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Until he started dating someone much, much younger. 

You’d slowly started easing him into the modern age. 

First it was music. You couldn’t get him to branch out from rock, but you could get him to listen to something released in the 21st century at least. Then you moved onto movies. Turns out, Jack was really into horror. 

The biggest struggle was getting him to try something new in the bedroom. Jack was a fan of the classics, because they were classics for a reason. Doggy, missionary, cowgirl, spooning; he loved them all, but aside from having you sit on his face periodically, he didn’t branch out.

So trying to get him to try a new position or to explore a kink he’d never heard of was a bit of a challenge. 

“I don’t see the point of this.”

“Jaaaaaack,” you were perched on his lap, legs spread wide over his thick thighs. “Please just try it with me.”

He sighed. “But why would we do that? Can’t I just fuck you?”

“It’s about the anticipation,” your fingers fiddled with the curls at the back of his head.

“I think it’s about elder abuse,” he was teasing you, but you could feel his resolve crumbling.

“I would never abuse my beloved old man,” you tugged lightly on his hair, smiling to yourself at the way his eyes fluttered. “Indulge me, Jackie.”

“Fine,” the limited resistance he’d put up was fully gone. He could never say no to you.

And that’s how he found himself sitting on the couch, struggling to watch a movie and enduring the most tortuous experience of his life. Well, maybe not, but this was still awful. 

You sat with your back to his chest and eyes focused on the TV. Jack was buried deep inside you, your ass flush with his thighs. You were so wet and warm, wrapped tightly around him, but he couldn’t do anything about it – at least not without earning a scolding from you. He was so hard, aching for just the littlest bit of friction or stimulation, anything to take the edge off. 

“So nice, right?” Your head was leaned back on his shoulder, but you still weren’t looking at him. All Jack wanted was your attention.

This was not nice. Not at all.

Jack had had enough. He’d given you what you wanted for half of the movie, but he was done. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“So nice,” his teeth were gritted. His hand laid flat over your stomach, pulling you back against him under the guise of pulling you close. The shift was just barely a grind, only the smallest bit of movement, but it felt like heaven to Jack. 

It had a similar effect on you. A little whimper escaped you. It seemed like you were just as eager as he was, but he knew you were stubborn. This had been your idea, and there was no way you’d be willing to admit that maybe this wasn’t the best idea, so Jack would have to convince you.

“Watch the movie,” you whined, even as your hips wiggled against his. 

Jack, as a reflex, grabbed your hips and guided the movement back and forth. You clenched around him and he groaned, low and ragged. 

“Jack,” your hands grasped his wrists. “S-stop. We’re not supposed to move.”

“No?” His lips met your neck, sucking a dark mark on the skin. He knew you’d whine and complain about it later, but at the moment you simply moaned, leaning even further back against him. “You moved first, baby.”

“N-no, I didn’t,” you said as your ass ground back.

“Uh-huh,” Jack wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He kept slowly pushing and pulling your body against his. It felt good, euphoric even, to finally get some pleasure, but he needed more.

You were rocking with his movements, panting and gasping, but you’d given up. His cock was deep, hitting every sensitive spot along your walls. He filled you so perfectly. It just felt too good. But you needed more.

“Fuck!” You cried out in frustration. “Just fuck me, Jack.”

“What happened to just sitting here?” You could hear the smirk in his voice. His smugness got on your nerves, but god was he sexy with that self satisfied look on his face.

“If you don’t fuck me right,” he groaned when you clenched around him as hard as your pelvic floor would allow. “I’ll go find someone who will.”

“Yeah?” Jack lifted you up, before slamming you back down. “Say that shit again. I dare you.”

edited to add my taglist because im such a dummy I forgot it

For one you're here but also, he learns that the only other person besides you who wholeheartedly genuinely loved him and let him be himself, his twin sister…is dead. Not that he expected Julia to magically be there to greet him home with his brothers but instead he finds her kid. Who is not only living at Smurf's but sleeping in his old room. J is not a lone new addition nor the only adolescent one, you have a child. 

A 2 year old beautiful little girl that is staring up at him wide eyed and confused with a small wrinkle in her brow as she clings to your leg when he joins the rest of his family in the living room.  You were frozen place half way to the kitchen to get her food or a drink he presumes when you finally speak up. "An- Pope you're home" you state the obvious in a half surprised yet half blank tone he can't quite read. He can't tell if that's what irritates him or the way you stopped yourself from calling him Andy in that sweet tone he missed so much. Before he can reply he is bombarded by his brothers, getting short hugs or a ruffle of his shorten hair with a barrage of "Welcome home" 's. His eyes are still stuck flicking between looking at your kid and your shocked face.

"Got out on good behavior" his answer is aimed half for you and half for the questions he is expecting from his family. "You, good behavior?" Craig chuckled lightly hearted-ly, Pope watches as you grimace a bit at the comment. Smacking his brother on the shoulder lightly Deran butts in, "Just glad to have you home brother" 

"Yeah, happy you're home…I-" you cough softly cutting yourself off, causing your daughter to briefly look up back towards you. "We all missed you" you speak up once again, hoping the slip up wasn't too obvious. With the way Andrew raises his eyebrows slightly in response you know it didn't pass him by. Really what did you expect from the man who learned to read every twitch, awkward shuffle and micro expression of your body language when you were 'together'. The two of you never exactly labeled it, and before you could give it that permanent tangible title Pope desperately wanted, he was locked up. But as he is readjusting he's noticing all the same ticks and small signs of your body that mean you are nervous. 

"Yeah? And who all is we?" He prompts, finally addressing the little elephant in the room that is tracking his movements in the same way he used to do with new people as a kid. Her bright eyes watch as he squats infront of her to get on her level like he typically would do with Lena when he tried to reason with her to eat vegetables before ice cream. As you are telling Pope her name, he finally fully takes in her face now that he is eye to eye with her. She hardened her eyes a bit, clearly weary of this strange man infront of her and he can't help but smile a bit, she clearly has your personality. At first look her face mirrors yours and it makes his heart twist…almost all of her scrunched up face expect…her eyes. 

He still has the number of your eyelashes mesmerized, the shape of your lids, the color of your iris…all of it. She certainly has your eye color but the shape more resemble his and maybe even so does her little nose? Maybe his lack of sleep locked up is getting to him…there's no way you were pregnant with his kid when he went away. The math is there but you would've told him. Right? With the way she so clearly resembles a mini you, only solidified to him that she really is your child and Pope doesn't exactly know what to do with that. He went away and you started a family seemingly without him. 

"Well I'm Andrew" he greets the little girl, putting his hand out albeit awkwardly as he tried to ignore the stares he feels from his family as if he's grown a second head. "I'm-"

"He's Lena's uncle" you fill for him, and he doesn't know what he'd prefer you to say but for some reason it isn't that. Having confirmation on who he is she finally greets him, shyly grabbing his pointer finger in her little hand and shaking it. "Hi Andew" she smiles softly at him, missing the r sound when she says his name and it takes a way a bit of the sting of your label for him. 

Pope is slowly adapting to being back home, sleeping on Smurfs couch instead of his apartment since his family decided it made more sense to get rid of it. He still doesn't understand that one…But as he is adapting he is watching, watching you and your daughter mostly. You, your daughter and his youngest brother…Deran. Who according to his mother is the father. 

He tried his hardest to school his expression when he asked that afternoon in the kitchen while you played in the pool with the little ones. Your daughter clinging to you with floaties on as she tried her hardest to splash Lena but she could only make small splashes. Her wet hair under the summer sun giving off an auburn hue that only further confuses him when his eyes flick that way briefly. The girls little squeals as well as your own flood inside from the backyard and his chest only aches more. He didn't want it to show how it made him feel to Smurf when she told him that, especially when he could feel her studying his face for a crack in the surface. His throat is dry and he's not confident his voice wont come out broken so all he could manage to get out was a head nod, and she seemed to accept that as enough because she went back to making everyone lunch. She must chalk it up to him being tired and he's grateful.

Deran…Deran…Deran…

Andrew isn't mad, you deserve to be happy so does his brother but he doesn't know exactly what he feels. He can't stop himself from staring at the three of you, trying to spot Derans features on the girl and he can't. All he sees in her is you and him. He watches that afternoon waiting on his youngest brother to kiss your head or your lips, put a hand to your back, brush the wet hair sticking to your cheek off. Hold your little girl, pet her head, kiss her cheek, something…and he doesn't. Beyond the basic level of affection and touch the two of you have shared long before Pope went away — a soft nudge to Derans shoulder, his hand to your shoulder, or at most a short hand hold when you drag him inside or a hug when you leave. Deran hardly touched you that day. Besides your daughter getting a hug goodbye as well, he doesn't give her much affection. He doesn't act as if he is the father of your child.

Maybe he's projecting and thinking of how he would act when he had you. He could hardly keep his hands to himself you often had to pry them off you when you needed to get up or move. He might just be thinking about how he would never let go of you nor your daughter if she is…was his. His brother must just be more reserved with his affections is what he tells himself. But when he doesn't sleep that night. Pope can't help but think there's more chemistry between half the damn animals in the documentary he watches then between you and his brother. 

He also can't help thinking there's still more chemistry between you and him then you and his brother. The way you lock eyes with him as he protectively watches over you and your daughter and give him a little smile. He's determined to get to the bottom of it so that at least it will stop bothering him. He's given the perfect opportunity when as usual his rowdy brothers throw a party and you attend. 

Andrew's been watching you float around the house and when you waltz down the hall towards the bathroom, he seizes his opportunity. Pushing off from his spot on the couch surrounded by people he doesn't know high and drunk off their ass he follows you. With his large stride he catches up quickly, just before you can shut the door behind you his large palm stops it. "And-" you are cut off by the loud sound of him slamming the door shut behind him when once the two of you are inside. "Pope what the hell are you doing?" You exclaim as he invades your space. 

"Is she really fucking Deran's?" He demanded as he walks closer and closer til your back hits the wall. His voice isn't loud enough nor the bathroom door thick enough to silence the sounds of the party flooding down the hall. You fane stupid, "Who?" As you put a hand up to stop him getting any closer. "Who-" he groans and tries to ignore the heat your touch send through his body, you hadn't touched him since he got home. He didn't realize how bad he missed it, he hopes you don't notice you haven't taken your hand away. 

"Your daughter. Is she really Deran's?" His voice not any calmer but quieter this time around he asks. "Who else's would she be?" You continue to beat around the bush, head down as you start to fidget with the hem of your dress. Your dress that Pope didn't fail to notice either even if he was trying not to with the way it perfectly hugged your body. He's also certain if you even leaned forward an inch the bottom of your ass would peak out. "Mine…" he whispers finally making you meet his eyes as he continues on "Is she mine?" He pleaded, more desperation lacing his voice then he intended. With the wet puppy eyes he is giving you as he waits on your answer you concede "Yes, she's yours" you sigh. He lets out a small broken sound in either relief or pain, you don't know.

"Why…why?" Is all he can get out but you seem to understand his question. "I knew you'd leave everything behind to be with us, and Smurf would just about kill you before letting that happen" your head hangs low again, eyes glued to your hand still pressed to the top of his chest, you let it fall a little. Pope's hand itches to grab your wrist and stop you from pulling it off but then you grab hold of his hand and run your thumb across the back of his hand as your fingers intertwine. "Then you went away before i could even tell you" you whisper lowly. 

Using his free hand he softly pushes your head up so you look at him by grabbing your chin with his pointer finger and thumb. "Why let her think she was Deran's?" It's the last question weighing on his mind, he's fairly certain you aren't dating his brother so he's a bit confused. "Smurf let me still come around when you got locked up" you start to explain, eyes watering a bit as you recall the memories of the lonely feeling that ate you alive. Pregnant and alone without the one person you wanted around. "Let me hang around and even sleep in your room for whatever reason, think she liked seeing me so miserable" you laugh softly but the idea of that only makes Pope grimace. "And well i couldn't bring myself to let go of the last piece of you i had so as i got more noticeably pregnant, Deran and I came up with the plan to say the baby was is" He nods, his face soften once again as he resisters that it was his brothers own way of protecting you from their mother and he's grateful. "It was a little easier way of explaining why she came out looking like a Cody, then to tell her about me and you" 

"You know she looks more like you than me, little dove" he chuckles softly in attempt not noticing his slip up of using his old nickname for you. Your breath hitches in your throat, "Missed you so much, promise I'm gonna give you two the world alright? I can deal with Smurf alright?" He is leaning forward as he babbles on, his eyes hardened not in anger or caution but in determination. "I'm here now and im not going anywhere" his thumb holding your chin mindlessly reaches up to brush over your bottom lip out of habit. "Not gonna let anything happen to either of my girls" 

You can't help the shakey huff you let out in response to hearing him claim you finally. "Pope" you moan softly when he leans even closer and his breath fans over your parted lips. "Andy" he whispers in correction as he inches closer, "What?" You sputter out, eyes darting between his and his lips that hovered over yours. "Andy" he growls lowly making heat shoot down your spine, your hands grabbing at the loose fabric of his shirt by his stomach, not knowing yet if you are trying to pull him closer to stop him. "Call me Andy again please" he begs, voice low. The chatter and chaos of the party outside the bathroom drowning out as you breathe out in time with his breathes in. "Please…angel" he pleads one last time, mouth now lightly pressed to yours. With a sickly sweet whine you comply "Andy…" your breathing picking up as the sound of it finally leaves your lips. Pope has never really cared to be called Andrew by anyone but his sister once he became Pope. When she left no one else did until you and somewhere along the way it morphed into that little endearing nickname that made his chest hurt. It rattles around and replays in his head as his lips finally smash against yours for the first time in years. 

"Andy" you repeat this time through a moan muffled in his mouth as you kiss back with just as much unrestrained yearning and love that he pours into it. Kissing you so hard he might as well be trying to bruise your lips, tongue slipping in to lick into your mouth. The warm muscle sliding around your own and winning the fight of dominance in an instant with the way your body melts against him. Your hands pawing at his chest and arms trying to tug him closer as the kiss intensifies. "Missed you 's much little dove fuck" he repeats his previous sentiment through a grunt as his own hands land on your waist before sliding behind you down to your ass, using that as leverage to tug your body against his. 

"Fuck…missed to you too Andy" you purr into his mouth, body heating up with the feeling of his poorly contained bulge pressed to your front. "Show me how bad you missed me sweet boy" you tease when you finally pull away a bit from the make out, saliva still connecting your lips. Pope whines a bit at the loss but recovers quickly when your hands trail under his shirt and scratch at his stomach. He slips his knee between your legs to part them, pressing his knee up against the growing wet patch in your panties. 

Your hips having a mind of their own grind down on his thigh, making a small cocky smirk form on his face. "As bad as i want to make you cum on my thigh angel…" he huffs out like it's painful for him to stop you, "I also haven't been inside you In threeyears" he pants out as his hands drift down to the bottom of your dress to hike it up, moving his leg so he can pull your soaked panties down til they hit your knees. Helping him along with frantic hands you unbuckle his belt, unbutton his jean and yank them with his boxers half way down his thighs. When his cock springs free and lightly smacks his stomach you let out a small whine at the sight. Tip reddened and leaking pre-cum, the vein you used to trace with your tongue and make Pope finish in minutes running down the shaft. Grabbing your waist he effortlessly spins you around and presses his large hand between your shoulder blades. Pushing your body to press your chest to the bathroom wall, your back forming an arch as his other hand grabs at your hip to keep your ass in place as he kicks your feet to spread your legs further apart. "Just as obedient as I remember" he coos softly under his breathe as if the words weren't meant for you. 

Gripping himself at the base he parts your slick soaked folds with his tip, collecting and coating his cock in the wetness to act as lube. "Please" you pant out when he catches on your clit, turning your head to look back over your shoulder at him and fluttering your lashes as he peels his gaze away from your lower half to meet your lust filled glazed over eyes. "And just as impatient" he adds on to his earlier statement with a short chuckle, before thrusting forward to push all the way inside to the bottom inch by inch. Little pants and whines slip past your lips the further your sex stretches around him to accommodate his thick cock. 

His head falling back in a choked gasp once completely buried inside when your pussy clamps down around him. "Oh fuck" he hisses out, slowly pulling his hips back to pull out, thrusting back inside fast and hard. "Feel as fucking good i remember too Angel holy shit" he cries out as his hands tighten their grip on your body. Using that as leverage he pulls your body away before slamming your back down on his cock as he pushes forward. "Andy!" You cry out in a loud wanton moan that bounces off the tile of the bathroom walls. As he is shushing you Pope presses you further against the wall, forcing your ass poke out more and push against his hips. 

His large hand comes around to cup over your mouth, "As good as you sound little dove" he begins, his pace not flattering and only speeding up as his tip practically hits your g-spot on every thrust up. "And trust me you sound soooo fucking gooood angel" he coos, dragging his vowels near the end as he leans down to kiss at your shoulder softly. His hips slowing their pace and flattering a bit. "Don't want some nosy party goer to come knockin' cause they hear you screaming for me"

He lets out a shaky breathe at the way your ass pushes back against him, eyes falling down to watch as you start fucking your self back on his cock. "Fuck- wait wait" he sputters out, strings of curse words whispered under his breath as that thread in the pit of his stomach snaps fast. Grabbing onto you to stop you before your cunt can milk him even more. 

"Already Andy?" You giggle softly as he presses his forehead to your back, panting softly "Fuck 'm sorry angel, it's been awhile alright…" he grumbled, rubbing at your hip as he regains a bit of his composure. "we'll get your stamina back up it's okay Andy" you tease, wiggling your ass against him causing another whine and whispered curses to fill your ears. 

! didn’t name the child bc I didn’t wanna run the risk of picking a name and it being the name of someone reading yk? so y’all can chose whatever name you want. also somehow i like everything i wrote for this expect the smut idk my brain couldn't do it and i hate that part so idk how i feel about this.

"mhm," you huff. the divorce paper was real enough! just because it didn't have his or your name on it and was issued by the internet as opposed to an attorney didn't mean anything.

"and what was your reasoning again, baby?" jack mused.

"you don't love me anymore!"

jack sighs. "i tell you how beautiful you are before i leave for work, bring y’flowers everyday, and take you to dinner every friday, and you think i don't love you?"

"yeah, but those are the routine things!" you said. "so, you obviously don't love me anymore!"

jack put the paper down on the nightstand and approached you, backing you into the bed. "say it again, sweetheart."

you gulp at his proximity, sweat trickling down your face from the way his thumb tilts your chin upwards. "you. don't. love. me."

"yeah, okay," jack hummed. if you really thought that, you wouldn't be wearing the shortest little skirt," he says, promptly hiking the garment in question up and making your breath hitch, "when you're trying to fucking divorce me."

"jackie-"

"mhm, there she is," jack said. he pushes you down onto the bed without further warning and pulls your skirt down your body, revealing your pussy to his hungry eyes. "and already so wet,” he tsks.

"hmph," you say with a huff. you turn away from his gaze, but it's short-lived as jack cranes your face back towards him.

"ah-ah. what do you have to say?"

you roll your eyes. "sorry."

"like you mean it."

"sorry," you say again.

jack doesn't have it in him to correct your attitude from that look on your face. god, his wife is just too cute.

you don't say anything else as he frees his cock from his slacks, slipping inside your aching cunt. jack is gentle with you as he rocks into you, whispering the sweetest praises that you'd needed for reassurance.

"tell me i love you. tell me how much daddy loves you, baby," jack coos as he cups your cheek, his thrusts slow as he fucks you deep.

"d- daddy loves me," you relent. "so much."

"I still think this is a stupid idea." 

"I still think, I didn't tell you to get in the car." 

Bode Leone and Eve Edwards bicker back and forth as Bode drives them carefully up a mountain road, following just far enough behind a red pickup truck that they've been tailing for the last hour. The truck that is driven by their new Interim Fire Chief, Brett Richards. 

Brett Richards, who is from Boston, blasts classical music, and puts ketchup on his eggs. Which aren't really the most important issues that Bode has, but Eve makes a point to bring them up as often as she can.  

Brett Richards, who has a reputation for diagnosing problem Fire Houses, and solving those issues by any means necessary.  

Brett Richards, who so far has been an insane hard ass, who has drilled them about day one basic rules, threatened to fire several firefighters from their station, and close the thing down entirely on multiple occasions, after only being there for a week.  

Brett Richards, who today implied that Bode is the reason his father died in the Zabel Ridge Fire, that had decimated almost half of Edgewater. 

After being held back from decking him right in the face, right there in the middle of the station, Bode has made it his mission to follow Brett home and give him a piece of his mind. Eve forced herself into this rendezvous to be some semblance of a voice of reason, and possibly beg for Brett to not close their station no matter how Bode behaves. 

"Bode, come on man!" Eve groans, rubbing her hands down her face. "Brett is an asshole, we all know that, but there are more important things at stake here than your pride!" 

"It's not my pride! If I was able to get into that fire, my father would still be here! He didn't die because we don't know the rules, he died because we chose that time to actually perfectly follow them. Richards doesn't get it, and I'm going to make him." 

"Yeah, that has nothing to do with pride..." Eve mumbles. "You know, I'm about to lose Three Rock? We're about to lose the land, and the only chance we have to fight for it is if we get people like Brett Richards on our side. Maybe we shouldn't go full stalker mode on the guy?" 

Bode brushes right over the stalking comment and goes back to his rant. "Brett Richards is already not on our side, there's no way he'd help with Three Rock, I doubt he even cares." 

Eve lets out a long sigh, just as they watch Brett's car turn down a small, dirt road. Bode keeps a fair distance, stopping at the end of the street, and the two of them lean over to watch from the window as Brett pulls up to the only house on the street. 

It's a quaint little cottage, two levels, a long driveway, and a very lush, very wild butterfly garden, filled with flowers of all shapes and colors. It's nothing like what either of them expected Brett Richards to live in. 

They look at each other with confused frowns, then go back to observing him. 

"Do you think he's visiting someone?" Eve asks. 

"No," Bode says, pulling up his phone to check a picture he'd taken earlier that day. "I checked his file, this is the home address listed." 

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't just hear you say that." 

"You're in the car, you're already complicit." 

Before Eve can open her mouth to make a retort, Brett climbs out of his truck, and a pair of spotted Bengal cats run out the open front door and to his feet.  

They watch as he smiles brightly, like way too sweetly compared to the guy who was nothing but frowns and furrowed brows, with the occasional amused smirk at Sharon when she stood by him and watched the team fuck up. The cats circle him and nuzzle his legs and he leans down to pet both of them behind the ears. Bode and Eve can't hear him, but the way his lips form a circle, they have to wonder if he's...cooing at them? 

"What the fuck?" They say in unison. 

Then a third cat enters the picture, but not on its own. 

No, this last one, an orange Tabby, is cradled in the arms of a beautiful...significantly younger than Brett...clad in a tight pink floral sundress that hugs her curves in all the right ways...woman. Girl? Lady. 

You smile softly at Brett, scratching the tabby behind the ears, and the two voyeurs watch as your mouth moves with a soft greeting.  

"Okay...who the fuck is that?" Bode asks, exhaling his disbelief. 

"Maybe she's... his daughter?" Eve suggests. 

Then, much to both their ever-growing ability to be shocked, their jaws drop when Brett scoops you up in his arms, and plants a long, deep kiss to your lips. 

"God, I hope that's not his daughter," Eve says with a low, haunted tone, eyes wide. 

"What the fuck is happening?" Bode asks with a confused laugh. "Brett Richards, stick up his ass, Mr. Rulebook, has a girlfriend our age? Oh, that's just rich." 

"What do we even do with this information?" Eve shakes her head, staring down at her hands, anything to not look over at the incredibly odd scene in front of her boss's house.  

"Fuck if I know, but looks like Interim Chief Richards isn't as perfect as he pretends to be." 

+ 

"Mmmm, you taste good, Sweetheart, new lip balm?" Brett asks, releasing you from his arms, carefully placing your bare feet back on the ground. 

"Lip balm," you giggle. "Yeah, we can just call it lip gloss, old man." 

You squeak when Brett pinches your ass in retaliation for your teasing, and the little cat held between your bodies lets out an annoyed meow. She wiggles in your arms until you loosen up, and she hops down to join the other cats around Brett's legs. 

"Princess Tangerine missed you," you mused, sliding your hands up Brett's hard chest, pausing over the CAL FIRE insignia over his heart. 

"Oh yeah?" Brett's voice drops seductively. He takes a moment to admire you and your perfectly styled hair, freshly manicured pink and white nails, perfectly winged eyeliner on top of glittery shadow, and the silver band paired with a pink oval-shaped diamond. You're biting your lip and looking up at him with big, wide eyes, just the smallest hint of a flush on your cheeks. "Just her?" 

"Hmm, no, I think Ludwig and Ember missed you too," you tease again, voice hitching when he pulls your body up against his, and his hands slip down to grope your ass.  

"That's too bad," Brett shrugs. "Cause I missed you, Sweetheart. Missed our bed. Bet it's been cold without me." 

"Always," you pout, standing on your tip toes to connect your lips again. You both melt into it, days of being apart washing away as you moan into it. "How was the shift?" 

Brett groans, fingers rubbing hard at his temples. "This station is full of stubborn wildcards, immature probies, and Sharon Leone who hates my guts. And none of them got my jokes." 

"I bet your jokes weren't actually funny, so there's that," you say, pulling his hand away from his face. Your fingers wrap around his, his hands are so much bigger than yours, and you trace a little circle over his ring finger. "Your ring is back from the jeweler, by the way, and they sent the silicon one with it this time. So, you know, if you wanna wear it on your next shift and ward away any of the firefighter groupies, I would greatly appreciate it." 

Brett snorts, bringing his fingers up to tip your chin to him. "What groupies? I didn't see any." 

"I'm sure you were too busy yelling at everyone to notice them, but they exist, Handsome," you say, blinking up at him as you push one of his loose curls from his forehead.  

"Well, I'd never have eyes for anyone else, sweetheart," Brett mumbles into your lips, before turning you back around towards the house, and patting you on the ass lightly to push you forward. "How about we go get my new ring on, and I'll show you how much I missed you?" 

You hum again as the cats disperse from around Brett's feet, and Princess comes to paw at your ankles. You look over your shoulder with a sly grin as you bend down to pick her up, and you catch the subtle raise of Brett's brows when he catches the view between your legs. 

"Sweetheart..." He says slowly, walking up close behind you as you start to make your way into the house. 

"Hmm?" 

A small part of him thinks maybe he imagined it. Maybe this first week of being at Battalion 42, having to deal all with all their shit while you were mostly unreachable on a work trip to L.A., has caught up and caused him to have very horny hallucinations.  

But as his gaze trails up the fabric of your dress, where no lines can be found bumping from your skin, he's pretty sure his eyes were not lying to him just now. 

"What set are you wearing?" He asks, playing it cool. 

"What do you mean?" You ask, putting on an innocent, higher tone to your voice. The same one you always use when you want to bait Brett into something. 

"What lingerie are you wearing?" Brett asks, voice a little firmer, even though he already knows the answer. "Or are you going to tell me we haven't seen each other for a week, and you didn't dress up in something special just for me, like you usually do?" 

"Oh," you say, sarcastically elongating the word as though he's helped you solve some great riddle. You look back at him again as the two of you step through the door, and Princess jumps from your grasp again. "Well, I'm actually not wearing anything under this." 

"Jesus Christ, come here," Brett mumbles, but you jump away from his reaching hands, running into the kitchen with a wild laugh instead. Brett catches up with you as you lean against the kitchen counter, arching so your ass sticks out enticingly. A little white bag sits on the counter next to you. He puts his hands on his hips and does his best to give you a stern frown, but god you just look so cute on your tip toes, curve of your ass poking out from the bottom of your dress, it's hard to be annoyed.  

"Is that it?" He asks, nodding his head at the bag, and his shoulders soften when you look over your shoulder and give an eager nod. He slowly saunters up into your space, not stopping until he's right up against your back, nose to your cheek, voice rumbling against your skin when he whispers, "Go on, Sweetheart," his left hand traces around to your stomach, as he rolls his hips against your ass, so you can feel how his cock is already stiffening up for you. "Put it back on me." 

A shiver runs down your spine and your thighs clench. It's been a whole week without his touch, and you feel like a live wire about to explode. Without turning around, you carefully take his new ring out of the packaging, pushing your ass back into him at the same time and earning a low, moan from deep in his throat. 

You smirk. You've never been much of a brat in bed, you really don't like degradation, but ever since you met him, you've found it's way too fun to wind Brett up. You'll always be his good girl, but you'll do anything to push him to be a little rougher, a little firmer with you. 

With one hand, you take his new ring, a silver band with little twisting pleats engraved around it, and start to put it on his finger, while your other hand slips between your bodies, rubbing at his cock through his pants.  

"Fuck," he grunts, leaning his forehead down to your shoulder, grabbing onto your tummy with his left hand once his ring is secured.  

He lets you touch like that, rubbing slowly at him between your bodies, while he lets out soft moans. You drive him simply crazy, at a time when he'd thought his body would be past the ability to perform so easily, you always do it for him. 

You ass starts to move again, and you let out a needy whine, stopping your touch to grab at his cock, now hard and begging to be released.  

"Ha, feelin' needy, Baby girl?" Brett mumbles, kissing along the sensitive skin on the curve of your neck. "Waited too long, huh? Yeah, I know, I feel it too, Sweetheart." 

Suddenly, you're squealing in delight as he scoops you up in his strong arms, and turns you to plop you down on the counter, grabbing your face to trap you in a hurried, breathy kiss. You giggle into it, rolling your hips into him, your dress rides up, and your bare pussy tenses at the sensation of the metal of his zipper against it.  

Brett pushes his tongue into your mouth, drawing yours out so he can suck on it, moans and vibrations growing the arousal all through your body. You press yourself completely against him, finding purchase in the silver curls on the back of his neck, rutting into his strong tummy. It's wet and it's hot and it's desperate, floodgates opening from your time apart.  

You feel hands tug at the bottom of your dress and you lift enough for it to be pushed up your stomach, hissing at the cold of the counter on your bare ass. Then Brett swiftly rips the straps of the dress down your shoulders, until the whole thing is just bunched at your middle, breasts freed and open for him to mouth at. 

"Know what I want?" Brett asks, kissing down your chest, pinching at one of your nipples while tugging at the other with his teeth, as you writhe against him and whimper. "Know what I've been craving for days?" 

You nod, because of course you know. Ever since the first night you spent together, you know there's one thing Brett loves to get out of you more than anything. "Been good, Sir, didn't touch myself all of yesterday or today. Stayed hydrated...just waiting for you to come home to me." 

"What a good girl you are," Brett says, voice low, dripping with love. He snakes a hand between your legs, and your back straightens as you gasp at his touch. "Oh yeah, I can feel it, Baby girl, you're so wet," he mumbles, running his pointer and middle finger up and down your folds, collecting the slick into his palm. "Want my fingers?" 

"Yes sir," you say breathlessly. "Yes please—oh!" 

Your voice cracks when he slowly tucks his fingers inside, curling them instantly into that spot inside that drives pleasure into your bloodstream.  

The thing about Brett is that everything about him is thick. His body is sturdy and strong, all muscles and strong biceps and tree trunk thighs. And his hands...one of the first things you ever noticed about him was his hands, with those girthy fingers. The first time you ever had them inside you, it was like you were hooked, no one else would ever compare. 

He knows what to do with them, can feel the way your pussy clenches down on him with each quick movement, each curl upwards. Your mouth drops open and he watches as you pant, little mewls escaping when you can't control them. 

"Feels good, yeah?" He teases, smirking as he watches your brows knit together. 

You nod quickly, biting your lip to try to stifle your sounds, even though you know he hates that. But it's like you're trying to hold on to something, anything that feels like control over your own body, even as he slips a third finger inside, fucking into you fast and hard. The pads of his fingers drag on your walls, pulsing the pleasure up through you, and you let go and moan, high and loud. 

"Oh, god," your voice is close to crying, heartrate speeding up so much you heart it muffling your ears. 

The kitchen starts to fill with the wet squelching sound of your pussy leaking around him, and Brett can see it in the way your head drops back, hips rolling down to meet his hand, he's got you. 

Then he drops to his knees, biting and kissing at the inside of your thighs, and you twitch away from the tickling sensation. His other hand comes up, fingers rubbing at your clit, quick circles to match the speed of the ones inside you, and you cry out from somewhere deep in your throat. 

"Brett—it's—I'm gonna—" you can't finish a thought, head swirling, racing around from the arousal that swarms in your belly. 

"Yeah, I know baby girl, I know, give it to me," Brett encourages, looking up at you between your legs. He rubs your clit faster, pressing down just a little harder, tingles of pleasure spiking with every circle. 

"Yes sir, mmm, close!" You cry, chest heaving. 

Your belly grows tight, thighs twitching, a coil beginning to break inside, and you feel it. The tightness and fullness, the dam inside about to break, the feeling that lodges in your throat and makes your breathing stop entirely. 

Until your whole body locks up and then it's released with a scream, head thrown back, air screeching out of the tightness of your throat, as pleasure tears through you. And Brett pulls his fingers out from the force of your juices ripping from you, splashing like a fountain onto his hand, his forearm, his bare chest, and the floor below him.  

He swears softly, always in awe that he can even make you do that, as he shoves his fingers back inside to curl roughly against that delicious spot, causing another, smaller stream to flow from you. All while you shake and cry and slap your hands onto the counter, knuckles flexed with how tight you hold on for balance. 

"Yeah, yeah Baby girl, that's it, oh fuck," Brett moans, slowly pulling his fingers from you, eyes wide and crinkled into a smile as he follows the glistening path down his arm to the floor. "Oh, that was so much, Sweetheart." He pulls his shirt over his head and uses it to wipe himself off, and he throws it onto the clear puddle you made on the floor. "That was fucking beautiful, baby girl, just what I needed." 

"Brett," you whine, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in. You're still feeling it, the overwhelming light that circles you from your intense orgasm, but you're also feeling the emptiness inside. "Fuck me, please sir." 

"Sweetheart, we can stop, we can—" 

"No! No, sir," you gasp, as your hands reach up to grab him by the face, and your eyes blink up all wide and blown out and wet. "Need your cock, please, it's been too long, don't make me wait long." 

"Don't know how long I'll last," Brett confuses, neck twitching when he feels your hips roll up against his cock, still straining in his pants. It's so much worse than earlier, dick so hard it hurts, and he knows his resolve is going to break so easily for you, it always does. 

The first night you met, you had him almost exactly like this, in a hotel bed in Las Vegas, crying and needy after he made you squirt all over the sheets, begging for his cock. It was the first time in a long time he'd let himself be taken over by base instincts, and his need to bring someone to the deepest heights of pleasure. It was the first time in his life he'd ever let himself give in to someone so quickly, and even though his dick was in full control that night, when he woke up in the morning it was his heart that said he couldn't let you go. 

"Don't care," you gasp, nails scratching down his freckled skin from his chest to the silver hairs on his lower stomach, pausing reluctantly at the top of his pants. "Just need to be full of you." 

"Goddamn," Brett sucks in a breath, grabbing at your plush thighs, buck into your hands. "Alright, alright Baby girl, go on, take my cock out." 

You bite your lip, giddy smile on your face as you eagerly undo his fly and shove his pants down just enough to free his cock, red and hard and already leaking. It's so thick in your hand, you remember the first time you saw it, it was the first time you ever feared a dick wouldn't fit. But Brett turns you on so much, always puts your pleasure first, always makes sure you can take him, even when you're in the mood for it to hurt a little.  

Brett lets out a brief, relieved moan as his hand wraps around his cock, giving it a few strokes with your fluids that still cover his hand. His free hand roughly drags you to the end of the counter, ass hanging off the edge as he shoves his cock in you. 

There's nothing gentle about the way he desperately fucks you, chasing his pleasure. You're fucking dripping on him, warm and tight but welcoming to his size, and he whimpers a little pathetically as he watches your pussy stretch around his girth.  

"Ready, Sweetheart?" He asks, voice tight from how he's holding back. 

"Yes, sir," you say, nodding and rolling your hips into him to make your point. 

"Good, that's my girl," Brett groans, thrusting up into you. He takes it a little slow at first, just controlled, hard thrusts to hit you deep inside, push little, pleasured sounds from your lips. "Feel so good, needed this." 

"Harder, Brett, come on," you whimper, throwing your hands over his shoulders. "Know you wanna hit it harder, give it to me like you mean it." 

"Little fucking minx," Brett grunts, but what kind of a man says no to a pretty thing like you begging to be fucked like this?

He starts to move faster, shallow thrusts, the delicious squelching sound of his cock moving through your slick only spurs him on. He grunts in your ear, latching onto your neck with his mouth. He licks and sucks at your skin, marking you up.  

You feel so good around him, sucking him in, pussy fluttering and begging to be used, to be bruised by his cock hitting your cervix. Your sounds start to grow louder, higher, until just his name is cracked between each whimper. 

His hand flies up to slam on the cabinet door for balance, the sound emanating all around you. You moan and pull him in for a kiss, nipping at his lip with your teeth, rutting your hip into his every move. 

He's not going to make it much longer he knows that, but he'll be damned if he comes before you do on his cock.  

"Gonna make you come again, want to feel that sweet pussy squeeze my dick, Baby girl," Brett grunts, reaching down to rub at your clit again, fucking into you harder. 

You give in almost instantly, back arching and a cry tearing from your mouth as you feel it come over you, pure white-hot arousal washing up your body in a delicious wave, shaking your spine as your cunt clamps down on his cock like a vice. 

Another, little sputter of juices leak around Brett, and he whimpers into your mouth as his thrusts stutter, one last hard thrust deep inside, a cry of your name and he's coming, spilling his seed inside you. "Shit, yeah, yeah, Sweetheart, fucking perfect." 

You both stay locked tight around each other for a few moments, while the aftershocks settle between you, energy flowing between your bodies. Brett kisses up and down your neck, licking up the beads of sweat that have dropped, inhaling deeply to take in your scent. 

Once your body is settled to his liking, Brett carefully pulls out and leans back, hands on either side of your body on the counter, arms flexed as he uses his strength to hold himself up. 

"God, I did miss you, Brett, missed you so fucking much," you sigh, tiredly running your hands up and down his arms. You sit back, looking up at him with red eyes, face dewy, and makeup running all over, but smiling nonetheless. "I'm sorry you had a hard time at the station. I'm sure you'll get them together." 

"Yeah, just might have to be on this assignment longer than I want, but I'm not gonna do a whole week again, okay?" He assures you, pushing the damp hair from your face and kissing the top of your nose. "Two days on, two days off, see how they can keep up my orders between, see who steps up to take control." 

"Hmmmm, take control..." You start to giggle and you're met with an amused shake of your husband's head. 

"Okay, you're starting to get loopy, better get some more fluids—water," he quickly says before you can make another joke. "More water, into you. I'll clean up your little mess before the cats get back in—" 

"You made me do it," you pout. 

Brett ignores your comment, "And I'll make you one of those fancy grilled cheese you like, and you can tell me how your week went. Sound good?" 

You shrug, throwing your arms over his shoulders. "Okay, can you put bacon on the grilled cheese?" 

"Of course, I said I'd make it fancy," Brett coos. 

He places his hands under your thighs and lifts until you wrap around him like a koala, so he can carry you over to the sofa. Brett carefully sets you down and crowds the pillows around you, as well as two warm blankets, while your eyes start to shut.  

You listen as Brett opens the fridge and fills a glass with water and ice, then the distinct sound of the kettle being put on the stove. 

"Making tea too?" You ask in a whisper as he hands you the glass. 

"Course, need you to get some good sleep in before work tomorrow," Brett says. "You've got a big contract to get signed, right? You told me the company is trying to be the exclusive supplier of wind turbines in Virginia? That's a big deal, Sweetheart, you'll need your energy." 

"It'll be easy, I got 'em right where I want 'em already," you say with a yawn. But then your eyes shoot open and you squint through them as you look up at him suspiciously. "Wait... do you mean we're just gonna go one round? Gimmie twenty minutes, I'm gonna ride you into the bed until you pass out, old man." 

"Sounds fun," Brett chuckles. "But this old man is gonna need more than twenty, Sweetheart." 

Your eyes roll as you pull him down by the neck for one last, tired kiss. "Fine, but you better rest up, because when I'm done with my meeting tomorrow, you're giving me at least two rounds as a reward." 

"I think I can meet that challenge." 

FIN. 

A/N 2: okay so like i have so much more in mind lol. like there's not really a set plan or anything but i have THOUGHTS, and the next part/chapter (idk?) is going to be a direct sequel to this with Bode and Eve and the team and not smutty!!! Just wanted to start with a little something to kinda show the dynamic with Brett and also just get right to the smut cause there's not enough with him........

anywayyyyy: REBLOG! COMMENT! GIVE KUDOS/COMMENTS TO ARCHIVE! remember likes don't really help spread the Brett love ;)

divider credit xx

He pulls up the creaky metal chair and sits at the desk, rubbing his hands together. His tummy rumbles, thinking about that beef barley you had made last night that eagerly awaits him in the pouch.

Just as he’s about to unzip it, his phone buzzes. Your name lights up the screen with a text notification:

you: Hope you like the surprise I left in your lunch xxx

You were definitely in a spry mood this morning, wiggling your brows as you handed him his bag. He shakes his head with a grin and opens the bag, only to stare down at its contents inside. Blinking thrice with a blank expression across his face, he frowns.

No barley, jerky, eggs, peanuts or even water bottle, no. Instead, you’ve presented an adorable PBJ sandwich in a bear shape cut out to remove the crust, some stylized curled vegetable shavings complete with ranch dipping, a tiny milk carton and heart shaped chocolate dipped banana slices.

This is definitely not what he expected. His special surprise was an adorable kiddie lunch instead of his high caloric needs? He knows he should be grateful for anything you put love and effort to give him, but as he scans the frilly contents for what must be at least his favorite regular trinket, he comes up empty. Joel can’t help but grumble under his breath with a pout, “where’s my fuckin’ flower.”

He sighs disappointingly. He didn’t think anything was wrong with his usual lunches, so why change it? 

Your next text chimes up:

You: Hope you liked the pics ,Papa Bear. cant wait to see you tonight.

His brows furl in even greater confusion. What pics? Is he Papa Bear because of the bear shaped cuttings?

He shuffles through some more of the content when a single notepaper flutters out, reading, "have a good day at school!”

All this stuff is what you would normally pack for Sarah’s lunches—

His eyes widen, heart skipping a mile that Sarah is about to have lunch—his lunch, and whatever additional contents you must have put in there that he must assume cannot possibly be child friendly—in less than…

He checks his watch…

18 minutes!!

Tommy is shouting at Joel as he screeches off at 47mph in a 35 mile zone with the Miller Contracting truck towards Sarah’s school.

He pulls up to the building mentally preparing for all the woman staff to stop him and ask if his marriage is still going well, or if he can help them install pipes for the 15th fucking time while staring at his ass.

“Hi, I’m here to drop off Sarah Miller’s lunch?” He says to the front desk.

“Hey Joel! She’s in room 12, to the left.” The clerk points towards the hall at the rear.

He nods politely and jogs down until he’s at the 12th door.

Glancing inside the window pane, he sees the kids lining up to wash their hands in the back, with a dozen of unopened assorted lunch boxes sitting at their tiny desks.

Mrs. Wassock, Sarah’s teacher, is elated to make eye contact with Joel through the window.

He refrains from gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes. Here we go.

“Oh, you’re Sarah’s Joel! She yaps all about you all the time,” she says sweetly, trying him up and down a little too non-primary school appropriate.

He just nods. “I uh, need to switch lunches with her. Don’t think she wants beef stew and jerky,” he chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

She invites him in with a smile.

All the gremlins have moved around the room, chatting and opening their lunches while he searches for his particular munchkin. 

He hears Sarah’s voice cut straight through to his ears: 

“This is a picture of my Mommy!”

Joel’s skin runs cold, fear bleeding through his skin as he whips his head around to her direction. To his utmost relief, her lunch is still completely sealed. She waves around a little framed photo she must have stolen off the living room shelf to show her friends. It’s a picture of you with a great big beautiful smile that he took when you were on vacation in San Francisco.

“Wow, she’s so pretty!” They all exclaim looking closer. 

Joel, the ever invisible giant in the room, manages to swipe her lunch from her desk and hide it behind him. He taps Sarah’s shoulder.

“DADDY!” She shouts, bear hugging his thighs tightly.

“Hi baby. Mommy gave ya the wrong lunch. Brought it here for you.”

She immediately tears it open, showing off the handiwork of her super pretty, super cool, super thoughtful, super talented mom’s lunch packing skills.

And while they’re talking about the cool teddy bear PBJ, one little boy stares at Joel like a skyscraper and points at him. “My Mommy said she wants to take you home for dinner.”

Joel puts his hands on his hips. “Well you can tell Janice that I already have dinner plans. Tonight. Tomorrow night. And every night. Forever.”

Joel kisses Sarah on the head and leaves. Hopping back in his truck, he sighs.

He finally opens the lunch, undoubtedly his this time. 

His insides twist in arousal and relief at the idea that THESE were just rescued from Sarah' and her friends curious eyes:

5 Polaroid photos of you doing silly, albeit trying to be sexy, poses in your bikini while sticking your tongue out suggestively. Maybe not something Sarah and the kids would have batted an eye at, but definitely something that would have gotten you and Joel sent straight to the principles office.

He shuffles through them before finally finding his prized flower: a little white petaled one ( he doesn’t know the names of them, just what color they are). He grins, putting it to his nose and taking a calm breath in. “‘At’s my girl,” he hums, pursing his lips at an exceedingly exceptional lunch and dessert indeed. 

Joels flips his phone open and begins text:

Joel: You were almost in big trouble missy

You: I hope so bad boy*kisses*

He feels the pause in the text as you read it back again 

Then:

You: ... wait what do you mean 'almost'?

- - - -

taglist:

YEAR FOUR

DAY ONE

Turning twenty-five turns out to be a more weighty milestone than you could have ever anticipated. Usually, birthdays are a low point for you. Another year gone, a temporal marker for you to measure yourself against, to tally up all the things you still haven't managed to achieve. But something about this one feels like a turning point.

According to science, your brain is now fully developed...you think (you'd never been much of a S.T.E.M. gal, but you'd heard it said enough times by smart enough sounding people to accept it as fact), and while you don't quite feel like you've completely matured, you know you're not the same girl you were on that fateful trip all those years ago.

The past year has been full of growing pains, the kind you'd thought you'd be over by now. You moved across the country to New York City, and started an in-house job for a new fashion brand that makes your last job feel like state sanctioned torture. Got your very own studio apartment, lived one hundred percent on your own for the first time without any nosy parents or EDM obsessed roommates cramping your space. Finally took yourself off your family's insurance. Picked up a dog from the very overcrowded shelter you swore you were only coming to volunteer at - a slobbery, ten year old lab who came pre-named (whose name has somehow evolved from Roxy, to Rocks, to Shittin' Rocks, to Poo). You've even made new friends, something that seemed impossible when you stepped out of the gates at JFK in September of last year. 

And for the first time, when you arrive in Lihue for your summer trip, you are able to get your very own rental car. 

You are aware that you probably seem more than a little insane when you squeal upon accepting the keys from the glassy eyed woman working the counter at the rental place, but you can't find it in you to care. Not about that, or the fact that the car you receive is a decade old minivan, or the fact that the company has not even made a half-assed attempt to scrub off the thick layer of mud coating the fender, or the thick cloud of humid, tobacco scented air that hits you in the face when you force open the door. All that matters is that for the next seven days, it's yours. 

All yours. Like a real fucking adult.

You are practically bouncing off the walls by the time your dad gets the text from Jack that their flight landed, and you're quick to offer to pick him and Florence up from the airport. 

Driving down the highway, you feel as if you are rediscovering the island. Your first trip was a dream - then a nightmare, and your second was somehow even worse. Last year was the first time you really enjoyed yourself. But this year...

Something's different. You can feel it.

You are a grown fucking woman. Confident, in total control of yourself thanks to your longstanding sobriety (coming on two years at this point) and the new diet/fitness regimen Malcolm forced you onto a few months ago. You've clawed your way up from rock bottom and learned to find peace in...well, peace, leaning into the good that's in your life with open arms.  

The next seven days are full of pure possibility.

The part of you that likes to dim any and all hope with reminders of reality is far less talkative than usual, and it finally doesn't feel totally delusional to let yourself dream.

Dream that, maybe, this will be the summer Jack will finally see you. That all of the growth you've experienced this year will convince him that you're not some kid anymore. That, if you tell him about your feelings (which you've long since come to accept), he might not run away. 

The thought makes you feel wonderfully dizzy. 

As if the weather itself is catching onto your good mood, an actual, honest to god rainbow shimmers outside your window, arcing above the highway from the mountains into the water to your left. 

It feels like a good omen. The first you've had in a long time. 

You snag a spot on the curb outside of their gate and send a quick text to Jack letting him know you're there. Bubbles percolate at the bottom of the screen, then disappear, and he gives your message a simple thumbs up. 

With nothing to do for God knows how long, you decide to FaceTime Malcolm since it's just after two in California - which probably means that he's awake (although you can never quite guarantee that, no matter the time of day). He's rubbing his eyes fairly aggressively when he picks up, and you catch the flannel blue pattern of his sheets beneath his head. 

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

He waves a hand. "No, no, just having a wank before this date tonight."

You wrinkle your nose. "Did not need to know that."

"Don't judge my pre-date rituals, it's the only thing that keeps me from puttin' out. So, today's the big day is it?"

Your cheeks immediately heat, and it's a testament to the quality of the camera on your new phone when Malcolm teases you for blushing. 

"As your best friend, it's my duty to warn you that you should probably should let Jack shower off the airplane stink before you beg him to make sweet, sweet love to you."

You groan. It had been a mistake telling Malcolm that you've been celibate for two years. Before Jack, you had been a casual, no strings attached kind of girl. You'd even convinced yourself that you liked it. Treated sex like going to the gym, something to get over with, and would reward yourself with soggy McDonald's fries and midnight McFlurries after your hookups inevitably kicked you out like a bad houseguest. 

You liked sex - had had plenty of good sex - but something about it always made you oddly panicky. In all other areas of your life, you were prized for your brain (and occasionally for your sparkling personality), but it was as if as soon as a guy got your top off, you became just a body to be claimed and filled. Before your sobriety, it had been a ritual for you to have a glass of wine (or three) before you finally felt comfortable kissing someone. Recently, you came to the somewhat obvious realization that it didn't have to be that way. 

The next time you have sex, you want it to feel like making love.

There's a part of you that groans at that phrasing. Like it's a sign that you've gone soft, all those rom-coms Jack forced you to add to your watch list turning you sappy and swoony. But this year, you've come to accept that there's nothing wrong with being soft - with you being soft - especially with the people who make you feel safe.

One of whom is, undeniably, Jack Abbot.  

You no longer want Jack to take you up against a wall, or on the beach, or in the mud, or any of the many, many ways you've fantasized about fucking him since that first year. This time, you want to be with him in his bed. No candles or anything as dramatic as that. Just...him. His voice, telling you that you're beautiful. His hands stroking your cheek. His eyes never leaving yours. When it's over, you want to fall asleep in his arms to the simple melody of his breathing. 

Okay, you are definitely turning sappy. 

"I still have no idea how I'm going to tell him how I feel," you confess, nibbling on your thumbnail.

"Well, you know that he's attracted to you. You know that he likes spending time with you, even more than me, which is saying something. That he cares about you. Doesn't seem like such a far leap from that to love."

He has a point. It hadn't been a far leap for you. 

"My family's going to freak."

Malcolm rolls his eyes. "Well you don't need to go bringing them into your business this early. I firmly believe family is the killer of romance. My advice is to wait to tell them until after you've already married 'im."

You snort. "That might be a little difficult."

It's a miracle you've been able to keep what happened that first summer a secret for so long. You can't imagine trying to keep a full blown relationship with Jack a secret from your parents, especially on one of these trips. Lucy would probably sniff out his cologne on your clothes like a blood hound. 

"Stop overthinking and go get your man."

You lift your eyes from your phone and spot a familiar pair of silhouettes behind the sliding glass doors of the terminal. 

To say that your stomach fills with butterflies is an inadequate description of your current state. None of the usual cliches will do it. The closest analogy you can think of is a moment during your flight when the turbulence got bad and the plane dipped suddenly, making you feel totally weightless and exhilarated for a few seconds before the plane stabilized.

Total fuckin' free fall.

"You're right." You steel yourself with a deep breath. "I can do this."

"That's my girl."

You hang up. Check your reflection in the rear view mirror and are pleased to discover you actually look pretty good. The humidity hasn't turned your hair into the usual poof ball it reverts to on this island, and instead it falls over your shoulders in perfect beach waves. You reapply your lipgloss and give yourself a final appraisal before opening your door. 

The first thing that you notice is the Hawaiian shirt Jack's wearing, a different one than last year but just as capable of bringing a smile to your face.

The second is the woman clutching his arm. 

In Jack's defense, it seemed like the only option at the time. 

Last summer, he had been reckless. Maybe even more so than that first year. Spending so much time alone with you - Jesus, it was only a matter of time before someone said something. 

And it was a stroke of unbelievable bad luck that that person happened to be his daughter. 

"What happened last night?"

Florence's hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee, and she directed the question to her mug rather than to him. In his sleep addled state, Jack was playing catchup, brain struggling to form a rational explanation for why his daughter just discovered him curled up in the bathtub of their suite with the twenty-four year old daughter of his best friend. 

"Nothing, sweetheart." 

Wrong fuckin' answer. Florence's pale eyes hit him full force with a petrifying glare.

"You said you were going to start telling me things."

"I - fuck."

Usually, when he slipped up and cursed around her, it made her smile. That day, her lips remained pressed in the straightest of lines. 

"It's the Fourth," he finally confessed. "It's a difficult day for me. Your mom used to help me through it, and after she passed I got through it by working. Last night, I was in a bad state. She found me, made sure I was alright. My back was bugging me, and I couldn't get out of that stupid fucking tub, and she offered to keep me company. We watched a couple movies, and I guess fell asleep."

"You're...friends?"

His daughter was not an idiot - far from it, would probably end up at a much better college than the one he'd managed to trick into accepting him. But what was he supposed to say? That the two of you had been intimate, and toeing a strange line between platonic and something else for the past two years?

"Yes." Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in examining his own cup of coffee. "We talk. Have since last year."

There's something not quite satisfied in Florence's expression, jaw still tight, eyes narrowed. 

"You could have called me."

"I know."

Jack let out a sigh, head falling into his hands. 

He felt Florence's weight at his back, then her thin arms wrapping around his chest. Her chin nestled into the groove of his shoulder. 

In that moment, Jack knew something had to change. He was so fucking tired of being in that situation. A grown man, nearly fifty fuckin' years old, being comforted by a fourteen year old. 

He increased his weekly therapy sessions, got on new meds.

Put distance between the two of you. Slight, at first. Eventually, he stopped calling, and would only pick up half the time when you did. Thankfully, you didn't seem to notice the change. You were busy, he knew that. Had your own life to live - a life that was only just beginning. It was good for both of you, he told himself, to get a little space. 

Not just because what happened that night couldn't happen again, but because that night was emblematic of a much larger problem. Jack's relationship with you was bordering on dependency. You filled the same cracks in his life as the shelf of medications he'd been prescribed over the years. Even though you likely didn't understand the extent of his reliance on you, from the moment that he recognized it, guilt tore through him every time he thought of you. 

So when Jack was having trouble sleeping, when he needed relief, he didn't call you. He handled his shit on his own - which, he will admit, is the total opposite of what he'd promised Florence - but it was necessary. It was time for him to act like the grown man that he was. 

He did take one piece of her advice. 

I think it would be good for you to have someone. 

Because, Jack discovered, guilt was a powerful tool. And if he was in a relationship, it was just one more reason to feel guilty for thinking of you. 

It certainly doesn't help that she's so fucking beautiful. You've come to appreciate your own looks over the years, and you are well aware that you are pretty - sexy, even, in certain contexts. But the woman standing in front of you is beautiful in a way that you could never replicate. She looks like the grown ups in the movies you used to watch as a kid, the women whom you hoped to emulate as an adult. Put together, confident in a way that runs too deep to be artificial.

Her hair is tied in a perfectly messy bun with a tasteful few pieces pulled out to frame her heart shaped face, and the matching cotton set she's wearing makes her look like an undercover celebrity. You briefly wonder if she is a celebrity, given the good looks, but you don't recognize her from anything. 

"Hi! I'm April," the woman says with a brilliant grin that looks torn straight out of a Victoria's Secret catalog. "And you must be the famous Lucy! I've heard so much about you." 

Your lips part, and you blink at her for a few seconds, eyes darting from her outstretched hand to Jack's face, which reveals...nothing. A brick fucking wall. You can almost feel it being physically erected between you, the distance he so clearly intends to conjure in the uncharacteristic blankness of his stare.  

"Uh - no, not Lucy," you say with a polite smile before shaking her hand and introducing yourself.

"Oh gosh, sorry about that." April laughs nervously, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "That does make me feel a better, though. I was a bit nervous at the prospect of being driven around by a sixteen year old."

"No, I'm the other daughter. A bit less famous, but a fan favorite I hope."

You have to fight to keep yourself from wincing at your own joke. April, at least, gives a polite laugh (even if it is a bit clipped). Jack doesn't so much as smile. 

"Can you pop the back?" Florence asks, and the surge of gratitude you feel for the interruption is so great you could kiss her. 

You help her with the bags. Jack, who usually takes charge of this part, hangs back, saying something to April that you can't quite hear. When he leans in to give her cheek a quick peck, your stomach turns inside out. 

You already have your dad rock playlist cued up for Jack, and you cringe when a Springsteen song automatically starts to blare through the tinny speakers when you start the car. 

"Oh my god, I love this song," April says as she slides into the passenger seat. 

You'd hoped that Jack would sit there, that maybe it would give the two of you a chance to actually talk. Instead, you're forced to watch as April flashes him a grin in the rearview mirror, and there's something about the knowing quirk of her brows that feels so intimate, a dynamic that is completely lived in. It makes you feel like the cab driver in a romcom - you know, the one who mumbles some grumpy line from the front seat while the two leads look lovingly into each other's eyes in the back, totally in their own world. 

It is totally, and completely, sickening.

And more than a little petty when you decide to put on a playlist Malcolm has entitled Songs to Cry to in the Shower just to kill the mood.

Jack has never had trouble with confrontation. On the ER floor, he's quick to handle unruly patients, and hits his residents with sharp but informative reprimands when they slip up (although he's proud to say these incidents are few and far between). He's one of only two people (the other being Dana) capable of handling Robby when he's spiraling, something that seems to be happening more and more these days. And on the rare occasion that Florence needs to be disciplined, he's able to lay down the law, even if he does need to call his mother for reassurance that he's done the right thing when she storms off to her room. 

He has no idea why he didn't tell you about April before this trip - although, that's not exactly true. But to acknowledge the reason for his anxiety about this disclosure would be to acknowledge the strange space his relationship with you has come to occupy, and he is determined not to think about that if he can help it. 

Now, he can fully grasp the gravity of his omission. It's evident every time you glance at him in the rear view mirror. Quick - calculated, he's sure, so that he won't notice, but unfortunately for you his line of work requires exceptional peripheral vision. 

Of all the things Jack has to feel guilty about, he should not feel guilty about bringing his girlfriend on vacation. It's one of the most normal things he's done in years. His therapist had even offered him a relieved little smile when he'd told her about it, as if she could finally take him off of her running list of potential 5150's.  

And April is undeniably good for him. Always urging him to cover less shifts, forcing him to switch his ringer off during his nights off for the first time in a decade. Helping him to develop a semi-healthy work/life balance for the first time in years, holding his hand as he learns to lay down his arms with an easy, encouraging smile.

Sure, she doesn't know that during the nights she stays over he'll occasionally slip out of bed after she falls asleep and sit in his garage for hours listening to his police scanner while he checks and reorganizes his go-bag. And yes, she doesn't know that on some of the days that he tells her he's working he's actually volunteering with S.W.A.T.

But total honesty takes time to earn. It took him years to fully open up to Robby, his therapist, even Marisol. Eventually, he will tell her. 

He will someday find a way to tell the woman he's slept beside for months the things he confessed to a stranger on a cliffside all those years ago. He's sure of it.

Jack doesn't meet your eyes, not during the drive, nor the long walk from the parking lot of the hotel to his unit. You can't seem to keep your own eyes off of him - which feels like a lingering symptom of the masochistic tendencies you've been trying so hard to get over, especially as you watch him sidle up to April as she takes in the view from the window, wrapping his hands around her waist. You don't even say anything - just Irish goodbye and slip out the door, racing back to your suite before your legs collapse beneath you. 

For the longest time, you sit on the floor of your room, knees hugged against your chest, trying your very best not to hyperventilate. You can hear the high pitched screech of Lucy and Florence's reunion, then a heavy thud which you guess is Lucy probably knocking something over again. Her growth spurt this year has made her extremely clumsy, which you cannot call attention to without her storming off. 

All that you want to do is call Malcolm and tell him everything, but you can't seem to conjure the energy to lift your phone, and you're certain that the very thin walls of your unit would reveal your dilemma to your entire family no matter how quiet you try to be. 

The worst part is that you're aware of how silly this entire situation is. You are having a panic attack after finding out that your crush - your father's best friend, a man more than two decades your senior, who has quite literally known you since you were in diapers - is dating a beautiful woman who clearly makes him happy.

Jack is your friend - at least, you thought he was. You should be thrilled for him.

But why didn't he tell you?

That is the part that stings the most. Because not only does this development mean that Jack is in love with someone else, it means that the friendship that has sustained you for two years wasn't as strong as you thought. You feel like a stupid little girl - the very thing, you realize, that Jack has probably thought you were all along. 

And that's what makes you get up off the floor, wipe the clumps of mascara from beneath your eyes, and put on a goddamn smile. 

By the time you have worked up the courage to leave your room, the shadows have grown long, and you discover that your parents have already changed for dinner. By the time that you've showered the eleven hour plane ride off of you and changed into one of the new dresses you purchased for the trip (a dress, you recall with a pang, you'd thought Jack would like), everyone is already gathered in the hotel restaurant, steaming plates of food sitting in front of them. 

"We weren't sure what you wanted," your father says as you take the only empty seat - which is, unfortunately, between your mother and April. 

"It's okay, I'm not hungry," you lie. 

"You can have some of mine," April offers, sliding her kale salad toward you. "I had one too many Biscoffs on the plane."

"Thanks."

Her friendly smile makes you feel even shittier, but you force yourself to take a few small bites to be polite. Jack is seated on her other side, glaring at a plate of fish and chips that looks mostly untouched. It takes a great deal of effort not to stare at him, psychoanalyzing every twitch of his jaw. 

"So, I've been meaning to ask," April begins, setting her fork down. "What does the itinerary for this trip usually look like?"

Your parents look at each other. 

"Usually we just go with the flow," your mom confesses. 

April seems particularly excited by this answer, brightening a little. 

"Okay, great! I just have a few things that I thought we could try, but I didn't want to interrupt the way you usually do things."

"That would be lovely," Nani says, although her eyes are pinched a little. 

"Better than a bunch of old farts shooting the shit," Koa jokes, and his wife prods his arm.

"Well, I'm looking forward to hearing some old army stories. Jack here never tells me anything."

April's words are light, but you can sense something sharper concealed by the forced breeziness in her tone, a tack hidden beneath silk sheets. You force yourself to take another bite of salad to distract yourself from thinking too deeply about it. 

Soon, she begins interrogating Koa about the island, and he seems more than happy to have a willing ear to opine to. As they talk, your mother leans into you.

"Did you know that he was bringing her?" she whispers.

You shake your head. "No. I didn't."

Her lips sink into a frown. You're grateful to have at least one person as put off by April's presence as you are, but the concern in your mother's stare as she watches you makes you uneasy. You turn away, facing the horizon, and watch the sun slip beneath the sea. 

You know that Jack won't be at the cliffside that night, but you head there anyway. Pick at a bag of chips as you gaze up at the stars until temperature finally plunges enough to make you shiver and you head back to your room, determined not to cry yourself to sleep.

DAY TWO

The next morning, you sneak out to your car under the guise of going for a coffee run and finally call Malcolm. Of course, you forget that it's barely five a.m. in California and thus wake him many, many hours before he usually gets up, but when you tell him what's happened he immediately sits up in bed, totally alert. 

"She sounds awful," he says after you finally get through telling him all about April.

"She's not. She's actually...nice."

It hurts a little to admit.

"Babes, it's me. You can tell me that you hate the bitch and want to burn her house down and I'll get the gasoline."

"I don't hate her!" You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I'm trying not to hate her. I don't want to be one of those women that villainizes the wife."

"Need I remind you that you are not the other woman, and she is not his wife. Not yet, anyway."

"Somehow that makes me feel worse."

"It should make you feel better! He's only known the woman a few months. You've known him for years. The only advantage she has is that she's shagging him on the reg."

God, just the thought of that has your dinner threatening to come back up. 

You know that you have two options. You can be an immature, desperate girl and try to win him back. Put on your lowest cut dresses, flirt, fight for your man.

Or, you can be an adult. Accept defeat. Allow Jack to be happy. 

It's no question. Because no matter how many times he hurts you, you love Jack Abbot. And he deserves this. A woman like April to love, who will be good for him, give him the steadiness and easy support he needs after everything he's been through.

You know deep down that he deserves so much more than you can offer him. 

"I just wish that he would talk to me," you confess. 

"So figure out a way to get him alone, lure him away from the others. You're a fuckin' lawyer, you manipulate innocent people for a living."

You flick the camera, and Malcolm feigns a wince. Aside from the slander, you realize it's not a bad idea. 

So, at breakfast that morning, you throw out the idea of going for a run - fully aware that Jack likes to go for one at least once a day along the beach. 

It's just your luck that it is instead April who leans forward with a grin, and exclaims, "That sounds lovely. I think I'll join you!"

You debate feigning food poisoning as you lace up your shoes, but decide it's best to just get this over with. Rip off the bandaid. You're going to be spending a lot of time with April this trip based on the itinerary she proposed (which Lucy eagerly accepted), you might as well get used to it.

April is stretching outside your door when you open it, and greets you with a grin. 

"Ready?" she asks, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. 

You nod and let her lead the way down to the beach. 

You're grateful for all the weekends you've spent with your run club this year, because April is in annoyingly good shape, her breath remaining even as you run along the beach, not a single droplet of perspiration glimmering on her unlined face. You, on the other hand, have to keep swiping at your upper lip whenever she's not looking to keep sweat from trickling into your mouth. 

The water is a perfect shade of aquamarine at your side, glistening in the morning sun as it laps calmly at the shore. While you enjoy running in New York, this single beach puts that entire island to shame. It's so stunningly beautiful that it briefly snaps you out of the misery that has hung over you since yesterday morning.

That is, until the conversation starts. 

"I've never been to Kauai before," April confesses. "My family's Pennsylvania born and bred, and we only ever vacationed on the Jersey Shore, which is basically a wet dumpster compared to this."

You laugh. "Yeah, I have to agree. My friends took me there a few months ago and I've never been more grateful to have grown up in California."

"I'm looking forward to exploring the island. Jack told me about this beautiful lookout spot along the cliff."

You're so focused on what she's just revealed that you nearly trip over a gnarled piece of driftwood, and you hiss a little as you hop over it, narrowly keeping your toes from catching on it.

"Yeah, it's pretty great," you say once you've caught your breath.

Jack told her about the spot - your spot? You feel a sudden surge of fierce possessiveness, which is probably why you make the idiotic decision to confess, "Jack and I actually discovered it during our first trip here."

"Really?"

There's something lurking beneath the question, a shadow of doubt beneath the surface. Her blue eyes stray from the trail to your face, searching for something. You imagine a layer of steel surrounds your brain and you try to keep your face impassive. 

"You know, I didn't even know Allan had two daughters. Jack never mentioned you."

It stings, but you're not entirely surprised. Why would he? Clearly, you and Jack were not the friends that you thought you were. You can't help retracing every moment you've spent together over the past two years, every late night call.

That whole time, was he just being nice? Worried you might do something stupid if he didn't pick up after all of the things he's witnessed since you met?

"Lucy's Florence's best friend," you croak out, suddenly hoarse. "I'm just the spare."

April looks at you then, a clear question in her eyes, but you offer her a placating smile. If she wants to understand your relationship with Jack, she'll have to go right to the source. Clearly, you don't know him as well as you thought you did. 

From the moment April expresses interest in your run, Jack is on edge. He's certain that you wouldn't tell April anything. Positive, because there's nothing to tell. 

Except for what happened that first summer.

Or that car ride home from karaoke the second.

Or the night in the tub last year. 

Shit. 

He spends the hour pacing around his suite, certain that if he allows himself to set foot outside he will be unable to stop himself from wandering down to the beach and watching you both like a pathetic creep. It is nonetheless still pretty fuckin' pathetic how relieved he is when the lock finally beeps and April jogs inside, leaning against the door with a weary sigh as she eases it shut. 

"How was your run?" he asks, busying himself with rinsing the few dishes they've managed to dirty so that the question appears a bit more casual. 

"Good."

She gives his cheek a peck as she squeezes past him to pour herself a glass of water. 

"Allan's daughter, she's...interesting."

Jack's hand stills. The thrum of water from the sink suddenly feels deafening.

"Oh yeah? What'd you guys talk about?"

April waves a hand. "Nothing, really. I don't know. She just gives me kind of an intense vibe."

He huffs out a laugh. "She's a lawyer. I'd wager it's a symptom of her trade."

"Really?" Her eyebrows lift as she takes a long sip. "I would have thought she was still in college."

"Darby got pregnant right after Allan's first tour. They were young, but adapted to it pretty well."

"Huh."

Jack looks up and finds her staring at him, watching his hands scrub an already stainless plate. 

"What?"

After a beat she shrugs, and gives him a tight smile. 

"Nothing."

April is a seemingly endless well of energy, because after your seven mile run that morning she is still determined to spend the afternoon snorkeling in Poipu. The beach is crowded, one of the tourist heavy spots Koa usually advises your families to steer clear of, but it doesn't seem to deter her in the slightest. You've barely spread your towel on the sand before she's tugging off her shirt to reveal a tasteful one-piece that perfectly shows off her lean curves. 

She races down to the water - swim shoes be damned - and sinks into the surf. 

"Come on," she calls up to Jack. 

You catch a tiny wince in his eyes. 

"I'll watch the bags," he tells her. 

You haven't seen him get in the water in years, though you don't have to guess why. It's the same reason he is the only man wearing jeans and sneakers to the beach. While Jack hasn't spoken openly about his relationship with his prosthetic, you can guess that he isn't a fan of having his status as an amputee revealed in public. 

And you can't help thinking about your second night together, all those years ago. The quiet resolve in his expression, his determination palpable from a distance as he stripped down and removed his prosthetic, and made the difficult journey without it to join you in the water. The butterflies you'd gotten knowing he did it all for you. 

You force yourself to look away, and set up your things before shimmying out of your clothes. You're wearing your most conservative bikini, a calculated move, although more to prove to yourself that you are not going to try to compete for Jack's attention than to actually attempt to keep him from looking at you. When you finally wriggle your head out of your T-shirt, you catch Lucy glaring down at her phone, neck bent at an unnatural angle to stare at the screen.

"You okay?"

She nods quickly enough to make you doubt that. Her fingernails, you notice, are bitten to the quick, her cuticles torn and bloodied. 

"Is it school? You don't have summer courses, do you?"

"AP scores come out today," she says, rolling her eyes as if that should have been obvious.

You remember all too well the agonizing wait before the release of test scores. You'd nearly thrown up the day you got your final LSAT score. 

Looking at your sister, you're suddenly struck by how truly young she looks - so much younger than you felt when you were sixteen, at which point you were already convinced that if you did not graduate summa cum laude, you had no reason to exist. Lucy has always seemed so much more carefree than you, always dismissing your lectures with a roll of her eyes. You wonder if she's taken after you in more ways than you knew.

"Come on," you urge her, prodding her arm. "It's out of your hands. Whatever will be, will be."

She squints at you. "Do you honestly believe that?"

There's something about her stare, the razor sharp discernment that has always been so capable of cutting through your bullshit. It's why it's been so hard for you to get through to her. You try your best to be helpful, but she knows precisely when you are being a hypocrite.

"I think that you have to believe that. After a certain point, there's so many things to worry about that you just don't have the capacity to stress about the ones you can't control anymore."

It's maybe the most honest thing you've said to her in years. Her lips wriggle. Finally, she sets her phone on the towel with a defeated sigh. 

"Alright. But when we get back, I want you to check it for me."

You nod. "It would be my honor, madam."

She rolls her eyes, but a ghost of a smile passes over her lips. Together, you tread down to the shore.

It's not until you're in the water that you realize you forgot to put on sunscreen. When you turn back, you find Jack staring right at you.

Dinner is, of course, at a place April found online. A tiki bar-slash-restaurant with a live band and vintage decor. 

If you and Jack were speaking, you would have cracked a joke about his age, asked what it was like seeing color TV for the first time. Unfortunately, in the past forty-eight hours, you have said a whopping total of zero words to each other. Your attempts to get him alone have been unsuccessful, always thwarted by the presence of Florence or April, who clings to him like she's scared he might disappear if her hand isn't constantly wrapped around his bicep. 

You try to focus on the streams of conversation that flow through the group. Koa shares that his sister, who lives on the North side in Princeville, is bringing her family down to Kapa'a for a few days. You smile right on cue when Nani makes a joke about setting you up with his nephew, though you truthfully can't imagine anything worse than trying to force a spark with someone else when your heart feels like it's gotten the shit kicked out of it. 

Eventually, a couple from a nearby table wanders to the space at the center of the room and begins to dance. It's not long before Koa and Nani join them, then your parents. Even Florence and Lucy find a space on the dance floor, giggling and twirling each other. After finding out she got a four on her AP World History test a few hours ago, Lucy's relief has been noticeable, and the smile on her face is infectious even from a distance. It would be so easy to soak up her joy if it weren't for the sight of Jack and April, swaying together a few feet away from them. 

You are, officially, the odd one out. A title you and Jack used to share, and that makes you all the more miserable.

After a few songs, someone taps your shoulder. You glance up from your phone to find April standing in front of you, a visibly tense Jack by her side.

"I urgently need to use the ladies' room, and I was wondering if you could do me a favor and keep my partner company for a song."

Her tone is sweet and encouraging, and...oh god. Pity. She's taking pity on you. Jack clearly is not on board with this scheme, evident in the way his arms are stiffly flattened against his sides and he still won't fucking look at you. Your cheeks heat, and you suddenly feel like you're third wheeling your friends at prom. 

"Sure," you say, because you can't think of anything else to do. 

April grins and gives your arm a grateful squeeze before she breezes past you. Once she's gone, Jack doesn't move to return to the floor.

"We don't have to dance if you don't want to," you offer.

"Do you want to?" 

You don't. Not really. But still, you find yourself saying, "Yeah, I do."

You let him lead you to the space he and April occupied just a few minutes before. His hands ease onto your hips, but the pressure is so light you can almost forget that they're there. You twine your arms around his neck and begin to move to the beat. 

His posture is stiff, his movements robotic. The distance between you seems like something he calculated in advance and deemed socially acceptable, keeping a precious few inches of space between you that he doesn't dare breach. It's the closest you've ever gotten in the presence of your parents, but it feels so intensely sanitized that you don't feel the slightest bit of concern about that. 

After only a few seconds, the silence is unbearable. You clear your throat. 

"So...that's your type."

"What?"

"April," you clarify. "I - last summer, you wouldn't tell me what your type was. Now I know."

Jack looks at you for a long moment, then nods briskly. 

"Did I do something wrong?" You feel his fingers tense a little on your hips, and it's so satisfying to finally get a reaction from him that you decide to keep pressing. "It's just...something feels different. Is it because I didn't call as much this year? It was just, with the move and the new job I just haven't had as much time-"

"It's not you."

You suppose you should feel a bit relieved at that. You don't.

His Adam's apple bobs. 

"I think it would be good for us both to spend more time with people our own age."

Your mouth feels dry. "Oh," is all that you can manage in response.

He nods, as if to say oh indeed.

Your eyes begin to water, as if all the moisture in your body has been diverted there. It's a good reason, a totally normal sentiment, but what you can't understand is why that resolution would necessitate the kind of coldness he's been treating you with since he arrived. The Jack you knew was many things, but cruel wasn't one of them. 

"I miss you," you confess.

There - a flicker of pain in his eyes, so brief you almost miss it. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Swallows. 

"Sorry about that," April announces as she cuts across the floor. "The bathroom line was insane."

You and Jack practically leap back from each other. 

"Thanks again for keeping an eye on him."

She pinches Jack affectionately before sliding into his arms. 

Jack does not go looking for you. In fact, he heads to the beach that night specifically to avoid running into you in your usual spot. It's just as good a place as any to stew in the emotional turmoil that seems to follow him wherever he fucking goes. 

The sea is rough that night, slapping against the shore with a force that feels violent. He wonders how long he could withstand the surf before it would swallow him whole. Probably a minute at most. Before his injury, he's certain he could have braved the strongest of tides. Now, he feels old and weak. So fucking weak he can't even join his girlfriend for a leisurely snorkel, something even the five year olds in the shallows seemed to be able to handle. 

Jack's is a weakness that cuts deeper than severed bone. It is a weakness born of a fear so virulent it sometimes seems to take on a physical form, carving through his flesh, curling tendrils around his mind. But over the years, Jack's relationship to his fear has become somewhat symbiotic. It propels him in his work, it has, in some instances, kept him from harm - just as his therapist described all those years ago. 

It has also held him back. Hit him with a force capable of buckling knees, made him feel more powerless than the barrel of a gun pointed at his head. Held him immobile, kept him from moving forward, moving on from the things he knows he should be over by now. 

On paper, he has made tremendous progress this past year. It doesn't fucking feel like it. 

A seagull shrieks in the distance, dipping suddenly before arcing over his head. His eyes track it as it travels inland, heading for the cliffs. 

There is a speck of color on the ledge. A person, he realizes. A woman wearing a long sun dress, standing at the edge, staring out at the sea. 

The distance is too great to make out her face, but he knows without a doubt that it's you that he's staring at. 

He wonders if you've noticed him. Probably not, judging by your focus on the horizon. 

He stays a few minutes longer, watching you. It isn't until you've disappeared into the tree line that he finally allows himself to return to his room. 

DAY THREE

The next morning, you wake at dawn, figuring if you get your workout in early, you'll have an excuse ready in case April wants to go later. For once, you're grateful for the island's humidity because it means that there is just the right amount of warmth lingering in the thick air to allow you to exercise comfortably at six a.m. without needing a hoodie. You slip out of your suite in just your socks to avoid waking your family and lace up once you're out on the green outside your building. 

And discover that you're not alone.

"Oh, hi."

Jack looks up, gently rising from the downward dog pose you'd caught him in. There's a thin yoga mat beneath his sneakers, marked by the hotel's logo in the corners. For once, he's not in his usual jeans, instead sporting a pair of baggy, camo-printed sweatpants. His hair is damp, and already beginning to curl at the tips in the humid air.

He looks well rested - he looks well in general. You haven't had the opportunity to examine him without worrying you'll alert April to your attentiveness, but now you do, taking a second to admire the new tan peeking out from the sleeves of his tight shirt. 

"Morning," he offers with a grunt as he straightens. 

"Did I forget that you did this?"

Jack gives you a small, crooked smile. "I don't think I can remember a time I saw you before nine a.m."

"That's fair."

You consider asking him to join you on your run, but the memory of his words the night before replays in your mind, bringing with it a residual ache. 

"I'll let you get back to it."

You are beginning to jog away, mentally giving yourself a massive pat on the back for your ability to remain a mature adult even while it feels like your heart is being pummeled by a prize fighter, when the sound of your name makes you freeze.

Jack crosses the green to you, and there's a slight drag in his footsteps that makes you wonder if his prosthetic is bothering him. You wish you could figure out how to stop worrying about him when he seemed to have no concern for your own wellbeing. 

You fold your arms over your chest, preparing for yet another stunning revelation that will no doubt ruin your mental health even more. Maybe April's pregnant, and he's moving across the world to raise their child in the Swiss Alps in a town with no cell service, and you will never see him again. 

What Jack actually says surprises you even more than that. 

"I'm sorry."

For the first time all week, he's actually looking at you. Eyes soft and pleading, and perfectly contrite. It is precisely what you've been waiting for, but it doesn't make you feel any better. Something about the way that he says sorry somehow always manages to make you feel as if you are the one who's done something wrong. 

"It's fine."

It's not. You know it, and you're certain Jack knows it, too, judging by the way he's looking at you. 

"You're probably right," you add. "Although, I do happen to have plenty of friends my own age. You're definitely a statistical outlier, age wise, if that makes you feel better."

Jack nods slowly, your attempt at humor ricocheting right off of him.

"I could have...communicated it better."

You laugh a little. "Yeah, well, you have had many more years to work on your communication skills, so I won't argue with you there."

His brow wrinkles. "Smart ass."

God, how you've missed hearing him say that. 

"Would you want to join me?" you offer.

You catch his weight shift slightly.

"I'd probably slow you down." His voice is strained. 

"I don't mind."

He shakes his head firmly, and you know better than to press the subject any further.

"I'll see you at breakfast," he says before returning to his mat. 

You return from your run at just after seven and quickly shower and change for breakfast, hoping that you will have the opportunity to gloat when you are the first one there. However, when you head out to the patio of the hotel's restaurant to snatch a table, you spot Koa and Nani already sitting at the edge of the space with a boy you don't recognize.

A cute boy. 

Jack was not the first of your crushes to fall on the older side, but you are not immune from the charms of men your own age. This one is certainly no exception. As you get closer, the stranger's features sharpen, allowing your attraction to solidify into something more real. 

He looks like Koa in many ways, tan skin, shaggy black hair falling in waves to the edge of his jaw, but with a youthfulness that seems to radiate out of him with every movement, the relaxed toss of his head, his easy laughs. 

When you approach the table, he grins at you like you're old friends. 

Nani introduces you to the stranger before identifying him as Max, Koa's nephew. AKA the one she'd not so subtly mentioned wanting to set you up with the night before. 

You hold out your hand on reflex. Max cocks his head curiously, then shakes it with both hands. 

His hands are warm, and soft, and not at all like Jack's.

You can practically hear Malcolm's voice. 

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new. 

Maybe it's time you tried that.

Max is, you discover, not your usual type. Type B, talkative, easygoing. A fairly well adjusted, good guy. Despite his stunning beauty, he probably would not have been your first choice for a rebound.

Then, Jack arrives. And spends the entirety of the meal staring at you. 

The trend continues into the afternoon, when the group heads over to the beach. Max floats the idea of a good old fashioned game of pick-up football, and while hand eye coordination has never been your strong suit, your competitive nature and need to expel the pent up energy you've been absorbing from Jack's not-so-subtle stares for the past few hours have you all in on the idea. 

Lucy - the little traitor - decides to abandon your family for the Abbots' team. This does, however, leave a spot open for Max. 

Whom you are quick to ask to help you with your sunscreen.

It is so petty - so unbelievably immature - but the look on Jack's face as Max's hands smooth the lotion over your hips has you struggling to keep yourself from smirking. 

"Has anyone ever told you've got an old energy? Not like, in a bad way," Max is quick to add. "Like, mature. Old soul type shit."

"No, uh, they haven't."

Now this is why you typically stay away from younger guys. Max is sweet though, so you hear out the myriad of other semi-offensive observations he rattles off like they're compliments without turning to your usual defensiveness. 

Your eyes stray behind him to where Jack's got his team in a huddle. You can't make out what he's saying until the end, when he gives a strange battle cry - hoo-ah - which is echoed by the others before they spread out across the sand. 

"Keep an eye on trouble over there," your father calls, pointing at Jack.

"I've got him." 

You jog over to where he's standing, bent at the waist with his hands braced on his knees in anticipation.

"You're going to have to promise to go easy on us. When you lose," he clarifies. "I get the sense you're a sore loser and I'm not sure the hotel's insurance covers rampages."

"That's a little overconfident, don't you think?" A little lower, for just him to hear, you add, "I know all your weaknesses, old man."

The smirk vanishes from his lips.

Game fucking on.

Jack wasn't lying when he told you that he's never been good at sharing. Maybe it was a side effect of growing up with three sisters, or just one of the many fatal flaws he was assigned at birth. Jealousy makes him feel small, and spiteful, and apparently, under some circumstances, a bit dangerous.

He tells himself that he didn't mean it. That it was an accident. That he underestimated the force of the shove, too focused on intercepting the pass that you'd just thrown to think about what he was doing. 

The kid's wrist wasn't broken - he'd made sure to rule that out. Just a tiny little sprain from landing on it wrong when Jack elbowed him to the ground like a fucking maniac. 

After Max's injury, the game is essentially abandoned. Jack mutters something to April about needing a shower and retreats back to his room, where he stands under the freezing cold stream of water until his blood pressure finally drops to a normal level. By the time he steps out, his fingers are wrinkled and April is waiting for him at the door, purse at her side, tapping her foot impatiently. 

"I promised the girls I'd take them to this shaved ice place they saw online."

Jack nods evenly. He can see that a fight is brewing, but he knows from experience that being forced to vent her frustrations in public mellows her a bit.

"Let me grab my shoes."

Everyone ends up tagging along, including, of fucking course, Max. Who has done, he is aware, nothing to personally injure him aside from spending time with you. 

April orders for him - a habit he's come to accept since their first date, when she ordered sashimi and he was surprised to find he didn't mind it. The woman working the stand plops a paper bowl in front of him, piled high with brown tinted ice that's covered in a creamy liquid. 

"It's coffee flavored," April explains. "It's supposed to be one of their best."

It is good, but Jack can't focus on it, just mindlessly shovels bites into his mouth. Behind him, you're somewhere laughing. 

April watches him, her shaved ice beginning to melt a little in her hands. A bit of liquid drips onto her lap.

"I didn't realize you were so competitive," she says.

He shrugs. "Just in a weird mood."

"Anything I can help with?"

Her eyes are wide, full of a silent plea. Open up to me. He's seen it in her gaze several times over the course of their relationship. But now is not the time for honesty.

"Oh my god," you moan at a volume that probably is in violation of local zoning regulations. "This tastes just like a pina colada, you have to try it."

He hears Max humming as you pop the spoon into his mouth. 

DAY FOUR

Max is excellent at being a distraction. So much so, in fact, that you no longer feel the pressing need to spend every moment making plays for Jack's attention. 

You eat musubi from a cart on the side of the road for breakfast. Go shopping downtown, briefly consider getting a tattoo (but fortunately you have the good sense to ultimately decide against it). He even talks you into cliff jumping, and you are pleasantly surprised to find after the sheer terror of the first few seconds of the drop, the experience is wondrously invigorating, giving you a boost of adrenaline induced energy that propels you through your day.

The others are thrilled by your closeness, aside from your father - who seems to only tolerate Max due to his shared genes with Koa - and, of course, Jack. 

It's funny, you think to yourself, how your old distraction has turned into the person that you need a distraction from. But after going through hell at the hands of Jack Abbot this week, it is so nice for your mind to finally feel a bit at peace again. 

Even if that peace is shattered every time his eyes meet yours. 

Jack considers leaving. Feigning some excuse about being needed back at the PTMC, a super-flu claiming enough attendings to prompt an 'all hands on deck' situation. April might buy it. Florence definitely wouldn't. 

So, he stays. Watches you laugh at jokes that he didn't make, putting your hand on an arm that isn't his. 

You don't return to the cliffside that night. He stays on the beach a few hours anyway, watching for your silhouette for reasons he can't quite make sense of.

When he finally comes to bed, April is awake, reading. She stares at him a moment as if waiting for him to say something, explain where the hell he's been. Then, she flicks off the light and turns away. 

DAY FIVE

At lunch the next day, things take a turn. You are sharing a few horror stories from work over appetizers when April cuts in.

"Sounds intense."

There's something about the way that she says the word that makes your skin prickle. 

"It is," you agree, chewing a piece of calamari. "But in a good way."

"And you plan to stick with it long term?"

"My career?" You laugh a little, unsure where exactly this conversation is going. "Yeah, I do."

"I'm sure your career is very important to you." You don't miss where she places the emphasis. "It just doesn't sound very rewarding. At the end of your life, you're not going to be thinking about how many hours you billed. You're going to be thinking about your family, your kids."

Ah. So that's it then. You're not entirely surprised. Being a woman in a field like law means you've had this conversation plenty of times before. Loads of people have even assumed that the only reason you'd want to go to law school in the first place would be to find a high caliber hubby. Personally, you think $180k in student loans is a little too much to pay for the mere opportunity to find a spouse.

"Yeah, because my life's accomplishments should be measured in the number of times I forget to use a condom," you snort.

It's a joke Malcolm (bless him) would have appreciated or even made himself. It is, however, the wrong thing to say now.

Your mother hisses your name.

"What?" you snap, suddenly defensive. "It's all everybody's thinking about whenever they see a pregnancy announcement. Congratulations, you had sex like every other human being on the planet, only now you have this walking talking reminder of it that you have no idea what to do with."

You are aware that the point you are making is, quite frankly, terrible. At best, it makes you sound like you hate children, at worst, it makes you sound like a total pervert. Unfortunately for everyone at the table, you are stubborn to a fault, and it's too late to back down now. 

April purses her lips. "I think that's a very simplistic idea of motherhood."

"Well, I think it's very simplistic to think that every woman wants to be a mother."

So this is Jack's type. What he wants in a woman, a life partner. You guess you shouldn't be totally surprised. Marisol was lovely, but now that you think about it, she was distinctively...domestic. Worked at an elementary school for a few years - a guidance counselor, you think - but quit before having Florence. And there's nothing wrong with that. You have watched a few of your childhood friends get married to perfectly average men, already witnessed your conversations start to become ever more focused on talk of their husbands and potential baby names, and you're supportive of all of them. At least, you try to be.

But it's just so not you. 

Maybe, some day, you will have a family. But if you do, you don't want to disappear into motherhood. You would want to still be able to work, and have amazing sex, and generally behave like a normal human being. And, most importantly, you don't want to even start thinking about any of this for many, many years. 

It is yet another reason why the age gap - which you'd once thought you were mature enough to overcome - is a perfectly sensible reason why you and Jack are not meant to be together.

You mumble an excuse about needing to use the restroom before you can humiliate yourself further. 

When you emerge from the bathroom, patting your hands dry on your shorts due to a towel shortage, you find Max leaning against the opposite wall. 

"Hey."

"Hey." He scratches the back of his neck. "That was pretty intense."

"Yeah. I guess I come across like a pretty intense person."

Your cheeks are starting to get hot. God and the fact that Jack saw all of that - no wonder he doesn't want to spend time with you anymore. 

"Not intense, just...passionate." 

"You think so?"

Max nods. "For sure."

It makes you feel slightly less mortified, although you're sure he's just trying to be nice. 

"Me and some friends were going to hit up this backyard concert our buddy's hosting. Would you be down to come with?"

Outside the glass doors that lead out to the patio, you can just make out the back of Jack's head, turned towards April, who is talking animatedly. Your stomach twists.

"Sounds fun. Want to head out now?"

Jack knows that April wants kids. She's a few years shy of forty, young enough that she can still have them with help from the right fertility specialist. But lately, she's been dropping hints that she would like that to happen sooner rather than later. 

With him. 

After Marisol, Jack had never even considered the possibility of having more children. Florence, as easy a personality as she had always been, had been hard enough to raise on his own. 

It would be easier this time around, he thinks. He's making more money, and has enough power in his position to not have to worry quite so much about taking time off for paternity leave. Florence would even be able to help out, babysit for petty cash. 

But as April talks to Darby about the merits of home births, he feels as if he is being swept into the sea. 

Historically, you don't love going out. The experience was only ever bearable for you when you weren't sober, and you would always immediately make a beeline for the bars in the West Hollywood clubs your friends used to frequent in college. While the atmosphere of the house party you're at isn't quite so overstimulating, you wind up about four feet away from the stage, and the bass is so powerful you can feel it in your teeth which quickly puts you on edge. You focus on Max, dancing in front of you, so close your chests are practically touching.

Max, who has spent the entire evening looking at you in a way you've spent two years wishing Jack would. 

It would be so easy to lean into him, let him slide his hands into your hair, tilt your chin up to his mouth. But when you catch him starting to close the gap between you, you press a hand to his chest. 

"I'm sorry. I thought I wanted this but I just...I can't."

Max nods, the light in his eyes dimming somewhat. "Can I ask why?"

You bite your lip. "I'm trying to get over someone, but I'm just not ready yet," you confess.

"Say no more." He gives you a playful salute, and you laugh. 

The song changes. You make a show of clapping loudly since the band has a clear shot of you from the stage and you aren't entirely sure of the etiquette of this kind of intimate event. 

Max pops something into his mouth and gives a low hum. 

"Want one?" he offers, flashing a plastic bag of gummies at you. 

You frown down at it. The rules of sobriety as an alcoholic who has never dabbled in substances stronger than nicotine are not as clear cut as you'd like them to be. Malcolm smokes weed occasionally, and you have heard people say that it's not addictive. Theoretically, it would probably be a much healthier way for you to relax than the solo cups of jungle juice being passed around the yard. 

"Sure," you finally say.

The gummies are only slightly bigger than normal gummy bears, and you take an experimental bite before popping the entire thing into your mouth. 

Maybe it's a placebo effect, but by the time the next song starts, you feel much lighter than you have all trip. 

Jack isn't sure what he expects to find when he wakes to the sound of banging on the door of his suite, but it's certainly not Max. Panting, covered in sweat as he braces himself against the doorframe. 

"You're a doctor, right?"

Never a good question to hear at four in the fucking morning. 

In lieu of an explanation, the kid turns around and beckons for him to follow. 

There's a truck idling in the roundabout in front of the lobby. As Jack nears the vehicle, he catches sight of a figure slumped inside. 

His heart plummets into his stomach. 

The door is already open, and he quickly slides his fingers beneath your chin, pressing them into your neck. Your pulse jumps beneath his fingers, strong but faster than he'd like. 

"Sweetheart?" he murmurs.

Your lashes lift a little, and the corners of your mouth tilt up in a loopy smile. 

"What did you take?"

You sigh, and your head falls against his hand. 

"It's molly. I got 'em from a friend," Max explains, with a pathetic wet sniff. "I thought - shit I thought they'd be good." 

Jack's seen enough drug cases pass through the ED to understand that the situation is not serious, you're just very high. At least once a shift he'll see a patient who is brought in by their friends, convinced that they're on death's door when in reality they're just greening out. There's little he can do in those situations other than administer fluids and monitor for changes.

While MDMA is a much different beast than marijuana, he doesn't spot any of the telltale signs of an overdose. Your temperature is only slightly elevated, not enough to qualify as a fever and certainly not enough to do the long term damage he's concerned about. The difference in your response is likely due to a difference in dosage, something that happens all too often with homemade edibles. 

"Come on, sweetheart."

He slides his arms beneath you and gingerly lifts you out of the passenger seat. You barely stir, blinking up at him sleepily before settling into his chest with a sigh. 

He ignores Max and his mumbled apologies and questions as he carries you back to your family's suite. Thankfully, he finds the key card in the pocket of your jeans and unlocks the door. The interior is completely dark - thank god Florence and Lucy have gone to bed before dawn for once - but he's still careful not to make a sound as he takes you to your room. 

The bed is made, sheets tucked into the mattress even though he saw the sign refusing maid service dangling from the front door. He sets you atop the comforter instead of disturbing it and opens the windows, hoping that the breeze will help your body to regulate its temperature a little better. There's already a glass of water on your bedside table, but he pours it out and refills it.

By the time he returns, he knows that he's done all that he can. You're medically fine, just a little gone. But Jack doesn't think twice before sinking onto the bed beside you. And when you curl against him, tucking your chin against his chest with a pleased sigh, he sweeps your sweat slicked hair back from your face and strokes your back. 

"Jack?" you mumble sleepily, eyes still shut.

"I'm here, sweetheart."

You hum contentedly.

"I love you."

Jack is certain that he's misheard you, that his shirt, which you've pressed your face against, is a sonic barrier capable of changing the shape of your words. Or that you are just very, very high, drunk on serotonin and dopamine, and the declaration doesn't mean much more directed at him than if it had been directed at a plate of fries.

You cannot actually be in love with him.

He has tried so, so hard to prevent that very thing from happening. Kept his hand from reaching for the phone when he missed you, his eyes from searching every room for your shape; gritted his teeth and borne it when you flirted with Max in front of him. There is no way, after the past few days, you can be in love with him. 

When the sun begins to rise, he eases you onto your pillow and slips out of the suite before you wake. 

DAY SIX

It feels as if all the moisture has been leeched from your body. Like lame little H2O oriented vampires snuck into your room and spent the night feasting on what little hydration you provided yourself yesterday, a strange bit of imagery you blame on the lingering effects of the psychedelics. At breakfast, you empty the water pitcher that's meant for the entire table before the waiter even comes to take your order. 

You can remember bits and pieces of the night before. Max helping you back to his truck, carrying you back to your room after you fell asleep. Apparently, those gummies had not been full of pot after all - although you find it hard to be mad at him. You're a goddamn lawyer, you should have done your due diligence before deciding to experiment with unlabeled, unregulated edibles that had been warming in some guy's back pocket all night. 

It feels like the sobriety gods are punishing you for your weakness when you lower the napkin you've been using to dab sweat from your forehead to find April breezing onto the patio, looking like a Neoclassical portrait of a Greek goddess. Jack follows a few steps behind, looking just about as worn thin as you feel, which comforts you somewhat. 

Lucy and Florence are bickering (at least, as close as they can come to bickering) over where to go for a hike. 

"Makaleha Falls is on my bucket list," April cuts in with an eager grin.

"Do we really need to do another fuckin' hike?" Jack grumbles.

Her smile dies. 

"I thought it could be nice," she says quietly. "A last hurrah."

Jack presses his lips together in a thin line.

"Makaleha should be nice on a day like today," Nani jumps in, keeping her tone artificially light. 

Koa agrees, and then your mother is suggesting you bring the canned wine she bought from the market and it's all but decided. 

It's a short drive to the trailhead, but you still manage to nod off before you're jolted awake by the car coming to a stop. 

When the others arrive, April leads the group down the trail, although Lucy apparently has a lot to say about her navigational skills. Jack lags behind at the back of the group, as if trying to get as much distance from his girlfriend as possible.

You allow yourself to fall back, decreasing your pace bit by bit so that Max doesn't notice you've abandoned him, until you and Jack are practically alone.

"Trouble in paradise?"

It takes him a minute to respond, and he blinks at you groggily as if you've startled him out of a daze.

"What?"

"You and April. I think this is the first time she's let you out of her sight all trip."

He flexes his jaw. "She's pissed, and rightfully so."

"About what?"

Another pause. This one feels a bit more deliberate. 

"She wants to know where I was last night," he finally answers gruffly.

"Well, where were you?"

He comes to a dead stop. Stares at you.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "Un-fucking believable."

"What did I do?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't seem like nothing."

He doesn't reply, just works his jaw like he can't quite manage to force it all the way open.

"So much for working on your communication skills," you scoff.

"I apologized for that."

"Yeah, well, forgive me for wondering if you meant it given the fact you've still barely managed to say a word to me."

Now he scoffs.

"I thought you'd found someone new to give you attention."

You whirl on him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"God, will you quit fucking saying that?!"

Jack stares back at you, chest heaving, and you suddenly realize how quiet it's gotten. You can't hear Lucy anymore, or any of your family. The trail is gone, replaced by nothing but muddy soil beneath your feet with no end, no markers in sight.  

"Shit," he mutters. 

You begin to wander deeper into the rainforest to see if you can catch a glimpse of them when Jack's voice calls you back.

"Number one rule of wilderness survival - you get lost, you stay put."

"Fine," you snap.

So, you wait. Stewing in silence, arms folded over your chest, determined not to be the one to make eye contact first. What is his fucking problem? He was the one who had spent this trip acting like a fucking sociopath, and now he was mad at you - for what? Upsetting April at dinner last night? Not being able to read his mind? 

Something cold pricks your shoulder. Then the top of your head. It's sprinkling, you realize. A nice bit of Hawaii rain. For the first few minutes, it's pleasant, helping to cool your skin which has started to feel white hot from the exertion. Unfortunately, it's not long before it escalates to a full fucking downpour, the droplets so thick you can barely make out Jack's face. 

"Still want to stay put?"

He mutters something you can't make out due to the volume of the rain, although you're pretty positive it includes the words smart and ass.

You cup a hand over your eyes, trying to restore some of your visibility as you scan your surroundings. Through the trees, you spot the rocky curve of a hill in the distance. Maybe there's a nice cave you can claim opposite ends of while you wait this out. 

You wave your arm, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the hill. Jack nods, and begins to lead the way. 

Unfortunately, there is no cave, just a small alcove carved into the rock, barely large enough to shield the two of you from the elements. You have to press together to fit under it, your elbow digging into Jack's ribs, his shoulder millimeters from your nose. 

"Does the weather mean you can excuse this instance of inter-generational interaction, or will you have to recover from this by pretending that I don't exist for the next four years?" you joke, trying - failing - to lighten the mood.

Jack sighs. "Can't we just not talk?"

"No, I don't think we can. I've hit my quota on not-talking, actually. Now it's all I want to do."

He turns, shifting so that instead of facing his back you are pressed against his chest and have to tilt your head back to look him in the eye. 

"What do you want to say?"

You dig your nails into your palms.

"It's April, isn't it? The reason you stopped talking to me."

"April had nothing-"

"Oh I know April had nothing to do with it - she didn't even know I existed." Something shifts in his expression. "Yeah, apparently exercise makes us girls very chatty. Who knew?"

You are teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something you can't take back. But unlike at the start of the summer, you're not terrified of telling Jack Abbot how you feel anymore. Your relationship with him has decayed so much over the past week, you no longer have anything to lose. 

"Can you just admit it?" you plead. "There was something between us last summer."

Jack's eyes darken. 

"There was nothing."

He's breathing heavily, as if the words took something out of him. Backed against the edge of the alcove, bits of rain beginning to drip into his hair. Like he's scared to touch you. 

Experimentally, you inch a bit closer. Press against him, your abdomen meeting his waist. Tilt your chin up so that your lips are inches from his jaw, and your breath sends the water droplets that have collected there trickling down his throat. His eyes are pinched, almost shut. He looks as if he's barely holding himself together, as if one touch from you could unravel him completely.

"This isn't nothing."

Your lips graze his jaw, and it's as if that small bit of contact is enough to shatter what's left of his waning resolve. He presses you away until you make contact with the rock at your back. For a moment, he keeps you pinned there. One hand on your waist, one pressing into your clavicle. Chest heaving, your breath mingling with his in the air between you. He lowers his forehead against yours, resting against you like he no longer has the energy to keep himself upright. 

And then he kisses you. 

It shouldn't take you by surprise, but you still gasp a little when his lips make contact with yours. He grunts in response, and you take advantage of the opening by sliding your tongue into his mouth, just enough to tease the tip of his own. He tastes like coffee. Warm, strong. Slightly bitter. It fits with the Jack you know, the memory you've struggled to keep alive all these years. You can feel him start to harden against you, not a single inch of his length able to hide from you given the press of your bodies in the cramped space.

His movements are still somewhat restrained at first, hands slipping beneath your shirt, creeping slowly from your hips, to your ribs, to the skin just beneath your breasts. They stay there for a long moment as he continues to kiss you chastely. Then, his teeth gently nip at your lower lip.

You arch against him reflexively, grinding against his hardening cock. 

"Fuck," he mutters against your mouth.

A switch flips. His kiss deepens, hands curve around the underside of your breasts.

Now you know what makes him tick. He just needs a little encouragement. 

You roll your hips against him, falling into a fluid rhythm. 

He groans, and his head falls into the crook of your shoulder. You're not wearing a bra, and you are particularly grateful for that as his fingertips graze your nipple. He hums into your skin at the contact.

You can't help it. After all of the torture you've endured, you want to rub it in.

"Still think this is nothing?"

He lifts his head just enough to look you in the eye. 

"You really want to do that?"

Before you can answer, his hands are shifting to your ass and he's hoisting you against the rock. It's as if your taunt has flipped a switch and the gloves are fully off. He sucks at your neck, alternating tongue and teeth to keep you writhing beneath him. There's a sharp pain as he presses you back further, the rock digging into the exposed skin where your T-shirt has slid up. It somehow only adds to your arousal.

You start to fumble with Jack's pants, but after taking a few seconds too long to undo the button, he gives a slightly peeved sigh and releases one hand's grip on your ass to take his cock out himself. There's no room for you to admire it before you become intimately acquainted, feeling it slot in the small amount of space allotted between your legs. Your shorts, thank God, are the drawstring type, and within seconds you've shimmied them off. 

His head teases your entrance, stretching it for a few seconds before pulling away. 

"Ja-" The word dissolves on your tongue as he sinks deeper inside you, oblivating all thoughts.

"Not so talkative now."

You attempt to lift your head to glare at him (emphasis on attempt). It becomes impossible when he shifts the angle, hoisting you higher, and begins to thrust. His head presses against your G-spot, and any and all witty retorts dissolve into a soul deep moan.

"That's it, sweetheart. Use your words."

"Fuck you."

He chuckles. "That's the idea."

He slides into you effortlessly, your arousal aided by the fact that your pants were already soaked through from the rain before he got you wet. You arch into him, chasing that perfect contact with your core. 

"Fuck, you feel so good."

The muttered praise sends a chill down your spine, and you whine a little. Jack eyes you, assessing the change. 

"That's it," he says the next time you thrust your hips to meet him. "Good girl. Doing so good."

He continues to mutter praise as he lifts one of your legs higher, spreading you open even more. The next time he slides into you, you can feel him bottom out, the head of his cock jutting against your cervix. The fullness is unlike anything you've experienced before, and you can feel yourself stretching, struggling to accommodate him. But as Jack murmurs encouragement into your ear, you ride out the initial wave of discomfort until it becomes manageable and he begins to thrust again. 

Your orgasm catches you by surprise, the wave of pleasure you've been surfing suddenly reaching a brilliant peak that leaves you unable to move, unable to do anything but lie limply in his arms. Jack thrusts a few more times as you throb around him, then gives a low moan. You feel a slight burst of pressure, then warmth flooding your core. 

For a blissful few seconds, you stay there with your head against his chest. His hands stroke your back, and there's something oddly familiar about it.

Then reality hits. 

Jack just came inside of you. 

Jack came inside you. A girl who has not been on birth control in two years. 

Holy fucking shit. 

Jack Abbot is not a cheater. Has never even been tempted to consider being unfaithful to anyone he's so much as casually dated until...well, until you.

And so, when he kisses you, he knows. 

Knows that he has to end it with April. Knows he will find a way to tell Allan about you, knows he'll be able to withstand the inevitable beating that will follow when he does. 

Because when Jack is in, he's all fuckin' in. And he's been fighting his feelings for you for so long that it's a relief to finally lay down his arms. 

And then you open your eyes. 

And you don't look relieved. 

You look fucking terrified.

Of him. 

His rule against wandering off is abandoned immediately once the rain lets up. The two of you spend what feels like eons searching the rainforest until you finally manage to find your way back to the trail. When you return to the narrow road where the cars were parked, all but one is gone. 

Jack's phone buzzes with a flood of incoming texts once he finally drives you both closer to civilization. Though he's certain everyone (including Florence) is currently fearing the worst, he knows he cannot speak to anyone right now. Not after what he's just done.

"Can we stop at a pharmacy?" 

Your voice is hoarse, and you cringe a little as if speaking hurts. Jack's so concerned by that brief flash of pain in your eyes that he needs an extra moment to process your words.

Pharmacy. Because - shit. 

"You're not-"

You shake your head. 

Shit shit shit. 

There is one CVS, a twenty minute drive away. You are silent the entire time, staring straight ahead, barely blinking. Shell shocked. Like he's broken you. It makes him feel like he's being eaten alive. 

Inside the store, you follow a few steps behind him, zombie-like, as he locates the Plan B and brings it to the cashier.

The woman working the register looks past him at you.

"It's good that you're doing this for her. Not many would."

He squints at her, confusion scrawled in his brow. 

"You're a good dad," the woman adds, as if that clarifies anything.

And then it does.

And he feels like the biggest piece of shit to ever walk this fucked up planet. 

Of course a stranger would assume that he's your father. He's practically the same age as the man. 

He sets a gatorade and a packet of M&M's on the counter and doesn't reciprocate the woman's other attempts at conversation as she adds them to his total.  

You swallow the pill without so much as glancing at the instructions and set the gatorade in the cup holder.

"Drink," Jack instructs, pressing it back into your hand. "You're dehydrated."

For once, you obey without protest. He's able to coax you to eat a few M&M's, though you wrinkle your nose as you chew on them. 

"I hate chocolate," you mumble through a mouthful. 

He should have known that. Has it been so long since the two of you have had a real conversation that he's already began to forget things? He thinks he can still remember your favorite movie, Scream. Or was it Silence of the Lambs? 

Does he even know you anymore?

"What - what phase of your cycle are you in?"

It's such a clinical, sterile question that he winces at himself. You swallow, staring at your feet a long moment before answering.

"I don't know. My last period ended before we got here but it usually only lasts a couple days."

Jack nods. "That's good. It should work, then."

"Here's hoping."

You sound bitter, jaded. You have good reason to be. Jack can remember the last time he came inside someone - his wife, back when that was the intention. Even back when he was a shithead teenager, he'd always been careful. 

You make him reckless. 

You always have. From that very first trip, pushing him out of his comfort zone, convincing him to do things he never would have thought to do on his own. At one point, it was a good thing. Now he can see it for what it is. 

A bad fucking pattern. Bad for you both. Certainly bad for you, a girl whose staunch distaste for motherhood he was well aware of, now forced to pray away a potential pregnancy at his hands. 

There's a few stray napkins sitting on the center console, and he has to swallow to keep the bile down as passes them to you.

You cannot see your family. Not in this state. Not with Jack's cum drying between your legs. You send them a quick text to let them know that you're alive once Jack parks, then book it to your room to shower before they return from the park ranger's station, where they've probably spent the last two hours thinking you were dead. 

Jack doesn't follow. You kind of wish that he would.

The shower is cold, and won't heat up no matter how long you wait. It feels a bit like penance when you finally step beneath the stream, the frozen water hitting you like an electric shock. 

You scrub yourself thoroughly, scooping your fingers inside yourself to clean out as much of the cum as you can, although you're not sure if it would do much to prevent a pregnancy if the Plan B ends up failing. In the mirror, you can spot bruises beginning to form along your back.  

The sex was good, you tell yourself. Jack took care of you, made sure you came. There's no reason for you to cry. 

But you do. Because even if it was good, it wasn't what you wanted.

DAY SEVEN

You bought the ticket before your family had even returned. It was the only thing that got you through the hugs, the tears, the subsequent guilt. Not just at seeing your family so profoundly relieved to see that you are safe when you'd spent the past hour perfectly safe in the parking lot of a pharmacy, praying to a God you're not quite sure you believe in not to let you get pregnant. No, the worst, most bone crushing guilt hit you when you witness that same reaction from April as she threw her arms around Jack's neck. And kissed him.

April, who is, you know, not a bad person. Just a different one. One that you've done irreparable damage to, even though you hope that she never learns of it.

You don't fall asleep that night, are wide awake when your alarm goes off at four a.m. Pack your things in the dark in total silence. You have an excuse ready, a text about a sudden work emergency already cued up in the text thread for your family group chat, but you wait until you're on the road to send it.

The drive to the airport is so different than the one that kicked off your trip. 

Seven days ago, the world was full of possibility. 

Now, every bend of the winding road feels like an ending. 

Jack did not call last night. Didn't text. You debated heading to the cliffside, just in case. But you couldn't find the energy to wait for him. 

Not anymore.

Because you saw the way that he changed after he pulled out of you, how quickly he realized that it had all been a mistake. Just as he'd said your last hookup was. 

You've been trying so goddamn hard for years to unravel him, to convince him to lower his walls and let you in. To tell you what he's thinking. You feel no closer to understanding him now than you did four years ago. 

Now, there is only one thing you know for certain.

Jack Abbot will never be yours.  

taglist: @mayorsof @lik3s0whatever @bellesofia99 @delic8pov

For as long as Y/N Robinavitch could remember, she was constantly behind her brother.

Most times it was literal. Sometimes though… It was a nagging feeling she’d get in the deepest parts of her chest.

Being raised by their strict, single, ER Nurse of a grandmother in downtown Pittsburgh wasn’t as easy as it sounded. And Robby heard the phrase ‘take your sister with you!’ more times than he’d like. Y/N would always stand somewhat behind their grandmother, smiling hopefully. Hoping this time he wouldn’t roll his eyes or argue back.

Or make her walk ahead of him and his friends.

She couldn’t remember when he started acting nice to her. But at a certain point in her late teen years and Robby’s early 20s, he began to actually like spending time with his baby sister.

He never really knew how much he inspired her to be better. To grow from where they came from. And so, even in her grown age.. Even with all her accomplishments..

Y/N was always behind her brother.

And not many people saw her there. His opposing frame hid her most of the time. But one man did.

Jack Abbot.

It had been a simple moment. One that Y/N wondered if Jack even remembered. Or even realized how significant it was.

One morning, she’d been at her desk after being told something by Robby. He’d walked over to check on her and then leaned in close to her ear. ‘Don’t listen to Robby. You’re doing. Fucking. Amazing..’

Those words.

They were casual enough to any outsider, but the look he’d given her afterwards, it had caused a blush to boil up to the surface. From then on, Y/N had a crush.

This wasn’t her first time having a crush on one of Robby’s friends. But this was the first time one of Robby’s friends made it clear they had a crush on her too. Jack found himself remembering the small things. He trained himself at being fluent over understanding the looks on her face.

Lips pressed tight? She’s thinking hard.

What does she need? Someone to listen to her idea.

Slight pout? She’s feeling drained.

What does she need? Coffee. Specifically from the deli a block away from the hospital because their coffee is stronger than the hospital’s.

Squeezing her eyes? She’s trying not to cry.

What does she need? Not you asking her what’s wrong. She’ll just say she’s okay. She’s Robby’s little sister after all. No, just get her something that’ll make her smile. Her favorite snack. Set it on her desk when she’s not looking. She’ll accept it only then.

Jack became an expert at reading Y/N like a book. And there were always new pages to explore. And then one night, drunk in the park from a terrible shift, Y/N made her move. The kiss ignited Jack. But he had to cut it short, much to her dismay. It had made him chuckle a bit. ‘If I’m gonna kiss you.. I’m gonna do it the right way..’

The very next day, Jack sat with Robby on the roof. And told him everything. Flat out. It wasn’t easy. They did fight. But once Robby let himself listen… He realized just how much Jack cared for her.

See… Life is too short. Being in this line of work, you get that. Robby could die tomorrow. He was the only family Y/N had left. And… It brought him some peace to know that even if it was his time to go… Y/N would still have someone. She’d have Jack.

Robby never thought about it the other way around though. He never considered that maybe one day… He’d lose the only family he had left..

And Y/N was guilty of this too.

Until she watched the red and black Subaru Outback run a red light and head straight for her…

*

*

*

“Where’s your better half?” Robby asks the minute Jack steps off the elevator. Jack slows his footing, eyeing Robby with humor clear on his face.

“First of all.. Ouch.” Jack taunts. “Secondly,” He continues as he walks over to his friend. “What are you talking about? She’s officially back on day shift..” He says to jog Robby’s memory. Robby frowns at that. If that was the case.. Y/N was late. Really late.

The red phone at the nurse’s station rings as Robby checks his phone. Usually there’d be a string of texts from her, apologizing and explaining why she’s running late.

But.. Nothing.

In fact, their last text thread had been from last night. Y/N had asked if Robby knew why Jack was acting so odd lately. Robby tried to push out the image of the ring his friend had shown him earlier this month, instead texting back ‘You know Jack. Could be anything..’

The two had ended their conversation with a goodnight and then an ‘I love you’ from Y/N’s side which Robby had replied to with a playful thumbs up emoji. Y/N had sent back a thumbs down, her last text being ‘You never say it back!’

Robby pockets his phone as Jack checks his. “I’m sure she’s okay. Uh… She left real early this morning. Something about uh… Your grandmother’s grave? I think? I think she was gonna go visit her..” Jack says softly. Robby frowns softly. She only went to visit their grandmother when she needed to rant about something. Probably about Jack acting weird lately.

“Sweet Jesus…” Dana breathes out as she gets the description of the two individuals coming in from a bad car accident just seven blocks away from the hospital. “Fuck.” She mutters as her eyes instantly move to the two men of Y/N’s life. Taking a deep breath, she gets off the phone with paramedics and rubs her forehead.

“Okay!” She finally shouts, needing all eyes on her. “We’ve got two incoming. Car accident. One code blue. One code green but intoxicated…” She shouts.

“You and me?” Jack asks Robby as he nods. Dana quickly walks over to them. “You two get the code green.” She orders. The two men frown at that. “Mel! Langdon! Code Blue incoming. Prep.” She orders them. They nod and run off to get ready.

“Shouldn’t we handle-“ Dana cuts Robby off.

“Shouldn’t you listen to me? Go. Prep.” She says to them, hoping they’d miss seeing Y/N get rolled in. They shake it off and go to get ready. Dana heads outside to the ambulance bay and paces a bit as the first ambulance pulls up.

“Male. 37. You can smell the drinks from here.” A female paramedic says as they jump out of the van and head to the back. Dana tries to keep the anger off her face.

Everyone deserves medical treatment…

Robby and Jack come rushing over, guiding the paramedics on where to go from here. The guy keeps slurring things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Came out of nowhere’ as they wheel him to an operating room.

Ambulance two pulls up and Dana can’t look, but she owes it to Y/N. “Female. (your age). Unresponsive on scene…” A male paramedic says as Mel and Langdon come rushing out but freeze as they see who it is.

“Not a fucking word to Robby or Jack. You hear?” Dana mutters to both shocked doctors as they quickly nod, knowing time is too precious to hesitate. “Go! Work!” Dana orders. They guide the paramedics to another operating room, focusing on Y/N as if she was just another patient.

But she was so much more…

Jack and Robby pull in Santos to help out. The guy’s got two broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, and a laceration to his spleen from the seatbelt and impact. They work to stabilize him, and only when they’re sure he’s okay enough to head up to the OR, do they leave him in the hands of Santos and now Javadi.

The two men step out into the hallway and with a heavy sigh, Robby checks his phone again. Still nothing. Dana watches from behind the nurse’s station as Jack tries calling her phone finally. The ringtone comes from a paramedic’s back pocket.

It’s like time stands still.

Robby has heard that phrase before from people. He’s never questioned what that means exactly. He just always assumed it felt how it sounded.

But here’s how it feels..

Everything around you… Is barely moving now. You are barely breathing now. Hell, you don’t even know when your last breath was. But you think you can go longer.

No breathing.

If you don’t breathe, it won’t hurt. He doesn’t remember the paramedic handing over Y/N’s phone. He doesn’t remember taking it. He doesn’t remember walking over to the other operation room.

He’s on the outside looking in for the first time in his career. And he doesn’t like this position. He doesn’t like the view. Jack and Dana try to stop him. He can’t say how he slipped away from them. He’s moving in slow motion. Or at least that’s how it feels. He hears nothing but a loud ringing in his ears as he enters the room.

Have you ever watched a scary movie?

Maybe you’re in the audience. Watching on the big screen as a figure stands in the middle of a room with a blanket over them. The main character inches closer.

The tension builds.

Maybe your shoulders tense as you mumble a quiet ‘no’. And then the sheet is yanked back. And you feel a jolt through your heart and travel down your body. That was Robby.

Watching his actions. Watching his body on autopilot as he finally pulled the blanket back and saw who was being worked on.

His baby sister..

“No!”

The word leaves a mouth, but it’s not Robby’s. It’s Jack’s. He grips Robby, standing in front of him to hold him back and only then does reality seep back in to Robby’s head. He’s crying.

When did he start crying?!

It’s like he’s broken through the surface again, gasping without meaning to.

Fuck, it hurts.

Jack holds him back, pushing him out of the operating room. He still had enough sanity to know Y/N needed to be worked on. And him or Robby in that room would do more harm than good.

“You two gotta go. You can’t be here.” Dana says as Jack gets Robby out of the room and back into the hallway. Robby feels like the whole ED is spinning. And then his eyes land on the operation room where their Code Green was still in. Laid out comfortably while he waited for his turn in the OR.

“Son of a bit-“ Dana cuts Robby off.

“Hey! Hey..” She gets in his way. “That won’t help a thing. I need you to go have a seat. And let the doctors do their job..” She says.

It’s like a blow to the gut.

Robby clenches his jaw at those words. Words that have left his mouth in the past with ease. What a cruel thing to hear now..

He slowly gives in when Dr. Al-Hashimi walks closer to lead him away. Jack’s feet stay rooted though. It’s as if now that he’s not holding Robby back, he actually has to face the reality too. That on that operating table is the love of his life…

“Jack. You should go too..” Dana whispers as she touches his shoulder. He shakes his head fast, eyes welling up. It’s like a rope is tightening around his neck.

“No..” He quietly whispers, practically mouthing it. “Not her…” He manages to wheeze out. He slowly looks at Dana, breaking her heart. “It’s not her..” He mutters. If he says it enough times it’ll be true.

That’s not his Y/N. It can’t be.

“Go sit down..” Dana tries again as he lets her lead him away from the operating room and towards the break room instead.

*

*

*

Robby can’t sit down. And Jack can’t stand up.

The irony of it, really.

Two of the most capable doctors of this Pitt, completely at the mercy of fate.

And both men know.. Fate can be cruel…

The break room door opens and Mel rushes in first. She freezes though when she sees what Jack is staring at in silent mournfulness. She’s still wearing her bloody scrubs. “Oh. Uh…” She quickly yanks at the white coverup and sheepishly hands it over to an awaiting Langdon. She then looks back at Jack and Robby.

“She’s a fighter.” She begins with a soft nod to assure them. Jack shuts his eyes. It feels like he’s been plunged into an ice bath. He breathes shakily as Robby rubs his sweaty face, also allowing those three words a moment to breathe in the silence.

“She pulled through real well.” Langdon says, voice a bit rough with emotion. Like he could just imagine the panic and pain of today for these two men. “Obvious signs of a concussion though. Slight whiplash of the neck, fractures of one rib, and.. The most concerning thing is a bruised lung, but…-“ Jack cuts Langdon off.

“Where is she?” He asks. He just wanted to see her. See her with his own two eyes.

“She awake?” Robby asks.

“She might be? She got moved upstairs…” Mel says softly as she fidgets a bit, watching both men with a deep frown.

They two rush out of the room before anymore can be said. Up to the eight floor they go. With heavy arms, they step off the elevator. And from the look the girl who’s running the nurse’s station up there gives them, it’s clear word has spread on who Y/N is..

She nods towards a room without having to be asked and Jack is faster than Robby. He wants to push past him though. Wants to get to Y/N first.. But he knows deep down Jack can only act strong for so long. He watches from outside the room as Jack drops to his knees by Y/N’s bed, grabbing her hand ever so softly so he can hold it to his cheek. He turns his back to give his friend this moment…

*

*

*

No one bothers Jack.

No one brings up how odd it is that he has yet to leave Y/N’s side.

No one brings up how odd it is that Robby came back down to work instead.

No one… Except for Princess, that is.

Robby sits at his desk trying to focus on the task at hand when he hears her and Perlah walking over to the nurse’s station together. “I’m telling you. I think they’re dating. 10 bucks on it..” Princess says.

“You really think that?” Perlah asks in surprise.

“Why else is he up there?” Princess raises an eyebrow back. “It’s obvious..” She shrugs. Robby has heard enough.

With a low huff, Robby gets up from his desk and walks over to the two women as they stand by the nurse’s station. “I didn’t know Dr. Y/N’s personal life was apart of your job description, ladies.” He states sharply as he watches the nurses. Princess stiffens a bit, as if she didn’t expect him to be here.

“I… Am so sorry, Dr. Robby..” She mumbles as he eyes both women.

“Why don’t we focus on work.” He suggests shortly before walking past. Dana watches the interaction from afar, sighing to herself.

Robby knew sitting in that room, watching Y/N in that bed, wouldn’t help him in any way.

He needed to keep moving.

He needed to keep busy.

So he worked.

He worked until 7:40pm or so. He kept his head down as he did, until he’s practically shoved out of the ED by Shen who had heard everything from day shift.

Stepping off the elevator, he nods politely to the night nurse at the nurse’s station. He moves over to Y/N’s room pausing as he sees Jack stroke her face and push back her hair to tenderly kiss her forehead. Y/N is awake and the two seem to be having a moment. He averts his eyes to give them some privacy before he finally taps on the glass door to make himself known.

Jack looks over and so does Y/N. She smiles a bit, some cuts on her face and a bruise on her left shoulder, but she smiles.

And Robby feels settled..

She slowly lifts her left hand with a slight wince, showing off the ring on her finger. Robby keeps his emotions down enough to whisper a soft ‘congratulations’ to them both. Jack eyes the siblings. “I… Uh… I’m gonna get you more pillows..” He says. Y/N gently touches his cheek before letting him go.

Robby watches Jack leave before looking back at his sister. “No more driving for you.” He says simply. She goes to chuckle and then winces, coughing as she touches her chest. She grabs a notepad on her bed tray.

‘Don’t make me laugh! Hurts!’

Robby reads it and chuckles quietly. He shakes his head at that. “Y/N..” He whispers, getting slightly choked up. She frowns softly and places her finger to her lips in order to stop him from talking before she goes back to writing. She turns the notepad towards him.

‘I’m glad you two had each other today..’

Robby stares at the sentence for a while as it begins to really sink in. See… Life is too short.

Being in this line of work, you get that.

Robby could die tomorrow, and he was the only family Y/N had left. It brought him some peace to know that even if it was his time to go one day, Y/N would still have someone.

She’d have Jack.

Robby never thought about it the other way around though. And as he watched Y/N, he realized the same thought brought her peace too.

The thought that if anything happened.. He’d have Jack too.

Smiling softly, Robby slowly sits down by her bedside.

“Let’s see that ring. It better be expensive.” He finally jokes, making Y/N smile as she lays back in the hospital bed, showing off her left hand again..

"Mommy! Want the blue ones!"

Three years old Maya was standing up in the shopping cart, her small face flushed red as she reached wildly for a box of sugary cereal on a shelf way out of reach.

"Maya, baby, sit down please," you said, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. It felt thick. "We have cereal at home. Sit down before you fall."

"No! Want!" She began to kick her legs, her lower lip trembling into a full blown meltdown.

You rubbed your forehead. A cold prickle of sweat broke out along the back of your neck. You felt hot, then suddenly freezing. Your brain felt sluggish.

I need to check my phone, you thought vaguely. The sensor...

Maya let out a piercing shriek, tears bursting from her eyes as she tried to climb out of the cart entirely.

Panic spiked in your chest.

"Okay, okay, calm down, come here," you breathed, stepping forward to lift her out.

The moment you bent down and scooped Maya into your arms, the world tilted sideways.

Your knees gave out instantly. The physical exertion of lifting her hit your body, draining whatever trace of glucose was left in your bloodstream.

Oh god, you thought, terror seizing you. Not now. Not with her.

You collapsed in slow motion, sliding down the side of the metal shelf and hitting the floor, pulling Maya tightly against your chest so she wouldn't hit the ground.

Maya tumbled onto your lap, unharmed but terrified by the sudden drop. Her tiny fingers clutched your shirt as she began to sob hysterically. "Mommy? Mommy, up! Up!"

You couldn't move. Your body was betraying you at a terrifying speed. Heavy, leaden weakness pinned you to the floor. Your heart was hammering an irregular rhythm against your ribs, and a violent tremor took over your hands.

"M-Maya..." you rasped. Your tongue felt twice its normal size.

You fumbled blindly for the phone in your pocket, your hands shaking so badly you nearly dropped it twice. With blurred vision, you tapped the screen. The glucose sensor app opened, flashing a bright red warning with a single word:

LOW

No number.

Just LOW.

It meant you were under 40 mg/dL and dropping fast.

You knew you were crashing, hard.

The cold metal of the lowest shelf bit into your back, but it was the only thing keeping you upright. You were sat slumped against it, legs stretched uselessly out on the floor. The heavy weight of severe hypoglycemia was pulling you under.

But you were still conscious. Still clinging to the edges of awareness by a thread.

Maya wasn't throwing a tantrum anymore, she was scared. Her tiny world had completely shattered in the span of three seconds.

Mama was the person who fixed scraped knees, who rocked her to sleep, who always made things okay. Seeing you sitting limply on the floor, trembling, broke something inside her.

"Mama! Mommy!"

Maya was on her knees in front of you, her small hands tugging frantically at your sleeves. Her face was soaked in tears, her little body shaking with terror.

"Help! Help my mommy!" she shrieked, turning her eyes toward the strangers gathering at the end of the aisle. "She sick!"

"Sweetheart, don't pull on her, okay? It's okay," a woman knelt down beside you. "Can you hear me? Can you stand?"

"N-no..." The word fought its way past your heavy tongue. You managed a tiny shake of your head, your eyes were glassy with panic. "Can't... Low."

With hands shaking violently you could barely coordinate your fingers but you held up your phone. The screen flickered, displaying the blood sugar monitor app with the bold LOW reading.

"Oh you're diabetic!" the woman gasped, reading the screen. She looked up and yelled down the aisle to an employee, "Call an ambulance! Her blood sugar is crashing!"

"Mommy, up!" Maya sobbed, patting your arm. She was hiccuping hysterically. "Mama, please... want Daddy... help my Mommy!"

"It's okay, baby... I'm... I'm here..." you slurred, every single word costing an immense amount of energy. You squeezed her as tight as your failing muscles allowed. "Mama's... here..."

A shopper ran up, breathlessly dropping a bottle of orange juice beside you. "Here! This could work, is she conscious?"

"Yes, but barely," the woman said frantically. She twisted the cap off the juice, her hands trembling as she brought it to your lips. "I need you to take a sip, okay? Can you swallow?"

"M-yeah..." you breathed as the woman carefully tipped the juice into your mouth.

The sirens cut through the supermarket parking lot. By the time the two paramedics rushed in, the orange juice had started to trickling a tiny fraction of glucose back into you. The pitch fog was beginning to lift, though your body still felt like lead.

"Give us some room, please," the lead paramedic called out as he dropped to his knees beside you.

You were still sitting slumped against the shelf, but your eyes were clearer now, no longer completely unfocused. You held Maya tightly against your lap her sobbing had quieted into hiccups, she refused to let go of you.

"Hey there, I'm Marcus," the paramedic said gently. "Store manager said you're diabetic?"

"Yes, Type 1," you murmured, your voice raspy and weak, but coherent. "My sensor read LOW."

"Okay. We're going to check you out," the second paramedic, Sarah, said as she pulled out a glucometer and a blood pressure cuff. "You managed to get some juice down?"

"A few sips... maybe half the bottle," you whispered, resting your head against the metal shelf behind you.

Sarah prepped a finger stick test to confirm the numbers while the other paramedic wrapped the cuff around your arm. "Alright, let's see where we're at... Okay, 57. It's coming up. Blood pressure is pretty low, 90 over 60, and your heart rate is running fast."

Maya fixed her eyes on the paramedics with fresh panic. "Don't hurt my Mommy" she whimpered.

"It's okay, baby... they're helping..." you soothed weakly.

Marcus eye leveled with Maya, offering her a smile. "Hey little one, we're not going to hurt her, I promise. We're just making sure she's safe."

He looked back up at you, his tone shifting to professional concern. "Because your sugar dropped so fast, along with your pressure, we can't just leave you here. With a drop that severe, your body is depleted. You could easily rebound crash in another twenty minutes once that juice wears off."

"I... I can just go home," you tried to plead softly, feeling an anxious lump form in your throat. "I just need to..."

"I hear you, but medical protocol for a severe symptomatic hypo like this requires a full evaluation," Marcus explained firmly but kindly. "We need to get you to the hospital for a full check-up to monitor you."

That ment take you to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Your stomach flipped. Jack was on duty right now, probably in the middle of a chaotic shift, completely unaware that his wife had collapsed in a grocery store with their baby girl screaming beside her.

"Okay," you breathed. "Just... please don't separate me from my daughter."

"Not a chance," Sarah smiled warmly, reaching out to help lift you carefully onto the gurney while Marcus gently guided Maya.

On the back of the ambulance, you were propped up on the stretcher with an IV line taped securely to the back of your hand.

Beside you, sitting safely, Maya was still holding onto you.

"How are we feeling?" Sarah asked from across the cabin, adjusting the monitor that tapped out your steadying heart rate.

"Better," you breathed, giving her a smile. "A lot better."

"Good. Blood sugar is up to 70 now, but we'll let the hospital team get you fully stabilized." Sarah turned her attention to Maya, the toddler'a little chest was occasionally catching on a residual hiccup. "And how about you, little lady? You were pretty brave back there."

Maya blinked at the woman. "Mommy... my mommy 's okay?"

"Mama is doing great, sweetie. We just need to do a little check up," Sarah reached into a cabinet and pulled out a latex glove, blowing it up like a balloon and tying off the end. With a marker, she quickly drew a smiley face on it. "Here. A glove pal to guard Mama."

Maya stared at the puffy rubber hand. She slowly reached out her hands to take it. "Silly hand," she whispered.

"Silly hand is on duty," Sarah smiled warmly. "He's going to help us drive to the hospital."

"My Daddy work at hospital," Maya offered suddenly, hugging the glove face to her chest. "Daddy fix people."

Sarah chuckled softly, assuming it was just toddler imagination. "Is that right? Well, today the doctors are going to fix up your mommy."

Minutes later, the ambulance entered the hospital. it's was late afternoon so day shift were swapping charts with night shift staff. The paramedics pushed your stretcher through the automatic doors, Marcus holding your IV bag high while Sarah guided Maya, who was tightly clutching her blown up glove.

"Trauma 2 is open! Bring her there," Dana called out, waving the paramedics down without looking at them.

They wheeled you into Trauma 2, rapidly transferring you to the hospital bed while Sarah began her handoff to the day shift residents, waiting for an attending. "Female, mid-thirties, severe symptomatic hypoglycemia, Type 1 diabetic..."

Just across the hall, Trauma 1 was emptying out after treating a heart attack.

Jack let out a sigh, removed his surgical gloves, and threw them into the container. He rubbed his tired eyes with his palms for a moment. It had taken about half an hour to stabilize the victim, but they had managed to save his life. The shift change was in twenty minutes, and all he wanted was to clock in, and go home to Maya and you before heading back for his night shift.

That was when he heard it.

A piercing sound echoed down the ER.

"DADDY!"

Jack blinked, shaking his head slightly.

I'm hallucinating, he thought. I'm just exhausted.

"MOMMY! WANT DADDY!"

That voice was unmistakable for him. It was the distinct, desperate, pitch voice of his daughter.

Jack spun around and, directly across from him, the doors to Trauma 2 were wide open. A primary care nurse and a paramedic were standing near the foot of a gurney, while a second nurse was trying gently to comfort a hysterical toddler who was kicking her tiny sneakers against the floor.

"Maya?!" Jack’s voice cracked.

The little girl turned at the sound of his voice. Her red teared face lit up, and she instantly broke away from the nurse's gentle grip, sprinting clumsily across the floor with her arms stretched out.

"DADDY!" she sobbed, throwing her entire body against him. "Daddy! Help Mama! Mama sick!"

He lifted his head, his gaze shooting into Trauma 2. There, with an IV line running into the back of your hand, was you.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he scooped Maya up into his arms, pulling her tightly against his neck as he strode straight into Trauma 2, his eyes never leaving your face.

You looked completely exhausted, your lips still slightly pale, but your eyes locked onto his.

"Jack..." you whispered softly, giving him a small smile.

"Dr. Abbot?" the nurse in Trauma 2 blinked in total confusion, holding your chart. "Oh, says Mrs Abbot, wait... is this your family?"

"Yes," Jack said. "Yes, she’s my wife."

He didn't wait for the nurse's shocked reaction. Jack pulled Maya deeper into his chest, her small frame still trembling violently with sobs.

"I've got you, bug. Daddy's here," Jack murmured into her hair. His free hand reached out, his thumb sweeping gently over your cheek. "Jesus. What happened, baby?"

"Dropped... fast, again," you breathed, leaning your head weakly into his touch. "We were at the store... I couldn't stop it in time."

Before Jack could ask anything else, Robby arrived alongside Dr. Santos. Robby took one look at Jack holding a crying toddler, looked at you on the gurney, and pieced it together in half a second.

"Oh, well, look who we got here." Robby said smoothly. "You know the rules, brother. You're family on this one. Let us work."

"Robby, she has been-" Jack started.

"Jack. I know. Step aside," Robby interrupted firmly, placing a gentle hand on Jack's shoulder, steering him a step back from the bed. "We got her. Santos, let's do a complete analysis: full blood count, complete metabolic profile, blood glucose, the whole basic protocol for hyperglycemia. Let's make sure she doesn't suffer a rebound effect or develop DKA, just fluids for a moment untilyou check her glucose."

"On it," Dr. Santos quickly agreed, pulling out a new glucometer and prepping a kit while Robby grabbed a stethoscope to listen to your lungs and heart.

"Stop scaring Abbot with this episodes, it's like the third hypo this week, isn't it?"

"You know I can't fully control them, Robinavitch."

"Last name, okay, seems like you're breathing good."

"Shut up." you said to him, you had this hate-love friend relationship with your husband's friend.

Maya saw Santos reaching for your arm with a needle and let out a whisper. "NO! Don't hurt Mama! Daddy, stop them!"

Jack held her tighter, soothing her.

"Shh, bug, it's okay," Jack pleaded softly, he wiped a tear from her flushed cheek with his thumb. "They're helping Mommy, okay? Remember Dr. Robby? He's Daddy's friend. He's just making sure her blood sugar goes back to where it belongs."

"Is Mom sick?" Maya hiccuped, her fingers digging into the collar of his scrubs.

"Mama's sugar just got super low, bug," Jack whispered, kissing the top of her head while keeping his eyes glued to the monitor over your head as Santos drew your blood. "She's going to be okay."

You watched them, feeling the sting of the lab draw on your arm, but the sight of Jack cradling Maya brought a reassuring warmth and calm into your chest.

--

The soft lighting of the private exam room was a welcome relief from the bright lights of the trauma bay.

By the time Dr. Robby signed off on your discharge papers, your blood sugar and pressure had safely stabilized. The weakness in your body had dissolved into fatigue, and the color had fully returned to your face.

"All right, sweetheart, labs look great, balanced, and you are officially cleared to go home," Robby said, flashing a warm smile as he handed the discharge summary to Jack. He clapped Jack on the shoulder. "Take her home, brother. I will cover you tonight."

"Thanks, man. I owe you one," Jack said.

Minutes later, after a nurse came to take off your IV, the door creaked open, and in marched Maya, carrying a paper bag from the hospital cafeteria with both hands held high.

"Mama! Look! Look what I got!" she squealed, her previous terror completely forgotten.

Jack followed close behind her, holding a cup of coffee with a smile playing on his lips. "Someone got an award in the cafeteria for helping Mom today," he murmured, coming closer to the bed, sitting Maya on the bed and putting his arm around your waist, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. "Are you okay, beautiful?"

"I'm feeling better," you smiled, leaning into his touch before turning to your daughter. "What do you have there, my love?"

Maya carefully reached into the bag and pulled out a wrapped bakery item. "A cookie!" she announced proudly, showing off a giant chocolate chip cookie.

Then, she reached back into the bag and pulled out a second wrapped oat pastry. She shoved it toward your hands. "And this one for you! Daddy said no... no sugar cookie for Mama's sugar!"

You blinked, looking up at Jack, who rubbed your hip with care.

"She refused to leave the cafeteria until she picked one out specifically for you," Jack explained softly. "She told the cashier, 'Mama's sugar crashed, and now she has sugar on her, so she needs the special one.'"

Your heart melted right there. "Oh, baby... thank you."

Maya giggled, happily. "Mama better!"

"Yeah, baby, Mama is good now," Jack whispered, leaning down to scoop Maya into his lap and pressed a quick kiss on her cheek. "Alright," Jack said. "Let's go, my little monster. Mama needs to go home and get some sleep, and I'm taking the night off."

Jack lifted Maya in his arms and sat her on his hip. He put the discharge papers in his backpack pocket as you stood up.

Maya’s eyes went wide, her hands instantly clapping together. "Daddy staying home?! No hospital?"

"No hospital," Jack confirmed, smiling. "I'm all yours."

Maya leaned against him and then she turned on the full force of her irresistible puppy dog eyes. "Can we have hamburgers, Daddy? Please? Big hamburgers?"

Jack groaned rolling his eyes playfully. "Hamburgers? Well... I suppose after the afternoon you've had, we can manage hamburgers."

You shook your head, a laugh bubbling up from your chest as you took his free hand and leaned against his shoulder, walking slowly toward the exit.

"She has you totally wrapped around her finger, Abbot," you murmured. "You're lucky I'm too exhausted to fight you on it."

Jack looked at you, gently stroking your knuckles with his thumb. "I'm lucky," he whispered, pulling you a little closer to his side to kiss the top of your head. "In every important way."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

“Yeah, fine, I’m Frankenstein’s monster if you want to be so specific,” Santos scoffs, sipping on her silly straw. You watch the orange-pink of her drink slink up the plastic spiral onto the lips she meticulously painted grey. It’s admirable, really, the amount of effort she clearly put into tonight’s costume, and the whole party in general. “And you’re dressed as who now? The sexy super-spy cosplay look is really working for you, but the theme was horror characters—”

“Ooh, do you think it’s too much?” you ask anxiously, suddenly self-conscious tugging at the leather harness across your chest with one hand, the other holding an identical red plastic cup with a silly straw poking out. “I used to play a lot of Resident Evil to decompress during my undergrad, and—”

You’re mid-sentence with Trinity Santos when her doorbell rings. It’s more like a screech, really, the way the brrrinnggg of the bell pierces through her surprisingly expansive apartment. You cover your ears as a reflex, careful not to dislodge your carefully placed short black wig and ruin your costume. 

Santos rolls her eyes, “Great, some fucker didn’t read the instructions on the invite.” She turns around and squeezes past a handful of familiar faces on her way to the door. The digital flyer included a code to enter the building, and you now understand it was added specifically so none of us would have to deal with that banshee scream of a doorbell. 

You stick your head out to see who it was behind the door. He’s standing against the light but you recognize that silhouette: Doctor… Jack Abbot?

Not only are you surprised to see him here at all, but as he steps into the apartment, probably surveying the room’s overall demographic of people at least one generation younger, you notice what he’s wearing. Jack enters the party dressed in what looks like a short-sleeved navy blue rookie cop costume with a long-sleeved grey undershirt. His outfit is punctuated with protective elbow and knee pads, tactical holsters, and a black police vest with the white initials “R.P.D.” stenciled across his chest. 

Hold on.

You glance at your own reflection in the full-length mirror next to you, drink in hand, taking stock of your own costume. Before leaving your home you thought this look was so unique, so niche, even Santos couldn’t clock it. Your long, flowy red slip dress that stood in for a cheongsam. The black velvet and onyx choker around your neck. The short black bob covering your long, dark, natural curls. Your black harness, and the tactical holster around your own thigh. 

Next thing you know, he’s right in front of you. You realize he was inching toward the drink table, and you were in the way.

You watch his eyes flit up and down the length of your body. The lines on the outside of his eyes deepened, smirking even before his mouth did. He reaches behind you for a bottle of Red Horse Beer and manages to pop the cap by simply tapping it at an angle against the table. The sight of it sends an anxious flutter from your spine to your finger tips. “Nice costume,” he tells you. “It’s Ada Wong, right? From Resident Evil 4?”

“Doctor Abbot,” you say, almost a little too brightly in excitement and surprise. You didn’t peg him for a survival horror gamer type, though it also kind of makes sense, given what you know about him. He’s standing so close to you, closer than he ever did while guiding your hand through yesterday’s left anterolateral thoracotomy. “I—like yours, too. Leon Kennedy, Resident Evil 2?”

“Damn straight, I’ve had this thing forever,” he smiles, tugging on the edges of his police vest, seemingly sharing in my enthusiasm. “If I’d known you were gonna wear this tonight, we could have coordinated. Our costumes are from two different games, but I could have just ditched the vest and put on a black t-shirt. Would have been a lot lighter.”

He rolls his shoulders back. You recall Leon Kennedy’s fitted black tee that highlighted the contours of his arm muscles. Then you picture Jack in the same shirt, with his arms—those fucking arms—which you noticed ever so slightly whenever he’d cross them over his chest while he’d watch you work. 

Then you snap back into reality, a warm sensation filling your cheeks when you realize your attending physician probably just caught you spacing out.

“...what? Oh, yeah, that would have been cool,” you mutter, gathering yourself. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little surprised to see an Attending physician at a resident’s house party. Aren’t you a little…”

“I hope you’re not saying I’m too old to be here,” Jack interrupts. “Eh, my therapist says I need to be more social, and Ellis invited me. Besides, I kinda like dressing up.”

Yet somehow he always ends up in some type of uniform, you think to yourself. Jack takes a big gulp of beer then makes a sour face. “God, this stuff is strong.”

“Yeah, those bottles should really come with a warning,” you say. “It’s basically malt liquor, and apparently there’s always one bottle that’s way stronger than all the rest. The San Miguel pilsner’s not bad, but I went for the Weng Weng so it doesn’t mess up my lipstick. That one’s a real kicker too, though.” You use your thumb to point over to the giant punch bowl containing the same drink you and Santos are having.

“Ain’t no party like a Filipino party,” Jack remarks, nodding his head over at Nurse Princess, filling another plate full of fried lumpia at the other side of the drink table.

The apartment door opens again—this time, because you notice someone was leaving.

“Laaaame,” you hear Santos nearby, raising her solo cup. “Everybody boo Huckleberry for leaving so soon!”

You notice a few people jeer playfully at Santos’ roommate, Dennis Whitaker, donning an all-white chef costume and clutching an extra-tall toque, as he slings one strap of his backpack on one shoulder and sheepishly walks out of the apartment. 

“What was he dressed as?” Jack asks, leaning over to you. 

“I think he’s supposed to be the chef from Ratatouille,” you chuckle. So much for not being too old.

“What’s that?” Jack says, tilting his head toward you, his face leaning right up to your cheek. 

You realize you’d blurted that last thought out loud.

“Joking, Jack,” you reply with a giggle in defense, though also catching yourself addressing him by his first name. Your gaze lingers for a beat longer than you intend. He wears that Raccoon Police Department vest so well, and even though the natural salt and pepper of his hair didn’t look anything like the character’s wispy, curtain-esque dirty blonde, you can’t resist imagining what would happen if he, dressed like Leon Kennedy, and you, like Ada Wong, acted upon one of your longest-standing fantasies. Imagine if he was thinking the same thing. 

Jack bites his lip, and you lick yours as a reflex. You notice him looking you up and down again, but he’s standing so close now that when he looks down he mainly sees through the top of your satin dress. The air starts to feel hot between you. 

“Excuse meee!” Princess cuts past the two of you, abruptly dissolving the moment, and the space in the room starts to feel normal again. She reaches over Abbot for a bottle of San Miguel. She acknowledges the contents of the red cup in your hand. “Okay, yes hottie, you get into that weng-weng!”

“Do you know what’s in it?” you ask her. You notice Jack in your periphery; he hasn’t left your side. “It doesn’t taste like it’s got any alcohol at all.”

“Yup, that’s where it’ll get you,” Princess replies, the condensation from her beer bottle dripping onto the yellow Beauty and the Beast-esque ball gown she chose for the night. She begins to enumerate the ingredient list, counting with her fingers. “Let me see… vodka, tequila, rum, gin, brandy, scotch or bourbon, orange juice, pineapple juice, Grenadine. I used to make it when I’d throw parties back in nursing school.”

“Whaaa—”

“Yeah girl that’s why they call it weng weng! Cos by the end of the night you’ll be… weng… weng…” Princess gestures as if she were acting delirious. “I dunno, loopy? Like your legs are jelly and you can’t think straight. Have fun!” She takes her beer and walks back toward the couch where a couple of other nurses were hanging out. 

You already can’t think straight, and you know it.

Leaning with one hand on the table, you feel another sudden rush when you feel warm brushing against your finger tips. You know the way this hand feels, even though the only other time you felt it was with gloves on. It has just about the right amount of push, of force, as if it were guiding you through performing a delicate incision on a patient’s vulnerable throat. 

You look up and it’s Jack, staring back almost menacingly, like he wants to say something. He lifts his hand from yours and moves it toward the small of your back, again with the most gentle force. Next thing you know it’s you biting your lip. You lean back toward him, narrowing the gap between you, completely neglecting the fact other people from work are very much in the room. 

“Doesn’t Whitaker also live here?” Jack says, mere inches separating his face from yours. You catch a whiff of his scent, a warming combination of sandalwood, cinnamon, and one other thing you can’t quite pinpoint. “I was wondering if—you wanted to check it out.”

“Oh, Leon, you know I don’t work and tell,” you tease and take the lead.

You knock on Whitaker’s door and pop your head in when no one answers. “Hello?”

His room is dark and empty, and from the minimal light coming in from the hallway you also notice there isn’t much going on in there: a chest of drawers, a single built-in closet, a mirror, and a full size bed. There’s a chair against a wall on which several pairs of scrubs and jeans and socks are stacked in a messy heap. 

You stealthily sneak into the room and flip the light switch on; the garish fluorescence causes you to mutter a guttural “Nope” as you immediately turn it back off and instead switch to a lamp atop the dresser. Jack trails behind you, a little extra bulky from the costume vest on his chest. You shut the door behind him. The music and chatter are much more muffled in this room. 

“Do you think anyone noticed us together?” you ask him. He shrugs, one brow and the corner of his lips doing their own dance.

“Wanna know something? I don’t fucking care.” Jack responds. He hikes up your dress until he manages to get one hand up to the delicate sheath of your underwear, which you didn’t notice was already slick with excitement. Your clit begins to throb as he runs one knuckle over it and along one side of your folds. “What’s this now… did you do all this for me?”

You nod quietly, almost guiltily. You’re not very good at hiding your excitement.

Ideally, Jack would be kissing you right now, and you’re waiting for him to make that move. Instead, he continues to play with your wetness, petting your entrance with gentle strokes before sliding one finger inside you.

“Oh, fuck,” is all you manage to say. 

“Do you like this?” Jack presses his face against your cheek, his breath hot on your skin while your back remains against the door. “Do you like it when I fuck you with my finger like this?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, feeling his finger hook and pull inside you, and you know you can take more. “I—I like when you fuck me with your finger, mm. Put—can you—want another. Please.”

Right now, with Jack, while he dons yet another uniform that makes you want him even more, you know you can take whatever he gives you. You can take it all.

“Oh you want more? I’ll give you more,” Jack teases before taking his finger out and holding it against your mouth. “But I want to watch you taste yourself first. I want you to know just how sweet you really are.” 

He presses a single damp finger on your lips, which you welcome eagerly into your wanting mouth. You begin to suck deeply on it, allowing him to push it further inside and you give him more of yourself.

“Good girl,” he says, removing his hand and bringing it back to the growing heat between your legs. He leans back toward you. “Are you ready for more now, baby? I want you to know how hard you’re making me right now.”

“I’m ready, Jack,” you nod. “Ready for more. Ready for you to fuck me now.”

“Fuck you?” he laughs. “I’m not going to fuck you right now. Not yet.”

His finger enters you again; this time, he uses two of them, keeping his thumb on your hardened clit. This time, he tugs at your cunt a little harder. The movement reverberates through your body. Any attempts at breathing deeply and relaxing your lower body are interrupted by intense jolts of arousal that cause your hips to squirm. Your eyes close. 

“Uh-uh,” Jack groans. “Eyes on me now.”

You manage to blink them back open, but you’re struggling as you feel him insert a third, then a fourth finger. Unable to form full sentences you let out a deep “Fuuuuuck” on exhale as you hear the sloshing of your wet pussy on the near entirety of his hand. 

“Are you gonna cum for me, Ada?” Jack says, calling you by your character’s name instead of your own. “I want to watch you cum for me—now.”

As you finally release onto him, your eyes maintaining their focus on his maddened gaze, you can feel your face contort as your hips begin to undulate involuntarily, grinding your cunt along his fingertips. Heat rises to the top of your head and you pull off your wig, along with all the bobby pins and wig cap that you’d painstakingly put on earlier in the evening. You feel a trail of your cum ooze down to the leather holster on your shaking leg. 

Jack takes his hand off you and holds it in front of your face. You don’t need to wait for his instructions as you lick yourself off his fingers. 

“Look at you, being such a good fucking girl for me,” Jack remarks before leaning in and finally pressing his lips on yours, hard and sort of sloppy, his tongue, still cold and tasting like beer, in a forceful waltz with your saliva and pussy juice and, perhaps, a hint of Grenadine. 

Burying his face in your mouth, you feel Jack's fingers playing with the loose straps of your dress while he matches your moans. Jack peels the strap over one shoulder, then the next strap over the other. He pulls away briefly, allowing you just enough room to shimmy out of your dress til it lands on the floor.

“Is this… do you… like.. what you see?” You mumble, breathlessly, now standing against the door, arms at your sides wearing nothing but the velvet choker, the harness, the holster, and a black thong whose lace pattern was so soaked in your nectar that it’s now undecipherable. 

“Put your hands behind your back for me,” Jack requests, visually examining every curve and groove of your figure. “You don’t need to be shy with me. Not anymore.” 

So you do what he asks. 

“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he says, causing your cunt to quiver. “You’re perfect.”

“Thank you,” you reply, craving more of this, more of him. You try to stick one hand under your panties but Jack takes a step toward you and stops you from doing so.

“I didn’t say you could do that.” His tone shifts and is more commanding, almost like a drill sergeant. Maybe the uniform is getting to his head. “Now spread your legs.” 

Again, you oblige. In a way, you’ve always wanted Jack Abbot, and you start to think maybe Jack Abbot wanted you, too. The signs were all there, ever since you got moved to his shift. 

“Wider.” He uses his feet to nudge yours outward, so you do what he says. 

“Now turn around.”

You do as Jack Abbot commands, turning to face the door, taking one step backwards so you could better support yourself on the door when you bend over. Jack uses one finger to caress your pulsating cunt while the other hand unbuckles his pants. You hear the zip fly come down. 

“Just so you know, I can be a little loud,” you tell him, knowing for a fact that you would be screaming out of ecstasy if Jack Abbot started to fuck you from behind. 

“We can do something about that. I’m going to take your panties off now,” Jack’s voice is now softer, less like a whisper but with more of a growl. He lowers the damp, delicate piece of fabric to your feet, and you lift each foot to take it fully off. Then you notice Jack Abbot’s hand come across your face and stuff your mouth with it.

He moves his hands toward your hips and starts to graze your entrance with the tip of his cock. 

“Are you clean? Birth control?” He asks quickly. 

You grow impatient. “Yes and yes. Any other ques—fuuuuck!”

He thrusts deeply into you, almost a little aggressively at first, before he finds his rhythm. You let out a sharp moan, the kind that other people at the party would have definitely heard, if not for what appears to be significant soundproofing in Whitaker’s room. Jack puts his hand over your mouth, starting to hunch over you as you moan into this makeshift muzzle. 

And it feels so fucking good.

Jack Abbot continues to pump into you vigorously, filling you with every inch of his thick, heavy cock that you’ve daydreamed about more than once. You’ve noticed his little swagger when he walks, and now you know why. His free hand, callused and wise, moves from your hips and begins to cup one of your breasts, then toy with your nipple, squeezing and tugging at it, sending new sensations to your brain and your body and your cunt that you’ve never felt before. You can even feel his balls a little as his tip clashes into your G-spot from behind. It adds yet another sensation that makes you cum another time, your leg shaking uncontrollably as you reach back toward him and pull your face away from his hand. 

“Wai—wait, wait, Jack—aah—” Your leg won’t stop shaking. “I think I need a second.”

Jack—every inch of him—pulls out of you, slowly enough that you can’t resist another moan in the end. If anyone was standing outside the door, they definitely would have heard.

He catches you when you nearly collapse on the floor. “You okay?” Jack asks with a soft giggle, almost sweetly.

You nod with a weak “Mm-hmm,” and trudge on toward Whitaker’s bed, your legs like jelly. “I think—we should do the rest over here. Better to ask for forgiveness…”

As Jack walks toward you, you realize he still has the RPD vest on. Below it, you finally see his cock for the first time, still erect, still glossy with your juices. You don’t wait for him to say anything; you lie back across the bed, parallel to the neat row of pillows you decide to spare for the night, and, as if predicting what he’s about to say next, you spread your legs. 

Jack meets you at the edge of the bed. He drops to his knees, which you’re surprised to see he’s able to do with ease. If there was any discomfort in his leg, with his prosthetic, he sure wasn’t showing it. You feel the warmth of his breath on your entrance before he begins to trace circles on your clit, then along the curvature of each fold, then straight along the length of your cunt’s opening. 

His tongue returns to your clit; it’s hard, it’s pulsating, and you know it’s just the tip of the iceberg. Your hands start to claw at his hair, tousling and digging into his short silver waves. He begins to reintroduce two fingers inside, and it’s enough to send you soaring yet another time. 

“No, no, no—,” you begin to protest. 

Jack comes up for air. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?”

“I just want you to fuck me again,” you reply. “Not with your fingers. I want you, inside me. Now.”

Jack smirks, then nods. “I have no problem with that at all.” 

His cock is still hard.

Maybe he was planning to fuck you again anyway. But you can feel the heat from at least one more explosive climax building within you that you want it to be just right. 

Jack climbs on the bed on top of you. He spreads your legs further. 

He proceeds inside you, just like you asked. “Oh fuck, you’re so perfect,” he says as he starts to speed up with his thrusts—not too fast, but just enough that you can still feel the rhythmic depth of each one. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Jack closes his eyes, starting to breathe only with his mouth. He hunches over you, the layer of sweat on your chest rubbing against the canvas-like surface of his makeshift police vest. 

“No, Jack,” you manage while panting, synchronizing your breath with his. “I want your eyes on me.”

He looks up at you in a crazed gaze. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking to me like that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuuuck. Keep fucking me, Jack.” He feels so fucking good, and you don’t know if there’s any coming back from this. “I want you to cum inside me, Doctor Abbot. I want to feel your cum inside me, Jack.”

So he does what you ask. 

With one final stroke, he moans like he’s gasping for air. You start to feel the warm ooze of Jack’s cum fill you inside. It feels like a reward. 

Jack continues to pant over you, his breath eventually slowing to normal. “I need to roll over,” he says. You nod and make room for him. You start to giggle.

“What?” he asks. 

“I can’t believe you kept it on,” you respond, smiling. “The uniform—it stayed on.”

“Yeah, well, maybe a part of me always wanted to do that.”

“Well, maybe a part of me always wanted to fuck Leon Kennedy.”

“You make a pretty good Ada.”

“That’s the best compliment anyone has ever given me,” you say with a smirk.

It’s quiet for a moment, and you begin to think about how you’ll get your dress back on. How you’ll definitely need to use the bathroom once you’re both done here. 

“You know,” Jack, still lying on the bed, places his hand on your lower back when you sit up. “If we want to keep doing this, we might have to take different shifts.”

“Well, only if we disclose to the hospital that we’re seeing each other, right?”

“Right. But it’s the right thing to do.” 

You turn your gaze back down toward him, admiring the way beads of sweat sat on Jack’s face. “We’ll figure it out.”

Suddenly you start to feel something buzz near your leg. You almost forget you’ve been wearing a phone case as your DIY leg holster for the costume. You hadn’t noticed it going off in the heat of it all. 

You can see the text from Santos on your home screen:

Thank FUCK you guys are done. Just FYI… everyone heard that.

Ah. Fuck.

You’ll figure it out.

The book in your hand almost slips to the ground as your eyes close for a second. Outside the moon is already shining, illuminating the streets of Jackson. It’s too late and Joel is still in his workshop working on the children’s Christmas toys. It’s only September, but Joel is Joel.

He has been spending way more time there than needed, however, you’re never one to ask him to stop. Today, you’ve only seen him at lunch, he didn’t even come home looking for something to eat or even to see Iris, who went to sleep angry with her dad. It’s too much now. You place your book by your side, pull your robe and walk to the back door. The cold wind makes you shiver as it brushes against your skin.

The garage light is still on. It used to be Ellie’s place until she moved in with Dina to take care of baby JJ. Then, the only possibility Joel found was to transform it into a workshop. You’re proud, Joel is already 60, his leg injury prevents him from going on patrols - which is terrible, but good at the same time, he is home and safe. Kind of safe, he is his only enemy.

Slowly, you turn the cold doorknob and silence is too heavy, making you raise one eyebrow. You thought Joel was there. Once the door is completely open you see him, his back rested back and his head falling back. The old man fell asleep while working. As you walk to him you shake your head.

One of your legs swings over his lap, settling comfortably in his lap as you face him. His glasses are still there, almost buried in his skin. You hold them and take them off, the red marks on his nose from long hours of use. After placing them on the table next to you, your lips press up against the marks.

Joel opens his eyes slowly, lifting his head and looking at you, he opens a smile. You just shake your head. Continue to kiss his face, stroking where his glasses were. He looks incredibly hot in those, but they really hurt him sometimes. Especially after hours of use.

“Oh” he knits his eyebrows “Am I dreaming? Because you look like a dream”

“Shut up” you laugh under your breath “You were sleeping, my love, let’s go to bed”

“I’m just finish-”

“You ain’t finishing shit” you touch his lips with your index finger “You’re going to bed with me, sir”

“Have you guys already had dinner?” he asks rubbing his face with his hand

“Yes, Joel” you bite your lip

“Iris?” he closes his eyes, huffing

“Asleep” you bite the inside of your cheek

“I promised her I would watch the movie” Joel can’t believe he let your baby down

“She will be okay, papa Miller, just please, stay home tomorrow” you cup his face with your hands “We need you too, okay?”

“Deal!” he nods, and you grind just a little bit to tease him “Wow!”

“Don’t worry, I know you are too tired” you wrinkle your forehead, standing up, but Joel pulls you to his lap again

“I’m never too tired for you” he kisses your lips

“No, baby, for real. You’re really tired, let’s go to bed and we can fool around in the morning” you bite your lip standing up again, pulling him by the hand “I don’t want you falling asleep on top of me, I’ll die”

“Yeah, yeah, that happens all the time, right?” he shakes his head, being dragged by you outside the garage

You turn the lights out and shut the door behind you, walking up to the house. Joel is so tired you are scared he might fall asleep while walking. You’ll have to have a serious conversation about a 60-year-old man working too much. And you know the answer, because he is stubborn.

“I’m going to take a quick shower before lying down with you, alright?” he sighs taking his shoes off before entering.

“Sure” you nod

“Want to join me?” he asks, looking down

“Joel!” you roll your eyes

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry” he chuckles climbing the stairs to your room

Before following him, you lock all the doors and take him some fruit, he didn’t have dinner. And he will not have it now. When you get to your room, he is already there, in bed, wet hair and sound asleep, even snoring a bit. You laugh under your breath and walk to him.

You turn Joel to the side, and cover him with your blanket, then you lie next to him, looking at your partner’s face as he sleeps, peacefully. There are no words to express your love for him, how he is so invested in making the children’s Christmas happy. That’s Joel, he is grumpy and all, but the softest of heart.

You get comfortable and turn to the other side, feeling the warmth of his body pressed against yours, holding you close and his lips on your shoulder.

“I love you, you and Iris are my whole life” he whispers “Thank you for taking care of me”

“We love you too, my love” you kiss his hand