My world of Formula1! and Everything else.

Of course the house would look the same. Of course it would bring everything back.

Joel kept the house in the divorce. It made sense. You were the one leaving Texas, chasing something new, something far enough away that it wouldn’t feel like this. You knew all of that. You told yourself you were prepared for it.

Still, standing outside, staring at it, the familiarity knocked the air from your chest.

And then you stepped inside, and whatever breath you had left disappeared completely.

Nothing had changed.

Maybe a different TV mounted above the mantle, but everything else was exactly as you remembered. The same couch. The same backsplash in the kitchen. The same wallpaper, the same carpet.

The same wedding photos.

They hung exactly where you had placed them, like time had decided to stop here and never move forward.

The memory hits you before you can brace for it.

The day you got the photos back from the photographer, you had been so happy you could barely sit still. You wanted them printed immediately, couldn’t stand the idea of them just living on a screen. Joel had insisted on making the frames himself, staying up late at the kitchen table, measuring twice, sanding the edges down until they were perfect.

You had loved them more because he made them.

Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly over the glass. Over your faces. Over a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

As if touching it might bring it back.

It doesn’t.

You haven’t been that happy in years. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing you ever would be again.

New York had been hard at first. Too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar. But eventually, that became the point. Life moved quickly enough that you could get lost in it. In the noise, in the people, in the work.

Especially the work.

You landed a job at an up-and-coming law firm not long after you moved. Women-run. Sharp. Driven. The kind of place where no one questioned whether you belonged in the room. The past three years had been good. Busy in the best way. The firm was growing, and so were you.

And Winnie made it easier.

Your boss, technically. But never really just that. She was the kind of person you could grab drinks with after work, the kind who called you out when you needed it and sat with you when things got heavy. She told you things you didn’t always want to hear, but probably needed to.

Like last week.

“You’re too buried in work,” she had said, sliding a drink across the table to you. “At some point, you have to let yourself live a little.”

You had laughed it off.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Ever since the divorce, nothing had felt the same. No one had felt the same.

You tried. God, you tried.

You even switched it up completely. Went out with a girl you met on Tinder, thinking maybe you had just been looking in the wrong place this whole time. But there was nothing there. No spark. No pull.

Then there was Eli.

Four months. Four months of trying to convince yourself that something would click eventually. That feelings could grow if you just gave them enough time.

He was perfect on paper. Smart, funny, great hair, an even better smile. The kind of green eyes people wrote poetry about. Stable job, good with money, kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.

He should have been everything.

But he wasn’t.

And you couldn’t fake it forever.

Winnie never understood that part. She couldn’t understand why you let him go, why you wouldn’t even let her set herself up with him after.

But you knew. He wasn’t for you. And you weren’t for him.

Maybe that was just it. Maybe you weren’t meant for anyone anymore.

The thought settles heavier than you expect.

You thought if you moved seventeen hundred miles away, the air would taste different. You thought if you traded the sound of cicadas for sirens, you’d finally be able to hear your own thoughts without his voice interrupting them.

And for five years, you lied to yourself. You told Winnie, you told Eli, you told the mirror every morning that you were ‘cured.’ That Joel was just a fever that had finally broken.

But then the phone rang. A Texas area code. And before the woman on the other end even says his name, your heart is already at the airport. It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t remember the yelling, or the boots tracking mud, or... or Claire. It just knew its owner was in trouble.

The doctors call it retrograde amnesia. They say his brain has a hole in it where the last five years should be. He looks at me and he doesn’t see the woman who slammed the door and signed the papers. He sees the girl who promised to love him until the end of the world.

And God, that’s the knife, isn't it? Because he forgot how to stop loving you... but you never even learned how.

You’ve spent five years building a fortress in New York. Steel, glass, billable hours, and expensive gin. You thought you were strong. But you walk into this house, our house, and you see the frames he sanded by hand. You smell the cedar and the dust. And you realize you haven't been 'living' in New York. You’ve just been holding your breath.

You look at him in that hospital bed, and he calls you 'sweetheart,' and for a split second, the world stops shaking. The anger? It’s there. The betrayal? It’s screaming. But under all that rubble... it’s still him. It was always him.

That’s the real tragedy. Not the accident. Not the memory loss. It’s the fact that you could be anywhere in the world, with anyone else, and you’d still be waiting for a Texas area code to light up your screen.

You never left him. You just changed your address.

You move further into the house, and every floorboard that groans under your weight sounds like an accusation. Each step feels like you’re trespassing on a version of your life that died a long time ago. Or at least, it was supposed to be dead.

Because it isn’t yours. Not anymore.

Your life is six floors up in Manhattan, tucked into an apartment that smells like the burnt espresso from the shop downstairs. It’s a space defined by west-facing windows and the sunset bleeding over the skyline while you sit in your nook, anonymous and safe. That life is quiet. That life is earned.

This? This is a haunting.

You make your way to the bedroom, the door creaking with that same familiar, high-pitched hitch that Joel always promised to oil but never did. The bed is a time capsule, same frame, same comforter, the same dent in the mattress where he sleeps. It’s like the house itself refused to believe you were gone.

You don't let yourself look. You can't. Instead, you move with a clinical, frantic energy, grabbing a duffel bag and raking clothes out of drawers. You focus on the fabric, the tactile reality of denim and cotton, anything to keep your mind from drifting toward the scent of his detergent.

But then, you open the sock drawer.

The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy. There, resting against the dark wood like a silent heart, is a small velvet box. Your stomach drops before your hand even reaches for it. You know. You know what’s in there, but your fingers move on an instinct you thought you’d killed years ago.

You flip it open.

There it is. Joel’s heavy gold band, scratched and dull from years of work. And nestled right beside it, tucked into the same velvet slot as if it never left, is yours.

The breath leaves your lungs in a ragged rush.

You remember the exact spot you left that ring five years ago. You’d placed it on the kitchen counter next to the keys, a cold, silver period at the end of a very long sentence. You walked out and never looked back.

But he hadn't thrown it away. He hadn’t pawned it for a bottle of bourbon or hurled it into the brush. He’d brought it in here. He’d kept them together. Like they still had a promise to keep.

Your chest tightens so violently you have to press your palm against your sternum, trying to keep your heart from hammering its way out. The silence of the house is suddenly deafening, filled with the ghost of the woman who used to wear that ring.

If I’m his wife, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow, I have to look the part.

Dr. Anders’s voice echoes in your head, clinical and detached: Treat things as normally as possible. Don’t contradict him. You are his anchor.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the ring. It’s cold against your skin, but as you slide it back onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Infuriatingly perfectly. It’s a weight you aren't ready to carry again, a gold shackle that tells the world a lie you’re starting to realize you never truly stopped believing.

The "Mrs. Miller" you left behind in Texas wasn't dead. She was just waiting for him to call her home.

Your fingers tremble as you reach into the box. You pluck the ring from the velvet, and the metal feels freezing against your skin, a sharp, cold reminder of a life you spent five years trying to outrun. For a second, you just stare at it sitting in your palm, a small circle of gold that used to mean everything and now feels like a threat.

You take a sharp breath, close your eyes, and slide it onto your left ring finger.

It slips on perfectly. It doesn’t snag or resist; it just settles into the groove it wore into your skin years ago. The weight of it is immediate and suffocating. It’s a physical shackle, a gold anchor dragging you right back into a role you thought you’d finally shed.

You drop Joel’s ring into the front pocket of your purse before you can overthink the intimacy of the gesture, zip up the duffel bag, and walk out of the bedroom without looking back.

The drive back to St. Luke’s is a blur of shimmering asphalt and a rising sense of dread. The Texas heat presses down on the roof of the rental car, thick and demanding, but you’re numb to it. The only thing you can actually feel is the metal band on your finger. It feels like it’s burning a hole through your skin, a brand marking you as a woman who hasn't lived in this state for half a decade.

When you push the door to room 412 open, the sterile air hits you like a wall. Tommy is leaning against the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the bright afternoon light. He looks over as you walk in, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, and then, inevitably, to your left hand.

His gaze catches on the gold and sparkle from the center diamond. He doesn’t say a word, but the subtle, heavy nod he gives you says everything. Thank you. He knew you’d do it, but he also knows exactly what this is costing you. He sees the New York version of you disappearing in real-time.

Joel’s head turns toward the door, and that same devastating, open smile spreads across his face.

“There she is,” Joel says. His voice drops into that warm, gravelly register that used to make your stomach flip, the one that still does, despite the screaming protest in your head.

You force a smile, the muscles in your face feeling brittle and tight. You drop the bag onto the small sofa near Tommy, desperate for the distance. “Brought your favorites. The gray sweatpants, a few clean shirts. I figured you wouldn't want to leave in a hospital gown.”

“You're an absolute lifesaver, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You step closer to the bed, the word sweetheart sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s a label you haven't answered to in years. As you reach out to adjust his blanket, a nervous habit just to keep your hands busy, Joel’s hand comes up to catch your wrist.

His grip is gentle, but firm. It’s so familiar it aches in your bones. He tugs your hand down, pulling it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart.

His thumb automatically strokes across your knuckles. It’s a rhythmic, mindless habit, a language his body remembers even if his brain doesn't. Then, his thumb slides down to rest directly over the cold metal of your wedding band.

He sighs, a deep, contented sound that vibrates against your palm. He traces the edge of the diamond with his thumb, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at you with nothing but absolute, terrifying trust.

Tommy pushes off the windowsill, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the heavy silence. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at your joined hands.

“Right, well,” Tommy mutters. “Now that the warden’s here to keep an eye on you, I’m gonna go track down Dr. Anders. See what kind of paperwork we need to sign to bust you out of here.”

Joel doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave toward the door. “Bring the truck around to the front when you’re done. I ain’t walking across that parking lot in this cast with those annoying ass crutches.”

“Yeah, yeah. Princess treatment, I got it,” Tommy grumbles affectionately, slipping out the door and letting it click shut behind him.

The silence that settles over the room is immediate and heavy. It feels too intimate, too full of things you can’t say without breaking the fragile peace in his eyes.

Joel’s thumb is still resting over your wedding band. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the freezing metal digging into your finger. You try to subtly pull your hand back, a small, jerky movement, but his grip just tightens slightly, anchoring you in place.

“You’re shakin’,” he notes. His voice drops an octave, softening into that gentle, low timber that used to completely undo you.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to mimic the posture of a wife who is simply relieved her husband is okay, rather than a woman playing a terrifying game of pretend. “It’s just… cold in here. Hospitals are always freezing.”

Joel’s brow furrows a fraction, his dark eyes scanning your face. He takes in the rigid line of your jaw, the way your gaze keeps darting to the monitor, the blanket, the window, anywhere but his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging your hand again until you’re forced to look at him. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Your breath hitches. He thinks you’re worried about him. “I know,” you manage to force out, the words tasting like ash. “The doctor said it was a mild fracture and a concussion. You just… scared me.”

Joel’s face softens into something so open and tender it makes your chest physically ache. He reaches up with his other hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek. You flinch, barely, just a microscopic stiffening of your spine, but he catches it.

For a second, a flicker of confusion crosses his face. But then he lets out a quiet, tired breath, brushing his thumb under your eye where the dark circles of a sleepless redeye flight have settled.

“I know you hate hospitals, darlin’,” he says gently, completely brushing off your distance. He rationalizes it instantly, packing your behavior into a neat little box that makes sense to him. “And I know you’ve probably been runnin’ yourself ragged on that big case you were talkin’ about last week. Add a midnight phone call about me fallin’ off a damn scaffold… I don’t blame you for being a little spooked.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. That big case from last week. He’s pulling memories from five years ago. He’s placing you right in the middle of the hardest year of your marriage, but looking at you with a patience he lacked right before the end.

“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping back just enough that his hand falls from your cheek. You turn toward the duffel bag, desperate for a task. “I’m just exhausted. Let’s… let’s get you out of that gown. The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we can get you home.”

“Bossin’ me around already,” Joel chuckles, a low, easy sound. He groans slightly as he shifts his weight, trying to sit up straighter against the pillows. “Guess that means you’re feeling a little better.”

You unzip the bag, pulling out the gray sweatpants and a soft, worn-out henley you found shoved in the back of his drawer. You keep your back to him for as long as possible, fighting the tremor in your hands.

“Do you need help?” you ask, finally turning around.

Joel is already working the snaps of his hospital gown, the fabric falling off one broad shoulder. He pauses, looking up at you with a smirk that is entirely too familiar. It’s the look he used to give you across the kitchen island.

“Well, unless you want me flashing the nurses when I try to get these sweatpants over this giant cast, I might need a hand, yeah.” He watches you hesitate, your feet glued to the floor. His smirk softens into an easy smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”

The casual intimacy of the statement hits you like a freight train. You squeeze your eyes shut for a fraction of a second, battling the rising tide of panic, anger, and a grief so heavy it threatens to pull you under completely.

Just treat things normally.

You force your feet to move, stepping up to the edge of the bed. “Alright,” you say, your voice remarkably steady for how fast your heart is racing.

You step closer to the bed, your sneakers creating a soft squeak as you move. The air between you feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you reach out to help him with the remaining snaps of the hospital gown.

His hands drop to his lap, letting you take over. It’s an act of complete submission, of absolute trust, and it makes you feel violently sick.

"Arms up," you say. Your voice is strictly clinical. It's the voice of a lawyer who has detached from the emotion of a case, not a wife tending to her husband.

He complies with a soft grunt, the movement clearly pulling at the bruised muscles in his ribs and shoulder. The thin, faded fabric of the gown slips down, pooling at his waist, leaving his chest bare.

You freeze for a fraction of a second.

There are new scars you don't recognize. A small, jagged line near his collarbone. But the rest of him is exactly the same. The broad line of his shoulders, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin. You used to fall asleep with your face pressed right over his heart.

You grab the gray henley, your movements jerky, a little too fast. "Here. Careful with your head."

You guide the collar over his thick hair, avoiding the white bandage at his temple. As he pushes his arms through the sleeves, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.

It’s a tiny, accidental touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. You flinch, pulling back so quickly you almost trip over the leg of the chair behind you.

Joel pauses, his head emerging from the collar of the shirt. He doesn't pull the hem down right away. He just watches you, his dark eyes hooded and observant.

"You're jumpy," he notes softly.

"I just didn't want to hurt you," you lie smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. A physical barrier. The wall going up. "Your head."

He doesn't look entirely convinced, but his brain is still too foggy to push the issue. He tugs the shirt down, wincing slightly as it settles over his torso. "Okay. Pants."

This is worse.

You swallow the lump in your throat and bend down near the edge of the bed. You grab the sweatpants, gathering the left leg so you can ease it over the bulky, gray cast.

"Lift," you instruct.

Joel leans back on his elbows, using his good leg to shift his weight as you carefully guide the fabric over the cast. You're so close to him now. The sterile smell of the hospital is fading, replaced by the faint, earthy scent that is just Joel. It’s a scent that has no right still being so familiar.

As you pull the waistband up past his knees, your hand accidentally brushes against his bare thigh.

You jerk your hand back like you've been burned.

Joel lets out a soft sigh. Before you can stand up, his hand reaches down, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.

"Look at me," he says.

It’s not a command; it’s a plea, quiet and rough. You keep your head down for a second too long, staring at the gray fabric of his sweatpants, at the way your hand looks against his skin. The gold ring catches the harsh overhead light, a bright, lying glint that makes you feel sick.

Slowly, you lift your gaze.

Joel is leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. The shadows under his eyes make him look older, but the way he’s watching you, with that focused, unwavering intensity, is exactly how he used to look at you before everything turned into a battlefield.

"You’re acting like I’m made of glass," he states, his thumb brushing the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. He can feel it. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic beat that contradicts every clinical word you’ve spoken. "Or like you’re scared to touch me."

"I told you," you say, your voice sounding thin and reedy in the quiet room. "You had a head injury, Joel. I’m just trying to be careful."

"It's more than that," he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. He searches your face, his eyes tracking the tension in your mouth, the way you’re holding your breath. "You’ve been... quiet. Ever since I woke up. Like you’re standing ten feet away even when you’re right in front of me."

He lets out a short, frustrated breath and shakes his head, the movement causing him to wince. "I know things have been rough lately. I know the work... the hours... I know I haven't been the easiest man to live with this past year. I've been angry, and I've been loud, and I've said things I shouldn't have."

You freeze. He’s apologizing. He’s apologizing for the version of him that existed five years ago, the one that was tracking dirt through the house and picking fights about your career. He’s trying to fix the cracks in a marriage that has already been shattered for half a decade.

"Joel, don't," you whisper.

"No, I need to say it," he insists, his voice growing thicker. "Wakin' up today... it was like a reset button got hit. All that noise, all that bickering... it doesn't matter. Not when I almost lost the chance to see you again. I'm sorry, darlin'. For all of it. I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise."

The irony is a physical weight in your lungs. He’s finally giving you the apology you would have died for five years ago, and it’s arriving five years too late, addressed to a woman who isn't there anymore.

You want to scream. You want to tell him that he did make it up to you back then, and then he broke it again, and then he ended it in a bar with your best friend in his lap. You want to pull your hand away and run until you hit the state line.

But then he pulls your hand up to his face, resting his cheek against your palm. He closes his eyes, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.

"Just be here with me," he breathes against your skin. "I just need to know we're okay."

He doesn't mean the divorce. He means the fight you had "last night" in his head. He means the tension that was brewing before the accident.

You stand there, bent over the edge of the hospital bed, your hand trapped against the stubble of his jaw. You don't say anything. You can't. You just let him hold you, a silent participant in a story that’s already over for you, but is just beginning again for him.

The door handle turns, the sharp click of the latch cutting through the tension like a blade.

Dr. Anders walks in, carrying a clipboard, followed closely by a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Joel takes one look at the chair and lets out a heavy sigh, his jaw setting stubbornly.

"I can walk," Joel grumbles, adjusting the hem of his henley.

"Hospital policy, Mr. Miller," Dr. Anders says smoothly, unfazed by the glare Joel shoots him. "Before we get you out of here, I just need to take a final look at that laceration."

The doctor steps to the side of the bed, and you instinctively move back, trying to reclaim some of the air in the room. But Joel’s eyes track you instantly, his gaze anchoring you to the spot, making sure the distance between you doesn't grow too wide.

"Let's get this bandage off," Dr. Anders murmurs.

You watch as the doctor’s gloved fingers work at the edge of the thick white tape. The adhesive makes a sharp, tearing sound against Joel’s skin. Joel winces, a low hiss of breath escaping through his teeth, and his hand twitches on the bedsheet as if he wants to reach up and stop the sting.

Without thinking, your own hand rises, a phantom jolt of sympathy shooting through your chest.

Don’t, you tell yourself, the thought cold and firm. You force your arm back down to your side, your fingers curling into a fist. Do not touch him.

Dr. Anders peels the gauze away. The skin beneath is a bruised, mottled map of purple and black, the center held together by a neat, ugly row of dark stitches. It looks raw. It looks painful. The reality of the impact, the height of that scaffold, the concrete floor, hits you in a sudden, sickening wave. For all the anger you’ve carried for five years, seeing him broken like this still makes your stomach turn.

"Healing nicely," Dr. Anders observes. He leans in with a small penlight, the clinical click of the switch echoing in the quiet. He checks Joel’s pupils one last time, his movements practiced and detached. "No signs of infection. I’m going to put a lighter dressing over it just to keep it clean, but you need to keep the site dry."

The doctor turns his attention toward you, shifting the weight of the medical chart.

"Mrs. Miller," he says. The title still feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. "I’m sending him home with a prescription for pain management and an anti-inflammatory. He needs to take them exactly as directed. I also need you to wake him up every few hours tonight, just to check his responsiveness. Standard concussion protocol."

Joel scoffs lightly, though the sound is tight with the pain in his head. "You’re gonna make her set an alarm to bother me all night? She’s already exhausted, Doc."

"I’m going to make her ensure you don't slip into a coma, yes," Dr. Anders replies dryly. He slaps a fresh, smaller bandage over the stitches with a crisp efficiency. He hands you a stack of discharge papers, thick, white sheets filled with instructions for caring for your ex. "Keep an eye on his mood, his balance, and any extreme spikes in confusion. And remember what we discussed in the hall."

The subtext hangs in the air, heavy and invisible. Don’t push his memories. Keep him stable. Keep up the lie.

You take the papers, the edges of the staples digging into your palm. You don't look at Tommy, and you certainly don't look at Joel. You just nod once, a silent agreement to the terms of your surrender.

"I understand," you say, your voice as clinical as the room.

"Good," the doctor says, already turning toward the door. "Then let’s get him into that wheelchair and out of here."

Ten minutes later, the nurse is wheeling Joel out of the room. He looks utterly defeated by the chair, his jaw set in a line of deep annoyance as the small wheels click against the floor. You follow a few paces behind, the duffel bag heavy on your shoulder.

Tommy is waiting at the curb, his truck idling and sending plumes of exhaust into the shimmering Texas heat.

"Look at you, riding in style," Tommy teases the second the automatic doors hiss open. 

Joel lets out a curt chuckle, flashing Tommy the bird without looking up. "Shut up and help me get into this damn thing," he snaps, though the bite is gone, replaced by a weary edge that makes him sound older than he should.

It takes both of you to maneuver him. You have to get close, closer than you can probably handle, hyper-aware of the placement of your hands: one on his waist to steady him, the other bracing his back as he hoists the dead weight of the gray cast into the passenger seat. The second he’s settled, you recoil, stepping away so quickly you almost stumble off the curb.

"I'll take the back," you mutter, practically diving into the cramped backseat of the extended cab before either of them can protest. You just need the distance. You need a barrier.

Tommy catches your eye in the rearview mirror once he’s in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is heavy with understanding. He knows exactly what you’re doing, building a fortress, brick by brick, just trying to survive.

The drive is agonizingly quiet. The low hum of the AC struggles against the heat, and the muffled static of the radio barely masks the tension vibrating in the cab. From your spot in the back, you have a perfect view of the back of Joel’s head. You can see the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his hand rests heavily on his thigh. From this angle, the changes you missed are undeniable. There’s more gray lacing through his dark curls now, and the scruff along his jaw is thicker, grittier. He looks tired, not just from the accident, but in a way that suggests the last five years haven't been kind to him either.

Halfway there, Joel reaches back. His hand moves blindly, feeling for the empty space of the center console, searching for yours.

You press yourself harder against the door, pulling your knees tight together and staring fixedly out the window at the passing highway. You use the blur of the trees as an excuse not to see him, not to reach back. You let his hand grasp at empty air until, with a heavy, resigned sigh, he pulls it back to his lap.

When Tommy finally turns down the familiar oak-lined street, your pulse starts thudding in your ears. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Joel looks out the window at the front porch, at the hanging ferns that somehow survived the summer and the peeling paint on the railing he’d always promised to fix. A soft, grounded smile touches his lips.

"God, it's good to be home," he murmurs, and the sheer weight of his relief hits you right in the center of your chest.

He pushes his door open, bracing his good leg against the running board. Tommy is out of the truck in a flash, grabbing the crutches from the bed. You sit frozen in the backseat for three seconds, your heart doing a strange, frantic double-tap against your ribs. It’s not just the urge to run anymore; it’s the terrifying pull to stay. Your emotions are being tugged in both directions.

Then Joel looks back at you through the open truck door. His dark eyes are tired, clouded with pain, but they settle on you with a quiet certainty.

"Comin', darlin’?" he asks softly.

The "darlin’" catches you by surprise, pulling you from your thoughts, familiar and sharp. You nod stiffly, swallowing the lump of uncertainty as you step out into the stifling heat. 

You follow them toward the front porch, the wood creaking under your feet, a sound you haven't heard in five years.

Tommy unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder while keeping a firm grip on Joel’s right side. You step inside behind them, and the air immediately knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s the scent, cedarwood, old leather, and that faint, lingering spice of his cologne. It’s a sensory tidal wave, making the last five years feel less like a new life and more like a very long, very cold intermission.

For a second, you aren't a lawyer from New York. You’re just home.

The heavy, awkward thud of Joel’s crutches against the hardwood snaps you back to reality.

“Easy, easy,” Tommy mutters, guiding him toward the living room. “Don’t put any weight on it, you stubborn ass.”

Joel grunts, his jaw tight as he maneuvers across the rug. “I got it, Tommy. Stop hovering.”

You hang back by the entryway, your hands white-knuckled around the straps of the duffel bag. Your eyes dart around the space, searching for your own reflection in the house. When you were here just a few hours ago, you were moving too fast to notice, but now the silence of the walls is deafening.

Five years ago, your heels would have been kicked off by the door. Your favorite coat would be hanging on the rack, smelling like the perfume he used to say he could find you by in a crowd. There would be a bowl for your keys and a stack of mail with your name on it.

But the entryway is stripped bare of you. It’s a museum of a man living alone.

You brace yourself, your pulse thudding in your fingertips. You wait for him to look around, to ask why your coats are gone, why the entryway table is empty, why the house feels like half of it was removed. You have the lies ready, tucked behind your teeth, but you find yourself almost wanting him to notice, to prove that your absence left a mark, even to this version of him.

He doesn’t.

In fact, his dark eyes slide right past the empty coat rack without a flicker of doubt. It’s as if his brain is simply filling in the blanks, projecting the version of the house he remembers over the reality of the one he’s standing in. He isn't looking for your things because, to him, you are already right where you belong.

“Just get me to the sofa,” Joel breathes out, a heavy sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.

Tommy helps him pivot, and Joel sinks into the cushions with a long, pained groan. His casted leg stays propped up stiffly on the oak coffee table, the one you’d picked out together at a flea market three lifetimes ago. He leans his head back against the leather, squeezing his eyes shut as he rides out a wave of pain.

You stand there in the hallway, the duffel bag feeling heavier by the second. You realize that the house doesn't feel like the prison or trap that you originally thought it would. It feels like a memory that won't let you go. And as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, you realize the most dangerous part of the lie isn't that he believes it.

It’s how easily you could let yourself believe it, too.

“You good?” Tommy asks, hovering near the armrest.

Joel swallows hard, keeping his eyes shut against the thrumming in his skull. “Yeah. Just… spins a little if I move too fast.”

“Alright.” Tommy claps his hands on his thighs, taking a reluctant step back. “Well, I got you delivered in one piece. I gotta get back to Maria before she sends out a search party. You got the meds?” He looks over his shoulder at you.

You move into the living room, setting the duffel bag down on a nearby chair with a practiced, steady hand. “Yes. I have them. Go on, Tommy. We’ve got it from here.”

“Good.” Tommy walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back at his brother. A flicker of something complicated passes over his face—a mix of relief and a heavy, lingering guilt—before his eyes shift to you. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”

“I will,” you say quietly.

The front door clicks shut a moment later, the sound echoing through the house like a final seal.

And then, it is just the two of you.

The silence isn't the cold, empty kind you expected. It’s thick, and layered. Filled with tension of things you can’t say. You stand rooted to the spot, feeling less like a stranger and more like a ghost who accidentally stepped back into her own life.

Joel finally opens his eyes. He looks at you standing there, clutching your purse, and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face. It’s a flash of profound, ancient sorrow, the look of a man who has spent a long time memorizing the way a room feels when it's empty.

But then he blinks, and the shadow vanishes, replaced instantly by that soft, lopsided smile.

“You look like you’re waitin’ for me to go blank in the mind, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Relax. I’m not gonna break again.”

“I’m just thinking about the schedule,” you deflect, dropping your purse onto the chair to free your hands. “The pills, the check-ins... I need to get you some water for your first round of meds.”

“Before you go play nurse,” Joel interrupts softly, gesturing toward the TV. “Can you turn that on? The quiet in here is making my head echo.”

You nod, grateful for the task. You walk over to the media console, your fingers finding the remote exactly where it used to live. You point it at the screen, and the low, familiar murmur of a sports broadcast fills the room, grounding the space in something mundane.

When you turn around, Joel isn’t looking at the TV.

He’s looking at you.

His head is tilted back against the leather, his dark eyes tracking you with a quiet, hungry intensity. It’s not the look of a man who saw you this morning; it’s the look of someone who has finally found his way back to the only thing that makes sense.

“What?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s jaw tightens. For a second, the air between you pulls taut, but then he exhales, letting his head loll to the side to look at the screen.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, his tone shifting effortlessly back to easy. “Just... love you.”

The words hit you like a physical weight, simple and devastating. You escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting his water, your chest heaving the second you’re out of his sight. The kitchen is a time capsule, but the signs of his solitude are everywhere. One coffee mug. One plate. No magnets on the fridge. It’s the kitchen of a man who stopped expecting anyone else for dinner a long time ago.

You turn the faucet on, letting the water run cold as you pop two pills from the bottle. You can do this. You just have to keep the rhythm. Helpful. Distant.

Then, you hear it.

Thump. Squeak. Drag. 

The rhythmic, metallic strike of the aluminum crutches hitting the hardwood floor makes your blood run cold. You shut off the faucet, spinning around just as Joel’s large frame fills the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning heavily into the supports, his broad shoulders hunched as he navigates the tight space. He looks exhausted, his face pale beneath the stubble, but his eyes are locked onto yours with a startling, quiet intensity.

"What are you doing?" The panic rises in your throat, sharp and instinctive. You drop the pills onto the counter and move toward him, hands raised as if you could catch him. "Joel, the doctor said to stay off that leg. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself."

"I’m fine, darlin’," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrates in the small room. He swings himself forward another step, the rubber tips squeaking against the tile.

"Then why are you up?" you demand, backing up until your hips hit the edge of the kitchen island.

He stops just inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of the hospital fading under the familiar, earthy musk of his skin. Even injured, he has a way of making the room feel incredibly small, crowding the distance you've tried to maintain.

Joel shifts his weight, leaning into the right crutch so he can free his left hand. He reaches out, his rough fingers wrapping loosely around the edge of the granite counter, effectively trapping you between his body and the island. A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I've been stuck in that bed lookin' at beige walls and Tommy’s ugly face for the past three days," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, gravelly murmur. "I finally get to come home to my wife, and you run off to the kitchen. Didn't wanna sit in there by myself."

Your breath hitches.

It’s such a simple, reasonable request from a man with a broken body and a foggy brain. He just wants to be near you. But since you know the reality of the last five years, the words carry a suffocating weight. He hasn't just been lonely for three days; he's been sitting in this quiet, empty house for half a decade. And now that you're finally standing in his kitchen again, he physically cannot bear to let you out of his sight.

"I was just getting your water," you say softly, desperately trying to keep your voice level. You reach blindly behind you, grabbing the glass. "You need to take your pain meds."

Joel glances down at the water glass in your trembling hand, then back up at your face. He doesn't move back. He just stays there, soaking in the proximity, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Just missed lookin' at you, is all. That a crime?"

The sheer, unbroken devotion in his tone feels like a slow-turning knife.

"Here," you whisper, holding out the pills. Your voice is stripped of its sharp edge, leaving only a raw, shaky vulnerability. "Take these. And then I'm helping you back to the couch before you fall and I have to call Tommy to scrape you off the floor."

Joel lets out a soft, genuine chuckle. He takes the pills from your palm, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing against yours, sending a jolt of heat straight up your arm.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs obediently.

You watch his throat work as he swallows, draining the glass. He hands it back, his fingers lingering against yours for just a heartbeat too long before he grips the handles of his crutches again.

“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the exertion finally starts to catch up with him. “Take me back. Before I actually do hit the floor.”

You set the glass down and step up beside his uninjured side, sliding your arm around his waist. He’s heavy, solid, and incredibly warm. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, dropping his free arm heavily over your shoulders. He tucks you right into his side, a puzzle piece fitting perfectly back into a place that shouldn't exist anymore.

The walk back to the living room is slow. Every step is agonizingly close. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder and the way his fingers curl loosely against your collarbone. When you finally reach the couch, you help him ease down, holding your breath as he straightens his casted leg with a tight wince.

He lets his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the medicine begins to take hold.

“You should go unpack,” he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.

You freeze. How does he know you need to unpack?

“Whatever work trip you were on… ya’ must be exhausted,” he continues blindly, his eyes still closed, completely unaware of the ice forming in your veins. “Go put your stuff away. Take a shower. I’m just gonna… rest my eyes for a minute.”

Your stuff. In the bedroom.

“Right,” you choke out, your voice sounding thin and hollow. “I’ll go do that.”

You back away from the couch and practically sprint toward the entryway to grab your purse and the small carry-on bag you brought from New York. When you step into the master bedroom and softly click the door shut behind you, the silence of the house finally turns into a scream.

You drop your bag onto the floor and stare at your side of the dresser. It’s scarred and bare. The nightstand where your lamp used to sit is an empty island of dust. You look at the closet door, knowing with a sick certainty that it is filled only with his flannels and work boots.

How the hell are you going to hide this?

You unzip your suitcase with trembling hands. You pull out the few things you packed, like two blouses, a pair of jeans, a pair of pajamas, and a makeup bag. You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which is the one that used to hold your lace and silk.

It is completely empty. Wiped clean.

You dump your folded clothes into the hollow space and shut the drawer. It is a fragile illusion. If he opens the closet or looks in the bathroom cabinet for your shampoo, the lie will unravel in seconds. You make a mental note to get to a Target the second Tommy can take over, just to buy enough fake clutter to make it look like a woman still lives here.

By the time you walk back out, the sun has completely set. The living room is cast in thick, heavy shadows. Only the blue flicker of the muted television illuminates the space.

Joel is fast asleep on the couch.

His head is tilted to the side, and his chest rises and falls in a deep, even rhythm. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion have smoothed out. He looks devastatingly peaceful. He looks exactly like the man you fell in love with before everything went to shit.

You glance at the clock. Wake him up every few hours, Dr. Anders had said. Check his responsiveness.

You swallow hard and step quietly around the coffee table. You kneel on the rug right beside his chest. The plush fibers dig into your bare knees.

For a long moment, you just look at him. Without his dark eyes tracking you and without the weight of his expectations pinning you down, you let the mask slip. God, you are so tired. You are tired of the anger, tired of the distance, and mostly you are tired of how much it hurts to be this close to him.

You reach out, and your hand hovers over his chest.

"Joel," you whisper.

He doesn’t stir. You press your hand gently to his shoulder and give him a small shake. The warmth of his skin seeps right through the thin cotton of the henley. It grounds you in a way you are not ready for.

"Joel," you say, louder this time. "Wake up."

With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open.

For a split second, he looks completely disoriented. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light. He blinks hard, and his body tenses defensively before his gaze focuses and lands on you kneeling there. The tension instantly drains from his muscles. It is replaced by a soft, sleepy recognition.

"Hey," he breathes out. His voice is a gravelly, sleep-heavy rasp that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He shifts, turning his face toward you. "What time is it?"

"Just past nine," you say softly. You keep your voice level. "The doctor said I have to wake you up, remember? Ask you some questions. Just to make sure you are okay."

Joel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh. He turns his body slightly so he is facing you. He reaches out, and his large, warm hand finds the side of your neck. His thumb rests right against your pulse point. He can probably feel how fast your heart is going.

"Alright, Doc," he murmurs. His voice is deeper in the quiet. His eyes are locked onto yours, and they are heavy with an intimate, sleepy heat. "Interrogate me."

You clear your throat and desperately try to ignore the warmth of his thumb. You force your voice into a calm tone.

"What is your name?"

Joel huffs a quiet, amused breath. "Joel Miller."

"Do you know where you are?"

His dark eyes soften. They drop to your lips for a heartbeat before drifting back up. "I am in my living room. In our house. With my wife."

The words land like stones in your stomach. They are heavy and sinking, but you force yourself to press on.

"What’s your favorite football team?"

"The Cowboys," he answers without missing a beat. A faint, sleepy smirk pulls at his mouth. "Even when they are playing like absolute shit and ruin my Sunday."

You nod slowly, and your eyes drop to the rug. 

It hits you then with a sharp and terrifying clarity just how much of him still lives in your head. Five years in New York. Five years of new restaurants and new cases and new people. Yet you still know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know he hates the smell of lavender but loves the smell of rain on asphalt. You know his favorite team and his worst habits and the exact way his jaw ticks when he’s trying not to get angry.

All this time apart, and you still know him down to his bones.

"Okay," you whisper. You gently reach up to pull his hand away from your neck. You place it carefully back on his chest to break the contact before it completely undoes you. "You pass. Your brain is intact. But you can’t sleep down here. It’s gonna ruin your back, and we need to elevate that leg properly."

Joel groans softly as you stand up and the reality of his injuries settles back in. "I thought you were supposed to be the nice nurse."

"I am the practical one," you correct. You grab his crutches from where they rested against the coffee table. "Come on. Up we go."

Getting him off the couch is an ordeal, but getting him toward the stairs is worse. The heavy plaster cast throws off his entire center of gravity. After just a few steps toward the staircase, his breathing is ragged. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out over his brow.

"Screw the crutches," he mutters. He leans heavily against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. "I can’t balance with ‘em on the steps."

"Okay," you say. Your heart picks up a frantic rhythm as you step up next to him. "Put your arm around me."

He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his heavy and muscular arm around your shoulders. He tucks you flush against his side. You snake your arm around his waist, and your hand rests flat against the heat of his lower back.

"Take it slow," you instruct. Your voice trembles slightly at the sheer proximity.

The climb up the stairs is agonizingly slow. Every step requires him to shift nearly all of his weight onto you as he hops his good foot up to the next tread and drags the casted leg behind him. You bear it silently. You feel the powerful flex of his back muscles under your palm and the warmth of his chest pressing into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your temple. It is ragged and warm, and it smells of mint and the lingering scent of the hospital.

It takes nearly five minutes to reach the top landing. By the time you navigate down the hallway and through the door of the master bedroom, you are both out of breath. You guide him to the edge of the mattress, and he sinks onto the comforter with a heavy and relieved sigh.

"Jesus," he breathes out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair. "I feel like a helpless old man."

"You did good," you say softly. You step back carefully, putting a safe three feet of distance between you and the bed. You grab an extra pillow from the armchair and tuck it under his cast to elevate it.

Joel watches you. The fatigue in his eyes battles with something much deeper. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the comforter to pull it back. He is making room on your side of the bed. The side that has been empty since you left.

"Come here," he murmurs. His voice is a low and thick rumble. "I’m exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."

Your feet remain glued to the floor. Your heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts your ribs.

"I’m actually going to sleep in the guest room," you say. Your eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze.

Joel freezes. His hand stops moving on the comforter. He looks up at you with genuine confusion. A sharp spike of hurt flashes across his features.

"Why?" he asks. His voice cracks slightly. "We have a perfectly good bed right here."

You wrap your arms around your stomach as a defensive shield against the raw vulnerability in his eyes. "You’re injured, Joel. You have a concussion and a broken leg. I toss and turn in my sleep. If I accidentally kick your cast in the middle of the night or elbow your head..."

"You are not going to hurt me," he argues immediately. He shakes his head. He reaches his hand out toward you with his palm up in an open plea. "You’ve never hurt me. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t go across the hall. I just want you next to me. I-I sleep better when you’re next to me. Please."

The plea nearly shatters you. It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to cross the room and crawl into that bed. You want to bury your face in his chest and pretend the last five years were just a terrible nightmare.

But you know the truth. The lie is already suffocating you. Lying next to him in the dark will only make the inevitable reality hurt worse when it finally crashes down. When he finally remembers everything, and it all goes back to the way it was.

"I’ll be right across the hall," you whisper. Your voice is thick with unshed tears. "If you need anything… just call for me. I’ll leave the doors open."

Before he can argue again and before he can hit you with another look of devastating betrayal, you turn on your heel and walk out of the room. 

You step into the dark guest bedroom and pull the door mostly shut. You sink down against the wall and bury your face in your hands as the first silent sob finally rips through your chest.

Joel doesn’t wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man who’s been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.

He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as Tomás appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.

“Good to see you Patrón,” he says with a grin.

“And you,” Joel nods. “See to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ain’t to be disturbed.”

“Consider it done,” Tomás replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.

You don’t wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that he’s holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than he’s held himself in the entire journey before.

Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and don’t turn around.

Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck – the careful trembling restraint of a man who’s been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.

“We should go to bed,” he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.

“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. “We should.”

But you don’t move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.

You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.

His eyes are inches from yours, and they’re not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see he’s still trying – can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand that’s left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesn’t entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.

“Joel?” Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.

"Darlin’, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ain’t gonna make it to our bed and I ain’t gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.”

You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.

The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.

You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.

Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Darlin’…”

You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.

You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.

The kiss is not slow or careful, rather it’s the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat that’s almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.

You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you haven’t known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.

He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.

"Joel…you said…"

"I know what I said."

His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.

He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.

"Darlin’…I’m tryin’ to get us to bed. I’ll get us there, I swear I will…”

"I know,” you pant.

"Help me."

You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.

You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and he’s asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.

Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.

He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.

You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.

Then the next and the next.

The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.

He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. “Darlin’…”

"Yes?”

"Take off the dress.”

"Joel, the bedroom is…"

"You ain’t makin’ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlin’ ‘cause I won’t let you. So, take it off here, now.”

The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.

A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlin’, that’s better."

You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.

His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.

“We need to keep movin’.”

You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.

You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays aren’t going to make it to the bedroom either.

He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.

He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.

The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.

He doesn’t speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.

"Joel… the bedroom…please…"

He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.

The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.

He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.

"Darlin’ I…I need a moment.”

You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.

"Joel…you’ve seen me before, that night…”

“Not like this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Not in this light. I haven’t…not like this.”

"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think you’ve ever heard it before.

His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesn’t look at them.

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.

His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.

You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. You’ve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.

Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.

"Take this off, darlin’,” he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.

The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.

You’re bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesn’t speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.

He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. “Look at you."

"Joel, please,” you beg. “I can’t wait.”

His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlin’. I’ve made you wait too long and I’m gonna fix that now.”

He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.

His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I’m gonna be careful with you, I promise.”

"Joel…"

"I gotta be careful, darlin’. It’s your first time."

"Please,” you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. “I don’t need you to be careful.”

“Yes darlin’, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once you’re warmed up to me, we can do things differently.” He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what he’s about to do.

“Feels like you’re ready for me.”

“I am, please, I am.”

"I love you, darlin’," he says gently.

"I love you too,” you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"I’m gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlin’. Now take a breath and hold on to me."

You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. There’s a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.

"Darlin’, if I’m hurtin’ you…"

"You’re not, I promise. It’s only... only new. Please, my love, don’t stop."

He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesn’t move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.

The bedroom is utterly silent.

You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.

You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than you’ve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.

"You feel…so good…” he murmurs. “So good darlin’. So warm and wet…”

The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.

"Don’t move, darlin’, not yet. Just…just give me a moment."

"I can’t, Joel. Please, I need to feel it all…”

The careful patient husband who’s been promising you all afternoon that he’ll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.

“You’ll feel it darlin’,” he promises shakily. “You’ll feel all of it – every damn inch.”

The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.

He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.

The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.

You’ve never felt like this before.

"Joel…more, please…more…”

He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.

"Joel…I’m... already, my love, I can feel..."

"I know, darlin’."

"How can I be... already... how…?"

"You’ve been waitin’, so long, darlin’, we both have.”

The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband who’s finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.

"Joel…"

"Come apart for me,” he pants, “come apart for me in our bed."

"Joel…"

"Look at me.”

You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesn’t falter. His hand slides back down your body, in between where you’re joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise you’re going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.

"Joel…” you gasp. “Joel, I’m…”

“Yes, let go for me darlin’, let go. Scream my name.”

"Joel…”

“Yes…”

“Joel…!”

The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesn’t need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.

"Oh…darlin’…mine…my girl, my sweet girl…! I love you…I’m gonna give you everythin’…!”

His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that you’ll carry like a benediction.

He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing you’ve ever heard out of any man and something that you’ll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.

For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.

The headboard stops knocking against the wall.

The bed stops creaking.

The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with what’s just unfolded.

Joel doesn’t move for a long time.

His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.

“That was…you were so good, darlin’, so goddamn good…”

You can’t, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.

His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"My wife."

"Yes…"

"Mrs Miller."

"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.

You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. “Yes…yes I enjoyed it very much.”

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, kissing you again, “’cause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.” Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. “And once ain’t gonna be enough for me darlin’.

“Me neither,” you reply.

“You were too damn good. I’m gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. Lord…” he squeezes you gently. “Never thought I’d get to feel this way ever again.”

You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.

“Easy darlin’,” he murmurs against your hair. “You gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.”

“Tick tock,” you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.

The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

…

The moment the front door clicks shut behind you back at the house, the atmosphere feels charged with anticipation you can taste on the back of your tongue.

You follow Jack into the living room, watching from the doorway as he kneels in front of the living room cabinet, the same one that held the wedding album.

He digs deeper this time, shifting old blankets and keepsakes until his hands locate a battered, nondescript shoebox buried at the very bottom. He pulls it into the light, lifting the lid to reveal a plastic jewel case with a DVD inside.

"John shot it on an old camcorder." Jack explains, a nostalgic smile softening his mouth as he slides the disc into the media player. "We told him we just wanted a few highlights, but he took the assignment way too seriously."

"Was he the cameraman the whole night?" you ask, walking over to the sofa.

"Pretty much."

You sit down, but you don't keep your distance this time. You don't take the far cushion. You sink into it and immediately lean your weight into his side, your shoulder pressing flush against his chest, your thigh resting against his. Jack’s arm moves automatically, curving around your shoulders, pulling you into him as the television screen flickers to life.

The footage is grainy and shaky in the beginning. John’s voice narrates from behind the lens, shouting inside jokes over the thumping bass from the reception. You watch as clips of your friends play across the screen. Trinity performing an aggressively unhinged version of the karaoke song you two love to sing together, Robby trying and failing to look dignified while wearing a ridiculous party hat.

And then the camera pans to the head table.

It’s a candid shot. Neither of you knows you're being filmed. You are just sitting there, your hand resting in Jack’s lap, looking up at him with a smile so brilliant it cuts right through you. Jack is looking back down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone, his face completely stripped of his usual armor. He looks like a man who has won everything he ever wanted.

Leaning against his chest now, you feel his heart rate skip, his grip on your shoulder tightening just a fraction.

Then the screen cuts to black for a second, transitioning to a completely different setting. The audio quietens, replaced by the muffled, carpeted silence of a hotel room.

The camera is steady now, held at chest height. You can tell immediately that Jack is the one behind the lens. The viewfinder pans across a luxury suite and scattered rose petals, before locking onto you. You’re standing near the edge of a massive bed, still wearing your white wedding dress, the lace slightly rumpled, your hair half undone and falling over your bare shoulders.

"Here's my wife." Jack’s voice echoes from the TV speakers. The intimacy of it all makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "Still in her dress. Wife, where are we going tomorrow?"

On screen, you turn toward the camera, a radiant smile on your face. "Paris!"

Jack lets out a laugh behind the lens. "And what are we doing in Paris?"

You laugh, marching straight toward the camera, and grab the rim of the lens to yank it toward him. "Honeymooning, of course!"

The frame tilts wildly before steadying on Jack's face. He’s looking at you with a gaze so hot it practically scorches the screen, a lazy, besotted smile on his lips as he raises his left hand, flashing his brand new silver wedding band at the lens. You laugh and set the camera down on the nightstand beside the hotel bed.

It keeps rolling, capturing the two of you as you both lean down into the frame. Jack hooks two fingers under your chin, tilting your head back, and gives you a kiss.

On the couch, your breath hitches.

On the screen, the kiss stretches out. You watch yourself lean entirely into him, your chest pressing against his, your lips parting as you literally sigh right into his mouth. 

The innocence of the wedding day evaporates in a split second as things start to get heated. Jack’s large hand wanders down, his palm fiercely gripping the curve of your ass through the heavy silk of your wedding gown, pulling you flush against his hips. Your own hands are buried deep in his hair, pulling him down, your mouths moving together with hunger.

You sit on the living room couch, your mouth opening slightly, your breathing turning shallow and erratic as the sensuality of your own history plays out in front of you. 

How you could you be blamed for the pooling heat deep in your belly in this moment?

Jack clears his throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. He hits the pause button. The screen freezes on a blurred image of his hands tangled in your dress.

"Better stop it there." Jack says, his voice completely wrecked. "Things..don't exactly stay PG after that point."

You snap your head around to look at him. Beneath the light of the living room, he is flushed a burning crimson red from the collar of his shirt up to his ears.

A thrill cuts through your arousal. You gasp, widening your eyes and feigning total, puritanical shock just to cover up the dangerous way your body is currently vibrating for him.

"Jack Abbot!" you breathe out, your voice trembling with a mix of laughter and heat. "Do we have a sex tape together?!"

Jack lets out a helpless bark of laughter, running a hand over his face as if trying to erase the blush. "No!" he groans, his shoulders shaking as he looks at you. "Not exactly. We..we generally remembered to turn the camera off before we got entirely carried away."

Another laugh escapes you, joining his in the quiet room, the shared amusement breaking the tension but doing absolutely nothing to cool the fire burning beneath your skin.

…

After you say your goodnights and retreat to your separate rooms, the silence of the guest room feels like a prison.

You lie under the sheets for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, but your skin feels too tight, your blood humming.

You throw the blankets off, stepping onto the cold hardwood floor, and begin to pace the small width of the room.

"This is ridiculous." you whisper to the dark walls, your hands pressing over your flushed cheeks.

Your mind keeps flashing back to his hand on your waist at the bar, his palm on your skin in that hotel room, the possessiveness in his voice when he called you his wife.

"He’s my husband." you say out loud, the words landing in the quiet room. "Of course my body feels this way toward him. It’s always known."

The realization hits you like a physical blow, clearing away every single fraction of hesitation, every lingering doubt, every boundary you’ve spent carefully guarding. 

You're done waiting. 

You're done being careful.

You march straight to the guest room door, your hand wrapping around the brass knob, and pull it open with a decided jerk.

But Jack is standing right there in the hallway. His fist is raised in the air, mere inches from the wood, caught in the exact middle of preparing to knock on your door. He looks completely undone, his hair wrecked, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

"I was just.." he starts.

You don't let him finish the sentence. You lunge forward, closing the final inch of distance between you, and bury your mouth against his.

It’s a feverish, bruising kiss. Crushing your lips to his with all the pent up longing, confusion, and overwhelming desire of the last two months. Jack reacts instantly, a groan tearing out of his throat as his rational mind completely short circuits.

He slams his hands around your waist, pulling you off the floor and pinning your back flush against the doorframe, his mouth devouring yours.

When you finally break apart for air, your foreheads resting together, your chests heaving against one another, you wrap your arms tight around his neck. You look straight into his wild eyes.

"Take me to our room, Jack." you breathe against his lips. "Please."

Jack doesn't hesitate for a single second. He hooks his arms under your thighs, lifting you clean off your feet. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face into the warm crook of his neck, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he carries you down the dark hallway, straight toward the master bedroom, straight toward the bed you were always meant to share.

...

Jack doesn't put you down immediately. He presses you flush against the wood of the closed bedroom door, his upper body pinning you there as his mouth finds yours again.

It’s a bruising reintroduction, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth that tells you exactly how much he’s been holding back. 

When he finally lets you slide down his body, your feet hit the floorboards, but your knees are so weak you instantly sway into him. He catches you by the waist, his grip firm.

Jack reaches down and unclasps his prosthetic, setting the shaft quietly against the nightstand. There is no hesitation in him, no awkwardness. This is a man who knows exactly what he wants. He shifts his weight seamlessly onto his other leg and then hovers over you as you both tumble onto the mattress of your shared bed.

"You're so beautiful." Jack says, his voice completely ruined as his eyes track the way you spread out beneath him. 

"Jack," you breathe, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders, pulling his weight down onto you. "Don't make me wait."

He breathes against your neck, his lips tracing a burning path down your throat, biting gently at the sensitive spot where your shoulder meets your neck. His calloused hands glide down your sides, pulling the fabric of your clothes off and out of the way until you are entirely bare beneath him.

He shifts his weight on the mattress, using his arms to balance himself as he slides down your body. His hands spread your thighs wide, lifting your knees over his shoulders to give himself perfect access. When his eyes meet yours from between your legs, the passion in them makes your stomach drop in a delicious flip.

Then, his mouth finds you.

You let out a gasp, your fingers clutching violently at the bedsheets as his tongue makes direct, soaking contact with your heat. He isn't being gentle. He knows exactly how you like it, his tongue doing deep strokes that immediately make your hips rock off the mattress. He uses his thumb to find your clit, applying steady pressure that syncs perfectly with the wet, sliding friction of his mouth.

The sensation is overwhelming. Something pooling rapidly in your lower belly. You can't breathe, your head tossing back against the pillows as he suctions you into his mouth, his tongue working frantically until your breath catches in a breathless sob.

"Jack, I'm..I'm going to.."

He doesn't slow down. He deepens the pressure, his fingers sliding inside you to stretch you open while his mouth devours you. Your entire body goes rigid. A blinding wave of pleasure crashing through your veins as you come against his mouth, your walls pulsing around his fingers.

Jack stays right there, drinking in every single drop of you, his tongue lingering until your trembling thighs finally begin to relax. He slides back up your body, his chest slick with sweat and a thoroughly satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at your undone expression.

Needing to touch him, to taste him the same way, you try to shift beneath him, your hands tracing the sharp line of his hip down toward his boxers. "My turn." you whisper, your voice completely wrecked as you start to slide down toward the edge of the bed. 

Jack’s hand snaps around your wrist, his grip firm but gentle as he stops your movement, pulling you back up the mattress until you're staring right into his eyes. 

"No." he rasps, his face slightly flushed. "If you do that right now, I am going to come in five seconds flat. I'm not kidding."

A small laugh escapes your lips "Five seconds, Abbot? Where’s that legendary stamina?"

Jack laughs and leans down to press his forehead against yours, his eyes locked onto your mouth. "It goes out the window when it comes to you. I've been waiting two months to touch you like this. Every single night, waking up in an empty bed. I want to be inside you. I want to come in you like I always do."

The sheer sincerity in his voice, the unvarnished love behind the admission, makes your heart swell. "Okay." you whisper, your fingers wrapping around his neck, pulling his mouth down to yours.

He moves over you, his arms framing your head, his knee anchoring his weight on the mattress. Before he slides inside, his mouth drops to your chest, capturing one of your nipples between his lips. He sucks deeply, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peaks until you’re writhing beneath him, your hands burying deep into his hair, pulling him flush against you.

He guides himself to your opening, the slick head of his length pressing against your soaking entrance. He pauses for one agonizing second, his eyes locking onto yours, making sure you are entirely with him.

Then, with one deep, devastating push, Jack slides completely inside you.

A loud moan tears out of your throat that you otherwise would have found embarrassing if it didn’t feel so fucking good. Your eyes widened as your body stretched around the thick fullness of him. 

It feels like home. It feels like a perfect remembering. 

Jack lets out a trembling exhale against your ear, his entire body shuddering as he buries himself into your heat until your hips are pinned against the mattress.

"You feel so good, sweetheart." he groans, his hips immediately establishing a slow rhythm. 

He grips your hips with his large hands, lifting your pelvis slightly to find the perfect angle, plunging deep and bottoming out with every single stroke. 

You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to anchor him, pulling him deeper into you. Every time his hips slam into yours, you cannot help but gasp at the feeling of it. The friction building again that same delicious tightening in your belly. 

Jack leans down, his mouth catching yours in a wet, filthy kiss as his pace quickens. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, running over it in fast, heavy circles right as his length drives inside you.

"Jack!" you cry out.

"I've got you." he pants against your mouth, his pace turning frantic. "Come for me, baby."

The crushing friction of your release is the final straw for Jack’s discipline. His length pulsed over and over as he filled you completely.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was of your breathing. Jack stays buried inside you for a moment before carefully pulling out and laying by your side. 

You blink up at the ceiling, dazed.  Your voice a whisper in the quiet. "Did it always feel like that?"

"Yes." Jack says. "Every single time."

...

The rest of the weekend dissolves into a blur of tangled sheets, breathless laughter, and the quiet realization that the space between you has completely vanished. There is no more careful. 

Your body remembers him, and his body has been starving for you.

He makes you breakfast in the morning, standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, his broad shoulders catching the morning light. You don't even let him plate the eggs. You slide down his front, dropping to your knees right there on the cold kitchen tile, and take him into your mouth until his hands lock into your hair, his breath tearing out of him in ruined gasps as he braces himself against the counter.

And then of course, you try to walk past his home office on your way from the shower, entirely bare and dripping wet. You only make it three steps past the doorway before his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into the room. He sweeps a stack of papers off his desk and bends you over the wood, and drives himself into you from behind, his hands tightly gripping your hips as you scream his name.

It is, simply put, amazing.

By Monday morning, you haven't shared a single detail with anyone. You haven't mentioned that the guest room is empty, or that things are nearly back to normal. You keep your guard up, letting the secret live just between the two of you, until the monthly emergency department meeting forces everyone into the same room.

The hospital conference room is packed. You're sitting near the back, wedged tightly between John and Trinity, both of them adjusting their clipboards and complaining about the shift schedules.

John leans back in his chair, clicking his pen against his knee, and looks over at you with a perceptive squint. "So," he murmurs, dropping his voice below the noise of the room. "How are things going at home? You look less stressed."

Before you can even open your mouth to formulate a polite, non committal response, the heavy door at the front of the conference room swings open.

Jack walks in. His eyes scan the crowded rows of chairs, cutting through the sea of scrubs, until they lock directly onto you.

He marches straight down the aisle. In his hand, he’s holding a paper cup with what you know is the premium herbal tea you like, brewed the way you like it.

The entire row goes completely silent as he stops right in front of your chair. He doesn't say a word. He just bends down, sets the hot cup onto the folding desk in front of you, and then he keeps moving downward.

His hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb sliding behind your ear, and he presses his lips to yours.

It isn't a polite, professional cheek peck. It is a real kiss. He parts your lips with his, kissing you. It is probably a little too intense for a workplace environment, and definitely too long for a room full of your coworkers, but his mouth moves over yours anyways.

When he finally pulls back, a smirk plays on his lips. "Don't let it get cold." he whispers softly.

You sit there, your heart hammering against your ribs, a delicious heat blooming in your face.

To your left, John and Trinity are frozen. Both of them are sitting dead still in their chairs, their mouths agape as they stare at you, then at Jack, and then back at you.

Trinity is the first to recover, a massive grin spreading across her face. "Well, I think I know exactly how it’s going."

An unbothered smile breaks across your face. You don't say a single word to confirm it. Instead, you just lift the warm cup to your lips and take a sip of your tea.

...

Six Months Later

The morning of the vow renewal is chaotic, but you just simply cannot stop smiling.

You’re upstairs in the bedroom struggling with the zipper of a simple, backless white sundress. The lace keeps catching on the track, and you let out frustrated sigh, twisting your arms at an impossible angle.

Jack steps into the room, already wearing his crisp suit trousers and a white button down, though his tie is still draped loosely around his neck. He stops in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the exposed skin of your back.

"Need some help?" he asks.

"This zipper is my enemy." you mutter, turning your head to look at him. "And aren't there traditional rules about the groom seeing the bride before the ceremony?"

"We’ve been legally married for five years, baby." Jack smirks, closing the gap between you in two long strides. "I think the statute of limitations on the rules has run out."

He steps up right behind you, his chest pressing flush against your bare back, sending an immediate shock straight up your spine. His hands don't go to the zipper first. Instead, his palms slide firmly around the curves of your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, pulling you against him. He leans down, his mouth brushing your shoulder.

"Jack," you breathe, your hands instantly reaching back to grip his forearms. "The guests will be here in twenty minutes."

"They can wait." he groans against your skin, his thumb brushing across your hip. He finally reaches for the zipper, his knuckles brushing down your spine as he slowly guides the track up, closing the dress but doing absolutely nothing to release you from his grip. He spins you around in his arms so you're facing him, his hands resting on your hips. "You look incredible. It’s taking an immense amount of self control not to tear this dress right back off you."

You laugh and reach up to tighten the knot of his tie, leaning in to catch his lips in a quick, teasing peck. "Save it for later."

…

The ceremony itself is small and perfect. 

Your guests are gathered under the oak trees in the backyard, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves. John is holding a digital camera like a proud mom. Trinity and Dennis are openly tearing up before a single word is even spoken.

Jack stands across from you on the grass, holding both of your hands in his. 

When it’s his turn to speak, he doesn't read from a script. He just squeezes your fingers, his voice steady. "Five years ago, I stood at an altar and promised you my forever." Jack says, his eyes searching yours. "When you woke up, I realized I would gladly spend the rest of my life earning that forever all over again. Because the woman standing in front of me right now is the only future I want. Whatever comes back, and whatever doesn't, I am yours, completely.”

You feel beautifully alive.

"I don't remember the first time I said these words to you." you say, your voice trembling but clear as you look right back into him. "But I know my body never forgot the shape of you I choose you today, tomorrow, and every single day after that."

Jack closes the gap and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist, as he kisses you. 

Husband and wife.

…

Later, after the champagne has been toasted and the backyard has quieted down, you’re standing in the kitchen, packing up the leftover cake. The house is warm, filled with the love of a perfect evening.

Jack walks in behind you, having shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He doesn't say a word. He just slides his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back until your hips are locked against his. His chin rests gently on the crown of your head.

You lean back into his warmth, your hands resting over his on your stomach.

"So, husband," you murmur, turning your head slightly to glance up at him. “What are our next plans?” 

Jack laughs against your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction as he pulls a white envelope from his back pocket and slides it onto the counter in front of you.

You blink, loosening your grip to pick it up. You slide the paper out, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a flight itinerary. First class.

"Paris?" you whisper. You flash back to the grainy camcorder footage, to the younger version of you excitedly shouting the destination to the lens. "Another honeymoon?" You say, unable to hide your excitement.

"Our flight leaves on Thursday. I told the department we're going to be unreachable for two weeks." Jack says softly, kissing you behind your ear. 

You turn around in his arms. "Paris," you repeat, a flirtatious smile breaking across your face. "I hope you're ready.  Because I don't plan on letting you leave the hotel room for the first three days."

Jack lifts you clean off the kitchen tile, pinning you against the edge of the counter. "Promise?" he rasps, his mouth hovering inches from yours. 

...

The boutique hotel room is small. All dark velvet, creaking hardwood floors, and a pair of tall French doors that open up to a wrought iron balcony overlooking the rain slicked streets. The moment Jack shuts the door behind you, dropping the luggage onto the floor, the city outside completely ceases to exist.

You don't even let him take off his coat.

You turn on your heel, backing him straight up against the wall next to the door frame. His arms instantly lace around your waist to drag your hips flush against his.

"I thought we were going to at least try to look at the Eiffel Tower first." he pants against your mouth, his thumbs digging into your skin through your sweater.

"The tower isn't going anywhere." you whisper. "And I distinctly remember making a promise in the kitchen."

Without a word, Jack hooks his hands beneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor. You lock your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in the warm crook of his neck as he navigates the small room, his unbothered stride carrying you both until you crash back onto the massive bed.

The clothes are discarded in a tangled heap on the floorboards until there is nothing left between you but the warmth of the room.

You reach up, lacing your fingers through his hair to pull his face down to yours. "Don't be gentle, Jack. I don't need you to be careful with me anymore."

A sound rips out of his throat, and the final shred of his self control completely disintegrates.

He guides his length to your opening, the hot head of his shaft dragging through your own slick release. He pauses for one second, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow.

"Look at me." he commands softly.

You force your eyelids open, locking your gaze directly into his.

With one slow, deep, devastating thrust, Jack slides completely inside you, bottoming out against your core.

"I've got you." he pants, his mouth catching yours. "I've always had you."

…

After, you’re sitting out on the small stone balcony, wrapped in Jack’s coat, a hot mug of coffee cradled between your palms. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets below shimmering like gold under the glow of the streetlamps.

Jack steps out onto the balcony, wearing nothing but a pair of dark sweatpants, his bare shoulders gleaming in the moonlight. He moves up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

You stay like that for a long time, just listening to the distant hum of Paris. 

You tilt your head back, looking up at him, a smile breaking across your face. You don’t need to look at the streets below to know where you are. You don’t need a map or a recovered memory. You just pull his hands tighter around you. And let yourself finally rest in the only place that has ever truly felt like home, with him. 

Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.

This was the second kind.

He knew because your breathing changed.

Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.

He knew you read smut.

That was not new information.

You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.

What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.

You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.

The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to be suspicious.

Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.

You turned a page.

Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.

Jack’s thumb paused.

You bit your lip.

Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.

You did not notice.

Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.

Jack had seen the tabs before.

He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.

You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.

He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.

He was about to find out that he was right.

Just not in the way he thought.

You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.

Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”

Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”

Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.

His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”

You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”

You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”

Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”

Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.

“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.

Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”

You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”

You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”

Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”

You did not hesitate. “Smut.”

Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”

You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”

Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”

You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”

Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”

You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”

You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”

Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”

You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.

You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.

Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”

You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”

Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”

You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”

Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”

You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”

Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”

Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”

You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.

You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”

Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”

You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”

Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”

You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”

Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”

You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.

Jack waited.

He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.

Jack looked at the book.

The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.

He reached for it.

Not because he was snooping.

Snooping implied shame.

Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.

This was clinical curiosity.

Marital clinical curiosity.

He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.

Jack glanced toward the hallway.

The kettle hummed.

He opened the book where your finger had been.

He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.

Jack muttered, “Christ.”

You had not been kidding about the smut.

He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.

Red.

Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.

Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.

At first, he smiled.

Then he stopped smiling.

His eyes moved over the page once.

Then again, slower.

A throne.

A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.

A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.

Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.

At the end of that hallway sat his home office.

His chair.

His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.

The one with lumbar support.

The one with the locked wheels.

The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.

Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.

Jack said softly, “Well.”

The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.

He should have stopped there.

He did not.

The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.

Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.

He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.

His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.

Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.

Jack murmured, “Fuck.”

You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.

You stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.

Not casually.

Not idly.

Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.

Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.

You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”

Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”

You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”

You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”

Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”

You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.

That was the first thing that got him.

Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.

It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.

Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.

Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”

You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”

Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.

The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter. 

“That’s what you wanted?”

You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”

Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”

You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”

His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.

He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”

You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”

Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”

You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”

You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”

Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”

The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.

Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“He’s twenty-two?”

You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”

Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”

You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”

Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”

You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”

He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”

Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”

Jack paused. “That was vague.”

You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”

Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”

You blinked. “Worried?”

Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”

You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”

You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”

His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”

You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”

His hand stilled on the book.

You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”

Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”

You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”

Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”

You laughed softly. “Noted.”

His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”

You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”

Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.

You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.

In the way his eyes came back to yours.

In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.

You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”

His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”

“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”

Jack went still.

You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”

His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.

You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.

“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”

His jaw shifted.

“That’s part of it too.”

Jack did not blink.

“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”

His thumb moved once at your waist.

You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”

Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.

You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”

His voice came out lower. “No?”

You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Because I trust you,” you said.

His hand stilled at your waist.

You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.

“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”

Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.

Then they came back to yours.

“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”

Jack was silent for a long moment.

Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.

“It’s the trust,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”

You laughed under your breath.

His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”

You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”

Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”

Jack looked toward the book.

His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”

You laughed.

He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.

His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”

You blinked. “How many what?”

Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”

You laughed softly. “Your problem?”

Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”

You smiled.

He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”

You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.

Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.

You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.

Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.

You tapped the page. “Start there.”

Jack glanced down at the red tab.

Then back at you.

His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”

You nodded. “The throne.”

Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.

He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.

You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”

You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”

Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”

“We covered the chair,” you agreed.

His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”

The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.

“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.

Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about worship.”

Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.

But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.

“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”

Jack did not interrupt.

You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”

The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.

His voice had gone lower. “What?”

You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.

“I want to try something.”

Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”

Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.

“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”

Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”

You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”

Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.

You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”

Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.

You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”

Jack had taken one slow breath.

Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.

“Close the door.”

You had.

By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.

“Here?” he had asked.

You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.

Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.

Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.

“You want my full attention?” he had asked.

You had nodded, throat tight.

His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”

And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet. 

The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.

But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.

“Look at me,” he had murmured.

You had tried. God, you had tried.

Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.

“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”

And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.

It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.

Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”

You nodded. “That was the idea.”

His thumb moved once. “The worship.”

You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”

For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

You smiled a little. “Okay?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”

Your chest softened.

You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”

You nodded. “Not the first.”

His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”

You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”

Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”

You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”

His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”

You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”

Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”

Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”

You glanced back at him. “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.

Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”

You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”

Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”

You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”

Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”

You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”

You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.

Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”

You added it to the stack. “That one too.”

His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.

You followed his eyes and smiled.

Jack sat forward. “No.”

You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”

Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”

You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”

His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”

You smiled. “It was.”

Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”

You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”

Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.

The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.

Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”

You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”

Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”

You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”

Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”

His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.

Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”

Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”

Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”

You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”

You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”

The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His mouth had curved. “You need something?”

You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you. 

You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”

Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.

Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”

You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”

Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”

He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.

Jack had checked once. “Like this?”

Your breath had caught. “Yes.”

Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.

His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”

You had tried.

Jack had noticed every second you failed.

Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”

Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”

You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”

You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”

Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”

You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”

His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”

You nodded. “The night it snowed.”

Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”

Your pulse kicked once.

You held his eyes. “Yes.”

The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.

He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.

Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”

You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”

Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”

You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”

Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.

You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”

His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”

You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”

You had nodded. 

Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”

And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.

In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.

His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”

Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”

You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”

Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”

You smiled wider. “A lot.”

Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.

Then his eyes returned to yours. 

“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.

You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”

Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”

You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”

Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.

“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”

You laughed softly. “Mixed?”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”

You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”

You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”

Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.

His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”

You smiled. “The sundress.”

Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”

You held his gaze. “No underwear.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.

His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”

You smiled. “That was for you.”

The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.

Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”

Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”

You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”

Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.

Jack had asked, “You sure?”

You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.

“Bathroom,” he had said.

You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”

His hand had found the small of your back.

Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”

In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.

His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.

“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”

Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.

Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.

You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”

Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”

You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”

You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”

You laughed. “This is not a court.”

Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”

Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.

Jack watched your hand move to it.

His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”

You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”

Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”

You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”

His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.

You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”

Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.

You nodded. “After the double.”

Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”

The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.

“What?” he had asked.

Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.

His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.

You had nodded.

The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.

“Tell me what you need,” he had said.

You had swallowed.

You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”

Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”

Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”

Jack had gone very still. 

Then his mouth had softened against your temple.

“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.

Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.

Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.

His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”

In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.

You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”

Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”

You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”

Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”

You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”

Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”

You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”

Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.

His voice softened. “There.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”

You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”

Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”

You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”

Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”

The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.

“Begging,” you said.

Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”

You nodded. “After your shower.”

The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.

His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.

You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.

Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.

“Ask for what?” he had asked.

Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.

His thumb had moved once over your skin.

“Then tell me.” Jack had said.

You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”

Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle. 

“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”

Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.

“That one mattered,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”

You breathed out. “Because I asked.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”

Your throat tightened.

You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”

Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”

You tilted your head. “The begging?”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”

You laughed once.

Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”

Your smile softened.

His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”

The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.

You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”

Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.

Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”

You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”

You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.

“Green dress,” he said.

You nodded. “Green dress.”

The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.

You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.

Completely.

His eyes moved over you once.

Then again, like the first look had not been enough.

“Jack,” you had said.

He had crossed the room without saying anything.

You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy. 

Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.

“I want you to help me see it.”

Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.

Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.

For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.

“Look,” Jack had said.

You had started to glance away.

His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”

Your breath had caught.

His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.

You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.

“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.

Your throat had tightened.

His fingers had spread over your waist.

“Beautiful,” he had said.

You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him. 

The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.

You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”

Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”

Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.

You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”

Jack covered your hand with his.

You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”

Your smile wobbled. “I know.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.

You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”

Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”

The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.

“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”

You nodded. “Mostly.”

Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”

You smiled. “Pool house.”

His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”

“Fireplace.”

He tapped the third. “Risk.”

“Bar bathroom.”

His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”

“Supply closet.”

His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”

“Bedroom.”

Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”

You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.

Then his eyes returned to yours.

“And worship.”

Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”

Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”

You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”

His eyes darkened.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled. 

He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.

“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.

“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”

You laughed, startled and bright.

Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.

You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”

You smiled. “Every single one.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”

You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”

You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”

Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”

Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”

You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”

Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”

Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”

You laughed. “Obscene.”

Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.

“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”

Your breath caught.

His smile deepened.

“There,” he murmured. “That look.”

Later That Night…

The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.

Face-down.

Spine bent.

One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.

You were going to complain about that eventually.

Probably.

When your lungs worked again.

For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.

Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.

Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.

He had conducted research.

Thoroughly.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.

Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. 

“That was incredible.”

You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”

Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”

Your smile widened. “I heard you.”

Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”

You waited.

His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.

Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”

A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.

Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.

You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”

Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously. 

“Yeah.”

Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”

His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.

“Just need a minute.”

You smiled. “Take your time.”

Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.

His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”

Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”

That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.

You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”

Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.

“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”

You raised your eyebrows. “No?”

“Wrong word.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.

“Beautiful,” he decided.

Your throat warmed.

Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”

Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”

You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.

His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”

You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”

You pressed your lips together. “The process?”

He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”

You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”

Jack looked back at you.

His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.

“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”

You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.

Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.

You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.

His heartbeat was still too fast.

You smiled against his skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.

Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.

“That was incredible.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”

His eyes shifted to yours.

He looked almost offended by your amusement.

“What?”

“You’ve said that four times.”

Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”

Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”

Jack’s eyes held yours.

For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.

“I liked that you showed me.”

Your chest tightened.

His thumb moved against your back.

“I liked that you asked,” he said.

You swallowed.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”

The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.

When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.

Then he exhaled.

“That was also incredible.”

You burst out laughing.

Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”

His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.

“I’m enlightened.”

You laughed against him. “By smut?”

Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.

“By my wife.”

That stole the breath from your chest.

You lifted your head.

Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered.

Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.

His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”

Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.

“Too late.”

You stared at him.

He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”

You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.

Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.

You hit him with it.

He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.

Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.

After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”

You smiled against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It was.”

Chapter Five: Close Quarters

The PTMC hospital car had all the personality of a waiting room chair. Robby hated it immediately. “This thing has no soul,” he said, adjusting the driver’s seat with open disgust.

You slid into the back seat and pulled the door shut. “It’s a hospital car.”

Robby looked at you through the rearview mirror. “Exactly. Sterile. Judgmental. No throttle response.”

Jack stood outside the passenger door, dark coat zipped to his throat, bag in one hand. “You were not bringing the motorcycle to a conference.”

Robby’s expression sharpened. “That was never formally proven impossible.”

Jack opened the passenger door. “You had two passengers.”

Robby gripped the wheel. “Sidecar.”

Jack closed his eyes.

You looked out the window before either of them could see you almost smile.

That was dangerous now. Smiling around Jack. Reacting around Jack.

Letting your face do anything before you could stop it.

The last week taught you the value of stillness.

Jack got into the passenger seat without looking back at you. Not because he was ignoring you. Not exactly. He had been careful all morning in the quiet, precise way he had been careful since the parking garage. Careful not to stand too close. Careful not to reach for your bag. Careful not to look at your mouth. Careful not to ask whether you had slept.

You hated that you noticed all of it.

You hated more that part of you still wanted him to ask.

Robby started the car and pulled away from the curb outside Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center like a man personally offended by the existence of hospital-issued sedans.

“Before anyone asks,” Robby said, glancing between the road and the rearview mirror, “yes, I am being brave about this.”

Jack fastened his seatbelt. “No one was going to ask.”

Robby pointed at him without looking away from the road. “Supportive leadership matters, Abbot.”

You tucked your purse beside your thigh. “I’m proud of you, Robby.”

Robby’s eyes flicked to yours in the mirror. “Thank you. That means everything during this difficult time.”

Jack looked out the passenger window. His mouth did not move. But you had known him too long not to catch the almost-smile he killed before it could become visible.

Your chest hurt.

Outside, Pittsburgh dragged itself through a gray morning, all wet pavement and low clouds and brake lights smeared red through the rain. The city slipped by in pieces. Hospital district. Bridges. Traffic. Brick buildings darkened by weather. A coffee shop with fogged windows and a line out the door.

You kept your hands folded in your lap.

The drive should have been easier than work.

It wasn’t.

At PTMC, you could hide behind tasks. Assignments. Meds. Reports. Patients. Professional language.

In the back seat of a hospital car, there was nothing to do but sit behind Jack Abbot and remember the shape of his shoulders from every angle you had once been allowed to know.

Robby tried the radio twice. The first station was sports talk. The second was someone aggressively cheerful, giving weather updates.

He turned it off with a grimace. “The silence is somehow less hostile.”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That’s debatable.”

Robby glanced at him. “You’re debatable.”

You looked at the rain-streaked window. “Strong comeback.”

Robby met your eyes in the mirror. “Thank you. I’m conserving energy for the conference.”

Jack’s hand rested near his knee, fingers still. You saw them flex once. Just once.

The car kept moving.

For a while, nobody said anything.

That was the shape of things now. Robby making space with noise. Jack making space with silence. You caught somewhere between them, trying to be grateful for one and unaffected by the other.

Robby’s gaze lifted to the mirror again. This time, he did not joke.

You gave him the smallest nod. I’m fine.

He looked back at the road. He did not believe you. He let you have it anyway.

That was why you had said yes when he offered you Dana’s spot. Not because this would be easy. Not because you wanted two days at a conference in a hotel with Jack. Not because your chest did not still feel bruised every time you heard his voice.

Because Robby had asked you. Because he had said he recommended you because you deserved it. Because he had told you he understood if you said no. Because you refused to be the kind of woman who turned down a professional opportunity just because Jack Abbot had broken your heart and then stood six feet away looking like he might be bleeding, too.

The hotel appeared a little after nine, rising out of the wet parking lot with beige stone, too many windows, and a banner near the entrance that read:

REGIONAL EMERGENCY MEDICINE CONFERENCE

Beneath that, in smaller letters:

INNOVATION, RESILIENCE, AND BEST PRACTICES IN ACUTE CARE

Robby slowed near the entrance and stared at the banner. “I already hate that slogan,” he said.

Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. “You hate most slogans.”

Robby put the car in park. “Most slogans deserve it.”

You reached for your purse. “Innovation and resilience are fine.”

Robby turned in his seat. “That is exactly what a person says before a breakout session on team-based adaptability.”

You opened your door. “I’m leaving the car now.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “Strong choice.”

Cold, wet air hit your face. For one second, the smell of rain and asphalt cleared your head. The hotel entrance buzzed with conference traffic: rolling suitcases, branded fleece vests, damp coats, lanyards, coffee cups, laughter that felt too loud after the long car ride.

You grabbed the straps of your duffel at the same time Jack reached for it.

You pulled it quickly to your side. 

He saw. Of course, he saw.

His hand was stopped halfway toward your bag before it dropped to his side.

Robby shut the trunk with more force than necessary. 

“Okay,” he said, looking between you and Jack with the expression of a man choosing, heroically, not to comment. “Let’s go become better professionals.”

Jack picked up his own bag. “Try not to frighten the registration staff.”

Robby adjusted his backpack strap. “No promises.”

You walked into the hotel between them. Not beside Jack. Not beside Robby either, exactly.

Between, but not with.

The lobby was too warm after the rain, carpeted in a busy pattern that made you vaguely distrust whoever had chosen it. A line had formed at conference registration—another at the front desk. Nurses, physicians, residents, respiratory therapists, EMS leads,  all of them damp at the shoulders and already wearing badges or clutching folders.

You focused on the logistics. Registration packet. Badge. Schedule. Room key. Find the ballroom. Find coffee. Survive the next two days.

Robby collected his badge first and squinted down at the printed name.

“Dr. Michael Robinavitch,” he read. “So formal. So many consonants.”

You clipped your own badge to your sweater. “That is your name.”

Robby looked offended. “Not emotionally.”

Jack reached for his packet from the volunteer. He did not touch you. He did not even come close enough for it to be accidental.

Your body noticed the lack anyway. That was humiliating.

Robby flipped through the schedule as the three of you moved toward the hotel desk.

“There’s a networking reception tonight,” he said.

You took your conference folder from under your arm. “Terrifying.”

Robby looked down at the schedule. “Open bar.”

You nodded once. “Less terrifying.”

Jack glanced at the schedule in his hand. His expression did not change, but something tightened around his mouth.

You wondered if he was remembering all the places you had stood with drinks in your hands while pretending the only thing between you was sex.

You hated yourself for wondering.

The line at the front desk moved slowly. Somewhere ahead of you, a man in a navy fleece was explaining that he was a platinum rewards member with the vocal force of someone revealing state secrets.

Robby leaned toward you. “If I ever become a platinum rewards member, unplug me,” he said.

You kept your eyes forward. “Gladly.”

Jack looked down at his phone. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.

You saw it anyway.

So did Robby.

Robby’s gaze flicked from Jack to you, then back again.

He did not say anything. A miracle.

When it was finally your turn, the front desk clerk smiled with the exhausted dread of someone who had already apologized too many times before nine in the morning.

“Checking in?” she asked.

Robby stepped forward and set his ID on the counter. “Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Robinavitch, Abbot, and—” He supplied your last name. 

The clerk typed. Her smile faltered. That was never a good sign.

You felt Jack go still beside you.

The clerk typed again, faster this time, as if speed might produce different information.

Robby leaned one elbow on the counter. “That face seems administratively significant.”

The clerk looked up. “I am so sorry.”

Your stomach sank.

Robby closed his eyes. “Always a promising start.”

The clerk glanced between the three of you. “It looks like there was a problem when the attendee list was updated. We had the original room block under Dr. Abbot, Dr. Robinavitch, and Dana Evans.”

Robby nodded. “Dana had to drop. Knee scope husband. Very tragic. Mostly for Dana.”

The clerk typed again. “Yes, I see the change here. But it looks like the room reassignment did not process correctly.”

Jack’s voice stayed level. “What does that mean?”

The clerk swallowed. “We currently have two rooms available under the PTMC block.”

Robby stared at her. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you.

“Two,” Robby repeated.

The clerk nodded. “I’m very sorry.”

Robby placed one hand over his chest. “I need you to understand that an apology did not answer the emotional portion of the question.”

The clerk’s eyes widened.

“He means what rooms do we have?” you said quickly.

The clerk looked grateful for the translation. “One single queen and one king.”

The words sat there. Very quietly. Very loudly. A single queen. A king.

Three people.

You stared at the smooth surface of the check-in counter. Of course. Of course, the universe had waited until you had returned his toothbrush, given back his coffee, and learned how to stand beside him without reaching before handing you a hotel room shaped like a bad joke.

Robby turned slowly toward Jack. “No.”

Jack looked at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

Robby pointed at the desk. “You were about to exist near the suggestion.”

Jack’s expression flattened. “I was not.”

“You were,” Robby said. “I could feel math happening.”

You exhaled through your nose and forced yourself into practical mode. Practical was safe. Practical had survived worse things than hotel logistics.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you. You did not look at him.

“I’ll take the queen,” you said. “You two can take the king.”

Robby’s eyebrows shot up in alarm.

You lifted one shoulder. “Build a pillow wall.”

Robby stared at you. “No.”

“Make Jack sleep in the tub,” you said.

Jack looked at you then.

Robby considered him. “That,” Robby said, “I’m open to.”

Jack’s gaze moved to Robby. “Thanks.”

Robby gave him a solemn nod. “I support creative problem-solving.”

The clerk looked like she wanted to sink into the carpet.

You gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Are there rollaways?”

The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry. We’re completely out.”

Robby looked personally betrayed. “Of beds?”

“The hotel is full because of the conference,” the clerk said. “And the weather delayed several departures this morning.”

Jack glanced toward the rain-streaked windows. “Any cancellations expected?”

The clerk checked the computer again. “Not at this time.”

You nodded once.

Okay. Fine.

Two rooms. One queen. One king.

You could survive anything for one night if you made it about logistics.

Robby leaned back from the counter, eyes narrowing with the spark of a terrible idea.

“Or,” he said.

You immediately looked at him. “No.”

He held up one finger. “You haven’t heard it yet.”

You stared at him. “I know your face.”

Robby pointed at you. “Rude but fair.”

Jack’s expression did not change, but his shoulders tightened.

Robby, because he had no survival instinct when chaos was available, glanced between you and Jack. “Technically,” he said, “you and I could share the king.”

Jack’s answer came too fast. 

“No.”

The word hit the lobby harder than it should have.

You looked at him. So did Robby. So, unfortunately, did the clerk.

Jack’s jaw flexed once. For one terrible second, no one moved.

Robby’s eyebrows lifted slowly. “Wow,” he said.

Jack looked away first.

“Sorry. That’s not my call,” he said.

His voice was quieter now. Controlled. Careful. Too late to undo the speed of the first answer.

Your chest tightened. Because there it was again. Not enough. Never enough.

Just the reflex.

The want.

The almost.

Robby’s humor faded by a degree.

He looked at you, then at Jack, then back to the desk.

“We’ll figure it out,” Robby told the clerk.

The clerk looked relieved enough to cry. “Of course. My apologies again for the mix-up.”

Robby thanked her and picked up the two key packets she had laid on the counter.

Then he held the parking validation slip out toward Jack. “Abbot,” Robby said.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “What?”

Robby gave him the slip. “Go ask whether this covers overnight or if PTMC is about to buy us a parking garage accidentally.”

Jack stared at him. Robby stared back. For once, neither of them made a joke.

After a beat, Jack took the slip. His gaze flicked to you once, brief and unreadable, then he walked back toward the desk.

The second he was out of earshot, Robby turned to you. His voice dropped.

“Actual question,” he said.

You looked at him.

“No jokes,” Robby said. “Are you okay with this?”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I’m fine.”

Robby’s face did not change. “That is not what I asked.”

You glanced toward the desk, where Jack stood with one hand braced on the counter, carefully not looking over.

Robby shifted slightly, blocking the line of sight without making a show of it.

“If sharing a room with him is not okay, you take the queen,” he said. “I’ll share with him. I will survive. Mentally, maybe not. Physically, yes.”

Your mouth almost moved. Almost. “Robby,” you said.

“I’m serious.” His voice stayed low. “You don’t have to be low-maintenance about this. You don’t have to make it easier for everybody else.”

That landed too close. You looked down at the key packets in his hand. The queen. The king.

One smart choice.

One terrible one.

“We’re adults,” you said.

Robby grimaced. “Historically, adults are terrible at this.”

You let out a breath that did not quite become a laugh.

His expression softened. “I need a real answer,” he said. “Not a brave one.”

You looked back toward Jack. He was still at the counter, shoulders stiff beneath his coat, listening to the clerk with the expression of a man trying to solve a problem that had already become something else.

Your chest hurt.

Then you looked at Robby. “It’s okay,” you said.

Robby studied you. “Okay, okay?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Okay, enough.”

He did not like that. You could see it. But he also knew you well enough not to argue you into a corner. “Fine,” he said at last. “But if he gets weird, you text me.”

You nodded. “I know.”

Robby lifted the key to the king room slightly. “And if you change your mind, you take the queen.”

“I know,” you said.

“I mean it,” he said.

You met his eyes. “I know.”

Only then did he hand you the key.

Jack returned a moment later with the parking slip in hand. Robby immediately pointed toward the elevators. Jack’s gaze dropped to the key packet in your hand. His expression did not change.

But something in the air did.

Robby continued toward the elevators. You slipped the key packet into your coat pocket and picked up your bag. Jack reached for his own. No one said anything for a moment. Then the three of you walked toward the elevators, conference badges swinging, shoes quiet against the lobby carpet. Robby stepped ahead to jab the elevator button with unnecessary aggression.

Jack came to stand beside you. Not too close. Never too close now.

The key to the king-room felt heavy in your pocket. Jack looked down at it. Then at you.

“You’re sure?” he asked. His voice was low enough that Robby either did not hear or pretended not to.

You stared at the elevator doors.

No.

“Yes,” you said.

The doors opened. Robby stepped inside first. Jack waited. You went in after Robby.

Jack followed last. The doors slid shut, sealing the three of you into the mirrored quiet. Your reflection stood between them. Robby with the queen key and a face that had gone carefully neutral. Jack, with his jaw tight, hands still, eyes fixed on the floor numbers. You with the king-room key in your pocket and your heart doing something stupid and painful beneath your ribs.

Six floors to go.

Then five.

Then four.

No one spoke.

The elevator hummed upward.

Close quarters, you were learning, did not need much space to become dangerous.

The elevator opened onto the seventh floor with a soft chime. Robby stepped out first, rolling his shoulders like the ride had somehow personally offended him. The hallway smelled like hotel carpet, industrial cleaner, and the faint burnt edge of coffee from somewhere near the ice machine.

“Queen room,” Robby said, lifting his key packet like a man accepting a tragic destiny.

You stepped out after him, the king-room key heavy in your coat pocket. “Congratulations.”

Robby glanced back at you, one brow lifting. “If I find one decorative pillow with sequins, I’m billing PTMC for emotional damages.”

Jack came out of the elevator last, his bag in one hand, his expression giving away nothing. “You bill PTMC for enough already.”

Robby pointed at him without slowing. “Leadership is expensive.”

The hallway splits near the vending machines. Robby’s room was to the left. Yours and Jack’s was to the right. Of course. Robby stopped outside his door and looked at you. Not long. Just enough. You gave him a small nod before he could ask anything else. Robby’s mouth pressed into a line like he did not quite believe you, but he accepted the answer anyway. “Text me if the decorative pillows become hostile.”

“I’ll file a report,” you said.

Jack stood a few feet away, quiet and careful, watching the exchange without inserting himself into it.

Robby looked at him next. “Behave.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I’m not a resident.”

“That’s never stopped you from needing supervision.”

You almost smiled. Almost. Robby saw it, took the win, and unlocked his door. Then he disappeared inside the queen room, leaving you and Jack in the hallway with the kind of silence that immediately felt too aware of itself.

You turned toward the right. Jack followed. Neither of you spoke while you walked down the corridor. The carpet muffled your footsteps. A family argued quietly behind one door. An ice machine hummed somewhere behind you. Rain tapped against the window at the end of the hall. Normal hotel sounds. Normal conference sounds. Nothing about the walk to the room should have made your pulse sit so high in your throat. 

You found the door with the number on it that matched the key packet in your hand. You paused in front of it for half a second, then pulled the key card free.

Jack stood beside you. Not close. Never too close now.

The card reader blinked red the first time. You tried again.

Green. The lock clicked.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was aggressively neutral. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Abstract hotel art in muted blues and grays. One desk. One chair. One dresser. One window with rain streaking down the glass.

One king bed. Large. White. Centered in the room, like it had been placed there specifically to make your life worse.

You stopped just inside the doorway. Jack stopped behind you. Neither of you said anything. The door clicked shut with a quiet finality that made your stomach tighten. You moved first because standing there would have looked too much like surrender. You crossed to the bed and set your duffel on it, then placed your conference tote beside the dresser.

Jack stayed near the door for another second. Then his bag landed softly beside the desk.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said.

The sentence was quiet. Immediate. 

You kept your hands on the zipper of your duffel.

A week ago, you would have argued. You would have turned around and told him not to be ridiculous. You would have said he had no business sleeping on the hotel carpet when there was a perfectly large bed. You might have thrown a pillow at him. You might have softened it with a look. You did none of that.

“Okay,” you said.

One word. Calm. Reasonable. Worse than anger.

Behind you, Jack went still.

You heard it in the lack of movement.

He had expected the argument. 

It did not come.

You unzipped your bag.

The room filled with the small, strange sounds of two people pretending this was ordinary. Fabric shifting. Hangers sliding along the closet rod. The soft rasp of a zipper. The rain against the glass. Jack opened the drawer beneath the television and found nothing useful inside it.

The hotel provided a small tray near the coffee maker: two coffee packets, two tea bags, powdered creamer, sugar, and wooden stir sticks, all sealed in plastic. You looked at it once and then away again.

Coffee had become a language neither of you knew how to speak anymore.

You pulled out your clothes for the afternoon session and the evening reception. Business casual. A soft blouse that had survived the suitcase better than expected, tailored black pants, and a blazer you had packed because conference rooms were always either freezing or heated like a greenhouse. Low heels went near the closet.

Professional. Polished. Not scrubs.

That felt important for reasons you did not want to examine.

Jack unzipped the garment compartment of his bag and pulled out a dress shirt. Pale blue. Crisp, or trying to be. He frowned at one sleeve, then looked toward the closet. Of course, he found the ironing board. Of course he did. 

Jack Abbot could be emotionally unavailable in a parking garage and still locate a fucking ironing board in under thirty seconds.

You hated him a little for that.

You hated him more for the way your body noticed his hands as he unfolded it.

He set it up near the desk with quiet efficiency, then plugged in the iron. His movements were precise. Controlled. The kind of practical competence you had once found comforting before comfort started coming with a price.

You took your makeup bag from the side pocket of your duffel and set it on the dresser.

Jack glanced toward the blouse in your hand.

“Do you need anything ironed?” he asked.

You paused.

There it was again.

The almost-care.

The practical offering.

The small domestic thing that should have meant nothing and somehow walked directly into the softest part of you anyway.

You looked down at your blouse. “No,” you said, smoothing your thumb over the fabric. “It survived.”

Jack nodded once. “Good.” He turned back to his shirt.

That was all.

No pressure. No lingering. No comment about how you both knew what it meant for him to offer. He just placed the dress shirt over the ironing board and pressed the iron carefully along the sleeve, steam rising in a soft white breath.

You opened your suitcase wider and reached for your toiletries bag.

Jack’s gaze dropped by accident.

Then stopped.

You followed it.

The bra was folded near the top of your suitcase, half tucked beneath one of your tops.

Heat climbed your neck before you could stop it.

You remembered exactly what he was remembering.

The back seat of your car in the abandoned PTMC overflow lot, rain streaking down the windows, your breath fogging the glass. Jack’s hand at your waist. That same lace caught between his fingers. His mouth against your throat while you tried to stay quiet and failed.

The memory moved through the room like a hand over bare skin.

Jack looked away first.

Too late.

The room had already changed.

His hand tightened once around the iron handle, then relaxed. He moved it carefully down the front of his shirt like nothing had happened.

You tucked the bra under your top with fingers that felt too clumsy.

Nothing had happened. That was the problem. Nothing kept happening so loudly that you could barely hear anything else.

“I’m going to change,” you said.

Jack kept his eyes on the shirt. “Okay.”

You took your clothes into the bathroom and shut the door. The bathroom was all bright light and clean tile, too small for the amount of breathing you needed. You set your blouse on the counter and braced both hands beside the sink.

For one second, you let your eyes close. Back seat. Rain. His hand.

No.

You opened your eyes.

You changed quickly because lingering in a hotel bathroom while Jack Abbot ironed a dress shirt ten feet away felt like a level of psychological warfare even Robby would consider excessive. The blouse went on first. Then the tailored pants. The low heels. You fixed your hair, smoothing it into something more deliberate than your usual shift style. Not fancy. Just polished. You added a little makeup. Subtle lipstick. Enough to look like you had slept more than three hours and had not spent the last week returning someone’s toothbrush with shaking hands.

When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was done ironing his shirt. He looked up, only for a second.

But it was enough.

His gaze moved over you before he could stop it. Hair. Mouth. Blouse. The low heels that shifted your posture just enough to make you suddenly feel visible. He looked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the flash of recognition.

Not lust exactly.

Not only lust.

Something more complicated. Something worse.

You stepped out of the bathroom and reached for your conference badge on the dresser. “Bathroom’s yours,” you said.

Jack’s fingers stilled on the cuff of his shirt. Then he nodded. “Thanks.”

He passed you on the way to the bathroom. There was enough space. 

There was not enough space.

The air shifted when he went by, soap and rain and hotel steam from the iron, and your body remembered too many mornings where he had moved around you in kitchens and bedrooms and narrow halls without needing all this care.

The bathroom door shut behind him.

You let out a breath. Then hated yourself for needing to. You busied yourself with your bag. Conference folder. Pen. Lipstick tucked into the side pocket of your tote. Phone charger. Room key. Anything that gave your hands a reason to move. The iron sat cooling near the desk. The extra pillow and blanket the hotel had left in the closet sat on the low shelf, untouched.

For the floor.

For him.

You looked away.

When the bathroom door opened, Jack stepped out in a dress shirt and dark slacks. No scrubs. No stethoscope. No PTMC badge clipped to his chest yet, like armor. Just Jack in a crisp shirt, sleeves buttoned at the wrists, hair combed back but already threatening to fall out of place, jaw shadowed despite the attempt at polish. He looked less like Dr. Abbot and more like the man who had stood barefoot in your laundry closet switching your clothes to the dryer.

That was inconvenient.

Also cruel.

You looked down at your folder before he caught you looking.

He caught you anyway.

Of course he did.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack reached for his conference badge from the dresser and clipped it to his shirt pocket.

The role returned.

Not fully.

Enough.

You should have been relieved. Instead, you felt the loss of the man underneath it.

Jack glanced toward the closet. You knew what he was looking at before he moved.

The extra pillow. The blanket. He crossed the room and pulled both from the shelf.

Your stomach tightened.

He set them on the floor beside the desk chair, neatly, because even self-punishment apparently needed clean lines.

You said nothing. Your throat hurt with the effort. Once, you would have told him to get into bed. Once, he would have pretended to argue before doing exactly what you asked. Now the pillow stayed on the floor. And neither of you touched it.

Jack straightened. “Ready?” he asked.

You picked up your tote. “Yes.”

The word was easy.

The room was not.

He opened the door and stepped back to let you pass.

You walked into the hallway first, low heels quiet on the carpet, conference badge swinging against your blouse, your heart still caught somewhere inside that room with the king bed and the pillow on the floor.

Behind you, Jack pulled the door shut. The lock clicked.

You did not look back.

Not yet.

Robby was waiting in the hallway when you and Jack stepped out of the room. He leaned against the opposite wall with his conference folder tucked under one arm, his badge hanging crookedly from his neck, and a paper cup of hotel coffee in his hand. He looked from you to Jack, then back to you. His eyes narrowed.

“Good news,” Robby said. “Everyone looks employable.”

You adjusted the strap of your tote. “That was the goal.”

Robby’s gaze moved to Jack’s shirt. “Abbot ironed.”

Jack closed the hotel room door behind him. “Don’t.”

Robby lifted his coffee cup in salute. “No, I’m proud. Domestic skills. Personal growth. Crisp lines.”

Jack checked the lock, then looked at him. “Are you done?”

Robby considered that. “Never.”

You looked down before your mouth could do anything dangerous. Jack stood beside you in the hallway, too polished for your nervous system to manage politely. Crisp shirt. Dark slacks. Conference badge clipped neatly to his pocket. No scrubs. No stethoscope. No trauma bay between you. Nothing clinical enough to make him safe.

Robby’s gaze flicked to you. Not teasing this time. Checking. You gave him a tiny nod.

He took it, then pushed off the wall. “The session room is this way.”

Jack fell into step on Robby’s other side. You let Robby walk between you. He noticed. Of course he did. To his credit, he said nothing.

The hallway fed into the conference wing, where the carpet somehow became busier, and the lighting became less flattering. People clustered around small standing tables with paper cups and branded folders. A vendor booth near the entrance offered pens, badge reels, and a bowl of mints that looked like they had survived several conferences and lost faith in humanity.

Robby slowed near the coffee station. He stared at the carafes. “This coffee looks legally distinct from coffee,” he said.

You glanced at the label. “It says medium roast.”

Robby picked up a stir stick and pointed it at the carafe. “That is what it wants you to think.”

Jack looked toward the session doors. “We have five minutes.”

Robby sighed and took another cup anyway. “Fine. I’ll poison myself academically.”

You reached for a tea bag instead. Jack saw it. You knew because his attention paused on your hand for half a second.

Then he looked away.

Good.

That was good.

Probably.

You moved toward the ballroom doors before any of that could become a thought with teeth. Inside, the room was already half full. Rows of chairs faced a low stage with a podium, two projection screens, and a title slide that read:

Complex Trauma Response: Field-to-ED Communication and Team Coordination

A session you actually wanted to attend. That helped. Learning helped. A notebook helped. A pen in your hand helped. Anything that made this conference feel like the professional opportunity you had chosen instead of the emotional trap PTMC had accidentally funded.

Robby scanned the rows. “Back? Middle? Front if we hate ourselves?”

You looked over the seating. “Middle.”

Jack nodded toward an open row. “There.”

You moved first. 

Not because you were avoiding him. 

Because you were.

Robby started into the row after you, but you stopped with one hand lightly on his sleeve.

“Robby,” you said, keeping your voice low. He looked down at your hand, then at your face. You glanced toward the seats. “You sit in the middle.”

His expression did not change much. But his eyes softened. “Got it,” Robby said. He stepped into the row first and took the middle seat. You sat on his left. Jack sat on his right.

A buffer.

A boundary.

A person sitting between you and the man whose hands your body still remembered with humiliating accuracy.

Robby settled into the chair and leaned slightly toward you.

“For the record,” he murmured, “I’ve always wanted to be furniture.”

You opened your notebook. “You’re very supportive furniture.”

Robby nodded gravely. “Ergonomic.”

Jack said nothing.

You did not look past Robby to see his face.

You did not need to.

You felt the silence anyway.

A man dropped into the seat on your other side, conference folder in one hand and coffee in the other. He was broad-shouldered in a way that made the chair look slightly inadequate, with short dark hair still damp from the rain and a navy EMS jacket folded over one arm.

Good-looking, your brain supplied, unhelpfully.

Not in a world-ending way. Not in a Jack way.

Just objectively. Broad shoulders. Easy smile. Kind eyes. The kind of man you might have noticed for more than three seconds if your heart had not recently been returned to you in pieces.

He glanced at your badge. “PTMC?” he asked.

You turned toward him. “Yeah.”

His smile was easy. “I’m Caleb Ross. County EMS.”

You shifted your notebook to your lap and offered your hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Caleb shook your hand, warm and professional. “Your trauma team has a reputation.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Good or bad?”

He smiled wider. “From EMS? Usually good.”

Robby leaned forward enough to see around you. “Only usually?”

Caleb glanced past you, amused. “Depends who answers the radio.”

Robby put a hand to his chest. “That feels personal.”

You pointed your pen toward Robby. “He’s PTMC’s chief attending physician and head of the ER. Everything feels personal.”

Caleb’s eyes brightened with recognition. “Robinavitch?”

Robby looked pained. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Caleb nodded. “I heard you speak at the airway panel last year.”

Robby straightened a little. “Good things, I assume.”

Caleb grinned. “Memorable things.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Small. Real. Easy.

Across Robby, Jack shifted.

You did not look.

You turned back to Caleb instead because Caleb was safe in a way strangers could be safe. No history. No toothbrush. No parking garage. No coffee beans returned in a paper bag—just a professional peer making conversation before a session.

Caleb glanced at your notebook. “You working trauma tonight after this, or did they give you actual time off?”

You capped your pen. “I work nights, but I’m off for the conference.”

Robby leaned back in his chair. “She says that like PTMC didn’t try to make her work immediately before and after.”

You gave him a look. “Robby.”

He lifted both hands. “I’m pro-labor.”

Caleb laughed. “Good to know.”

The lights dimmed slightly at the front of the room. You faced forward.

Caleb lowered his voice. “Good luck staying awake.”

You smiled politely. “I came prepared.”

He glanced at the tea in your cup. “That strong enough?”

You looked down at it. “Absolutely not.”

Robby whispered beside you, “Finally, medical honesty.”

You smiled again, but this time you kept it smaller because you could feel Jack on the other side of Robby.

Still. Quiet. Contained.

You opened your notebook and wrote the session title at the top of the page. Focus. Learn. You had chosen this. You were allowed to be here. The presenter began with a story from the field, and you let yourself follow the details. EMS handoff failure. Miscommunication. Pediatric trauma activation delayed by unclear mechanism. How field language changed ED readiness. The material pulled you in despite yourself. Your pen moved quickly. You took notes because you wanted the knowledge. Because you had earned the seat. Because you refused to spend the entire conference measuring the distance between your chair and Jack’s.

When the presenter asked for examples from nursing staff about handoff breakdowns, your hand lifted before you could overthink it. Robby looked at you with open approval.

You ignored him and waited for the microphone to reach you.

When it did, you sat straighter. “At PTMC, the biggest breakdown I see is when field concerns get translated into acuity labels too early,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “If EMS says, ‘Something feels wrong,’ but the vitals look okay in triage, it can get flattened into stable. Sometimes that gut concern is the most important part of the handoff.”

The presenter nodded from the stage. “That’s an excellent point.”

You handed the microphone back.

Robby leaned slightly toward you. “Nerd.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “Chief.”

He grimaced. “Cruel.”

Caleb leaned closer from your other side, keeping his voice low. “That was a good answer.”

You looked at him. “Thanks.”

His expression stayed open, professional, warm. “We say that all the time in EMS. Sometimes you can’t chart ‘this feels bad,’ but you know.”

You nodded. “Exactly.” It was nice. That was all. A nice, easy professional conversation with someone who understood the work and had not once made your chest feel like it had been split open. You let yourself have it.

Across Robby, Jack said nothing.

JACK POV:

Jack had no right to be jealous. None. Not one goddamn inch of ground to stand on.

He knew that.

He knew it while Caleb Ross smiled at you from the next chair over. Knew it while you turned toward him with your pen in your hand and answered as if this were easy. Knew it while Robby sat between you like a court-appointed consequence Jack had absolutely earned.

The paramedic had done nothing wrong.

That was the worst fucking part.

He was polite. Professional. Friendly in a way that made sense at a conference where people were supposed to network, exchange ideas, and pretend hotel coffee was drinkable.

He had asked about PTMC.

He had complimented your answer.

He had smiled at you like you were someone worth smiling at.

You were.

Christ, you were.

Jack looked down at his notes and realized he had written the same word twice.

handoff

handoff

Excellent. Brilliant. Very professional.

He tightened his grip on the pen.

He was not angry at you.

He was not angry at Caleb Ross, although a very stupid part of him wanted to be. The man had a good handshake, decent posture, and apparently the ability to speak to you without dragging the wreckage of a parking garage into every pause.

Good for him. Really.

Fuck him.

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose.

The man had done nothing except exist near a woman Jack had lost because he had been too much of a coward to admit that casual had stopped being casual long before she asked him for comfort, and he chose the easier room.

The easier table.

The easier company.

Breakfast had been easy.

Robby had been easy.

Pancakes had not looked at him with tears in their eyes and asked him to choose.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

He kept his eyes on the stage.

The presenter clicked to the next slide.

Something about closed-loop communication.

Of course. Perfect.

Robby shifted beside him, and Jack had the immediate, irrational urge to tell him to stop moving.

Not because Robby was doing anything wrong either. Robby had done exactly what he should have done. He had sat between you because you wanted him there. He had checked on you. He had recommended you for the conference because you deserved the spot. He had looked Jack dead in the eye without saying “you did this” because he was apparently capable of mercy when he wanted to be.

Jack hated him for that, too.

Briefly.

Then he hated himself more.

You leaned over your notebook, writing quickly, hair falling just slightly near your cheek. Not shift hair. Not the efficient, pinned-up version he was used to seeing under PTMC lights. This was softer. Deliberate. Professional in a way that had nothing to do with scrubs or trauma shears or the ER’s relentless fluorescent honesty.

You looked like yourself outside the life he had known you in.

He should have been glad to see it.

Proud, even.

You were good. You had earned this. You had made a smart point in a room full of people who should listen to nurses more often.

Instead, Jack sat three seats away and felt like his ribs had been wired too tight.

Caleb leaned toward you again.

Jack did not hear what he said.

He saw you smile.

Not big.

Not flirtatious.

Just warm. Easy. A normal smile given to a normal man in a normal conversation.

Jack felt something ugly twist under his sternum.

He had heard that laugh in his kitchen. Against his pillow. In the back seat of your car in the abandoned PTMC overflow lot, while rain hit the windshield and you tried to muffle your mouth against his shoulder.

Now he was hearing it from three seats away.

With Robby between them.

Good.

That was good.

Someone should be between you.

A wall. A person. A hotel conference. A fucking federal agency if necessary.

Jack had made sure of that.

He had made himself someone you had to survive.

The thought landed hard enough that he looked down.

His notes blurred for a second.

He blinked once.

Then again.

Get it together.

He was an attending physician at a regional emergency medicine conference, not a teenager watching his ex talk to someone by the lockers.

Except you were not his ex.

You had never been his anything.

He had made sure of that, too.

Fuck.

Robby leaned slightly toward him without looking away from the stage.

“You good?” Robby murmured.

Jack did not look at him. “Fine.”

Robby’s pen tapped once against his folder. “That was a hauntingly unconvincing answer.”

Jack kept his voice low. “Watch the presentation.”

Robby glanced at him then, and whatever he saw made the humor leave his face.

For once, Robby did not push.

That was worse.

The session continued.

Jack understood perhaps thirty percent of it.

The rest of him was stuck on the way you had said ‘exactly’ to Caleb Ross, like agreement could be uncomplicated. Like conversation could be safe. Like men could ask you questions and not turn around later and make you feel stupid for believing their answers.

You were allowed that.

You were allowed ease.

You were allowed Caleb Ross, Robby, and every person who could stand beside you without making you feel like you had asked for too much.

Jack had no right to want to be the one in that seat.

No right to hate the seat between you.

No right to notice the low heel of your shoe hooked neatly behind the chair leg, or the subtle color on your mouth, or the way you tapped her pen twice against the page before writing something down.

No right to know that if you were beside him, close enough, he would have recognized the exact moment you were interested in the material and the exact moment you were pretending not to be tired.

No right to miss knowing.

He missed it anyway.

Fuck, he missed it.

When the session ended, people stood in a slow wave of conference folders and awkward knees.

Jack remained seated half a second longer than necessary, because standing meant navigating the row. Navigating the row meant passing you. Passing you meant remembering that the last time he had reached for you, you had stepped back with tears on your face and begged him not to touch you.

Robby rose first.

“Ten-minute break,” Robby said, collecting his folder. “Everyone use it wisely. By which I mean avoid the coffee.”

You stood on Robby’s other side. “I’m getting more tea.”

Caleb stood too, folding his EMS jacket over his arm. “I think there’s another station outside the ballroom.”

You looked up at him. “With better tea?”

Caleb smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Robby leaned toward her. “Conference optimism is a disease.”

You laughed softly.

Jack stood.

His knee bumped the chair in front of him.

Not hard.

Enough.

You glanced over.

Your eyes met.

For one second, the room went quiet around the contact.

Then you looked away first. Not quickly. Not like retreat.

Like choice.

Jack deserved that, too.

Caleb shifted his folder under one arm. “You going to the reception tonight?”

You adjusted the strap of your tote. “Probably.”

Jack’s hand tightened around his notebook.

Ridiculous.

Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Caleb nodded toward the doors. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

You gave him a polite smile. “Maybe.”

Polite. Normal. Fine.

Jack wanted to leave the room.

Robby looked at Jack, then at the ceiling, like he was asking some higher power for patience and receiving no useful response.

“Great,” Robby said, clapping his hands once. “Tea. Networking. Continuing education. Nobody commits a felony.”

You glanced at him. “That instruction feels targeted.”

Robby started toward the aisle. “It is broadly preventive.”

Jack followed you out because there was nowhere else to go.

Because the session was over.

Because the next room was waiting.

Because the hotel key in his pocket was for a room with one king bed and a pillow on the floor.

Because Caleb Ross was walking beside you, talking about ambulance bay handoffs, and you were listening.

Because Jack had no right to care.

Because he did anyway.