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.

He takes a step closer. 

You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.

It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.

“Bullshit?”  

You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”

“Then ask properly.” 

Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.  

“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer. 

You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.

“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”

He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.

“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”

You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”

“Then that’s your answer.”

“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”

“You want me to answer it properly?”

You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point. 

“I did it because I wanted you here.”

You don’t quite know where to file that information. 

There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word. 

It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt. 

Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else. 

He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back. 

“Not the answer you were hoping for?” 

“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”

Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”

“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”

“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.

“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees. 

Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything. 

Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter. 

You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”

“We’re outside, honey.”

“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”

“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses. 

He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.

You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine. 

Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.

You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Didn’t notice one.” 

“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.” 

You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not. 

You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.

Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”

There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app. 

“Out of my hair?”

His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder. 

He seems…tense.

“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”

“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow. 

“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”

He stays silent.

“What do you want?” 

Nothing.

“Huh?”

Still nothing.

You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list. 

You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.

“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.

“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone. 

He takes a step back.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”

“And you’re not listening to me.”

“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”

His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.

“You’re not walking.”

“Watch me.” 

You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.

“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.

You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”

One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. 

You don’t. Obviously. 

“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”

You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”

His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”

“No.”

His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.

You don’t move. 

Not even an inch. 

His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs. 

“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”

You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”

“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”

“Y-you’re in the way.”

“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.

Your head tips back before you can stop it.

“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.

You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”

“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”

“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”

“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.” 

“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.

“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck. 

“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric. 

“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent. 

He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response. 

“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin. 

“One off.”

His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm. 

“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?” 

You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.

“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”

You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out. 

It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.

You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.

Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.

It's humiliating. 

“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”

“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.

“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”

“Yes.”

He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”

You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down. 

“Did it feel as good as this?”

“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long. 

His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.” 

Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.

“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.

“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.

“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”

“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.” 

Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.

“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”

“There you go. Just like that.”

He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.

“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”

For a second, neither of you move. 

Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet. 

“Shit.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.

There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.

Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door. 

You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.

“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.

“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”

You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”

“Like what?” 

He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile. 

“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.

“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.

You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.

“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.

“Uh yeah, he’s…”

You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.

“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”

“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.

And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.

He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”

“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”

You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears. 

“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly. 

There’s a pause.

“...Right.”

You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.

“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.

Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”

Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared. 

“Yeah…One off.”

You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow.  “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”

He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.

And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?