MedicineBaby

“Then yes,” he said. “It’s working.”

For one second, you forgot what you were doing.

Which was inconvenient.

Because you had been doing very well.

Spectacularly, actually.

You had won the exam score by one point. You had gotten Jack Abbot onto the couch. You had made him put his hands where you told him to put them. You had come out wearing his faded navy T-shirt with the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course and watched him lose several layers of composure without technically moving from his seat.

You had stretched out beside him.

You had teased him.

You had made him admit it.

Then he had looked at you and asked if you wanted controlled or honest.

You had said honest.

Now you had to survive it.

Jack stayed where he was, hands still braced against the couch cushions, eyes locked on yours. He had not moved closer. He had not touched you. He had not broken the rule.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You were kneeling beside him on the couch, one hand still resting against his chest, his shirt loose on your body, the hem high enough now that you knew he could see the lace underneath if he let himself look.

He did not.

Not yet.

His eyes stayed on your face.

Patient. Careful. Honest.

Terrible.

You swallowed. “How much?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “How much what?”

You leaned closer, because you were brave and victorious and apparently determined to make both of those things everyone’s problem. “How much is it working?”

His hands flexed once against the cushions.

There.

Your pulse jumped.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “You sure you want me to answer that?”

You smiled, even though your stomach had started doing something deeply unhelpful. “I won.”

His eyes moved over your face. “You keep saying that.”

You smiled wickedly. “Because it keeps being true.”

Jack’s mouth barely curved. “It does.”

You touched his jaw, thumb brushing the place where his control always seemed to gather first. “Answer me.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

“It’s working enough that I’m sitting here with my hands on the couch because you told me not to touch you,” Jack said. “And all I can think about is how badly I want to.”

Oh.

Your breath caught.

Jack heard it.

His mouth curved faintly, but there was strain at the edge of it now.

Not smug. Affected. Honest.

Your chest went tight.

Jack’s eyes flicked to your mouth. 

You forced yourself to smile. “Careful, Abbot.” 

His brows lifted slightly. “Careful?”

 “You’re supposed to be losing,” you said. 

Jack’s gaze stayed steady on yours. “I am.” 

Your pulse jumped. 

“You asked,” he said.

 “I did,” you said, less steadily than you wanted. 

His voice dropped. “You wanted honest.”

 You swallowed. “I didn’t say I was prepared for it.” 

His eyes softened for half a second. “Still okay?”

Your heart tripped.

Still asking. Still careful. Even like this.

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

Jack’s hands stayed where they were. “Yeah?”

You looked down at them, spread open against the couch cushions, obedient because you had asked him to be.

Your stomach flipped.

Then you looked back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “But you’re not allowed to be sweet yet.”

His mouth twitched. “Yet.”

You shifted closer. “I’m busy.” 

Jack watched you. “Doing what?” 

You moved closer until your knee pressed against his thigh. “Winning.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “Thought you already did that.”

“I’m thorough,” you said.

His breath changed when you climbed into his lap.

Barely.

But you felt it.

You felt it in the way his body went still beneath yours, in the way his hands stayed locked to the couch even though every line of him looked like restraint. You settled over his thighs slowly, one knee on either side of him, the hem of his shirt riding higher as you moved.

Jack looked at you.

Then lower.

Only for a second.

This time, he let himself.

His jaw shifted.

Your pulse went bright and sharp.

“There,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted back to yours. “You like that.”

You smiled. “I like a lot of things right now.”

“I noticed,” Jack murmured. 

You settled more fully against him, and Jack’s fingers curled into the couch cushions.

You saw it.

Your smile widened.

“Still not touching?” you asked.

Jack’s voice came rougher. “You said not yet.”

The fact that he remembered your exact words did something awful to you.

Wonderful.

Awful.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Slowly at first.

Just enough pressure to make him respond. Just enough to feel the shape of his mouth soften under yours. His hands stayed down, but everything else about him shifted toward you.

His breath. His chest. The faint lift of his chin when you pulled back too soon.

You smiled against his mouth. “You’re very good at following directions.”

Jack’s mouth curved beneath yours. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m impressed,” you said, kissing him again.

This time, he made a low sound in his throat.

Quiet. Controlled. Not controlled enough.

Your fingers slid into his hair.

His head tipped back a fraction, giving you room when your mouth moved along his jaw, then lower, to the spot beneath his ear that had made him go still before.

You kissed him there.

Then again.

Slower.

Jack’s fingers tightened against the couch.

“Still working?” you asked against his skin.

His breath left him through his nose. “Yes.”

You smiled. “Good.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “Careful with that.”

You lifted your head. “With what?”

His eyes opened, dark and steady on yours. “Using my words against me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You rocked against him once, just enough to make his control pull tight beneath you.

Jack’s jaw clenched.

You saw it.

You felt it.

Every careful inch of it.

“Oh,” you said softly.

His gaze sharpened. “What?”

You touched his jaw again. “You really are trying.”

Jack looked at you for one long second.

Then he said, “Yes.”

No joke. No deflection. Just yes.

Your teasing faltered.

Only for a second.

But Jack caught it.

His expression softened, and that was dangerous too, maybe more dangerous than the heat.

You put a finger against his mouth before he could ask.

“No,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours.

“You’re not allowed to check on me again yet,” you said.

His mouth moved against your finger. “Yet?”

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll tell you when.”

His hand twitched against the couch.

You felt the movement beneath you.

Then you lowered your hand from his mouth to the collar of his shirt.

The one he was wearing.

Not the one on you.

The one still separating you from more of him.

You tugged once.

“Off,” you said.

Jack’s brow lifted. “That an order?”

You smiled. “That is the whole point of the bet.”

His mouth curved, but his hands stayed on the couch. “You told me not to touch.”

You paused.

Then glared, because he was right and that was deeply inconvenient.

Jack’s smile got worse.

“You are enjoying a loophole,” you said.

“I’m following directions,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Smug.”

“Controlled,” Jack said.

You leaned closer, your mouth hovering over his. “Not for long.”

His breath caught.

There.

You smiled.

Then you sat back just enough to look down at him, still straddling his lap, still wearing his shirt, still holding every bit of power he had willingly handed you.

“You can touch me now,” you said.

Jack did not move right away.

Your pulse jumped.

His eyes searched yours. “You sure?”

Your chest tightened.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”

His hands left the couch immediately.

Not rough. Not frantic. But immediate.

Like he had been waiting on a held breath and had finally been allowed to exhale.

One hand settled at your waist beneath the faded hem of his shirt. The other found the outside of your thigh, warm and firm, fingers spreading over bare skin.

Your breath caught.

Jack noticed.

His thumb moved once at your waist. “Still okay?”

You looked at him.

His control had not vanished.

That was the thing.

It had changed.

He was touching you now, but he was still watching. Still careful. Still Jack.

And somehow that made the wanting worse.

You nodded. “Still okay.”

His hand tightened once on your thigh. 

“Good,” Jack said.

Your stomach dropped.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You kissed him before he could look too pleased about it.

Jack responded immediately, his mouth opening under yours, his hand tightening once at your waist. Not taking over. Not yet. But present now, warm and firm beneath the hem of the faded navy shirt.

You shifted closer in his lap.

His breath caught.

Good.

You kissed him harder.

Jack’s hand slid up your side beneath the shirt, palm dragging slowly over your ribs, careful enough to make you ache and steady enough to remind you that he was still letting you lead.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “You’re still behaving.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on your mouth. “Barely.”

The honesty went straight through you.

You tried to smile. “Good.”

Jack’s thumb brushed higher along your side.

Your breath hitched.

His gaze lifted to yours immediately. “Still okay?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Still okay.”

His thumb moved again, slow and deliberate. “Good.”

You hated how much that worked on you.

You hated it enough that you rocked against him again, just to watch his jaw tighten.

Jack’s fingers flexed against your side. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I won.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “You keep saying that.”

You smiled against his jaw. “You keep reacting to it.”

His breath left him in a quiet, controlled exhale when your mouth moved down his neck.

There.

You kissed the spot again.

Jack’s head tipped back against the couch.

His hand tightened on your thigh, not pulling, not pushing, just holding on.

You smiled against his skin. “There?”

Jack’s voice came rough. “Yes.”

Oh, you liked that.

You liked it too much.

You dragged your mouth back up to his ear. “I like when you answer me.”

Jack’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “I noticed.”

You pulled back and looked at him.

His eyes were dark.

Not composed now.

Not fully.

His control was still there, but it had gone thin enough that you could see the want through it. In his hands. His breathing. The rigid line of his shoulders. The way he kept looking at you like he was waiting for permission and fighting himself for patience.

You touched his jaw. “You’re very pretty like this.”

Jack blinked.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Pretty?”

You nodded solemnly. “Devastatingly.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “That’s not usually what people call me.”

You smiled. “Then people lack imagination.”

Jack’s hand pressed once into your thigh. “You’re dangerous when you win.”

You leaned in until your mouth hovered over his. “You should let me win more often.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

You kissed him again before he could say anything else too reasonable.

This time, when his hand moved up your back, you let him. When his fingers found the hem of the shirt, you felt him hesitate.

Jack paused.

Your pulse jumped.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Can I?”

Your throat tightened.

The shirt suddenly felt heavier than it had a second ago.

Not because you wanted it off.

Because it was his. Because he knew that too.

You swallowed. “Not yet.”

Jack’s hands stopped immediately. No hesitation.

“Okay,” he said.

The word was soft. Simple. Devastating.

You looked down at him, your hands still caught lightly in his hair, your knees bracketing his thighs, his shirt loose around you.

“You’re making it really hard to seduce you dramatically when you keep being decent,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved, small and warm. “Sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not.”

Jack’s smile deepened. “No. I’m not.”

You laughed once, breathless, and kissed him again.

The kiss softened for half a second.

That was dangerous.

Soft was always dangerous with him.

So you fixed it.

You slid backward off his lap and down between his knees.

Jack went still.

Completely.

His hand caught gently at your wrist before you could go any farther. “You don’t have to.”

You looked up at him from between his knees. “I know.”

His throat moved.

You turned your wrist in his hold until your fingers linked briefly with his.

“I want to,” you said.

Jack’s grip loosened, but he did not let go right away.

His eyes searched your face. “You’re sure?”

You squeezed his hand. “I’m sure.”

Jack exhaled slowly.

Then he let you go.

The trust in it hit you harder than you expected.

You had wanted to make him lose control.

Instead, he kept handing it to you.

Carefully. Willingly. Like it mattered that you were the one holding it.

Your chest tightened.

You leaned forward and kissed the inside of his wrist.

Jack’s breath changed.

You looked up at him. “Hands on the couch again.”

His jaw shifted.

Then he obeyed.

Both hands flat against the cushions.

Open.

Visible.

Yours to ruin.

You smiled.

“There,” you said.

Jack’s voice was rough. “You like giving orders.”

You reached for the button of his jeans. “I like when you listen.”

His hands flexed once against the couch.

“I’m listening,” Jack said.

Oh.

That was going to kill you.

You smiled up at him. “Good.”

Jack’s hands stayed flat against the couch cushions.

Open. Visible. Obedient.

You liked that more than you were prepared to admit.

You liked the way his shoulders had gone rigid. The way his jaw kept working like he was trying to keep every reaction behind his teeth. The way his eyes stayed on you, dark and intent, like looking away was no longer an option.

You touched the button of his jeans.

Jack’s breath caught. Not much, but enough.

You looked up at him. “Still okay?”

His mouth curved faintly, but the strain at the edge of it gave him away. “Now you’re asking?”

You tilted your head. “I’m allowed.”

Jack’s eyes softened for half a second. “I’m okay.”

You liked that too.

You liked making him say it.

You liked making Jack Abbot, who always watched, always measured, always decided what the room needed before the room knew itself, sit there with his hands on the couch and answer you because you asked.

You undid the button slowly.

Jack’s fingers flexed against the cushions.

You smiled. “You’re doing very well.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t patronize me.”

You dragged the zipper down. “I’m praising you.”

“That was not praise,” Jack said.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You want praise?”

Jack went still.

Oh. Interesting. Very interesting.

You paused with your fingers hooked lightly at his waistband.

His eyes stayed on yours.

You smiled slowly. “Abbot.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

You widened your eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

His voice dropped. “You thought it.”

You laughed softly and leaned forward, pressing a kiss just above the open waistband of his jeans.

Jack inhaled sharply.

There.

You kissed him there again.

Slower.

Then you glanced up. “You’re very pretty when you’re trying to behave.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “You are never going to let that go.”

“No,” you said. “Probably not.”

His eyes opened again when your fingers slid beneath the edge of his waistband.

You moved carefully. Slowly. Not because you were unsure.

Because you wanted to watch him survive it.

His hands stayed on the couch.

His breathing did not.

You noticed.

You leaned in and pressed your mouth to the inside of his thigh through the fabric.

Jack’s fingers curled hard into the cushion.

You smiled against him. “Still behaving?”

His voice came rough. “Barely.”

Your pulse jumped.

You liked honest Jack. You liked him too much.

You worked his jeans lower, just enough, and Jack lifted his hips because you guided him to.

Not taking over. Not rushing. Just helping because you asked. You eased the denim down over his hips, then paused when your fingers found the waistband of his underwear.

Jack’s hands stayed on the couch. 

You looked up at him. “Still okay?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”

You held his gaze. “Still want this?”

His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Yes.”

Your fingers curled lightly into the waistband. “Then lift for me.”

Jack exhaled once. Then he did.

You drew the fabric down slowly, watching his control pull tight with every inch.

That was somehow worse. The trust of it. The ease.

The fact that he was letting you have this, letting you decide the pace, letting you turn his patience into something thin and strained and beautiful.

You swallowed.

Jack saw it.

His voice softened immediately. “Hey.”

You looked up at him.

His hands stayed exactly where you had put them, even though his eyes had gone careful.

“Still with me?” Jack asked.

You nodded. “I’m with you.”

His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you said. “I just—”

You stopped.

Jack waited.

You looked down, then back up at him, suddenly aware of the faded navy shirt loose on your body, the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course stretched over your chest, the couch beneath your knees, the laundry basket abandoned beside you.

The day. The score. The words.

I love you.

Your voice came quieter. “I like this.”

Jack’s expression changed. Softened. Opened.

“You do?” he asked.

You nodded, your fingers resting at his hip. “I like that you let me.”

His throat moved.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then Jack’s voice came low and steady. “I trust you.”

Oh.

That went through you harder than anything else had.

Your fingers tightened slightly against him.

Jack noticed.

“You okay?” he asked.

You swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Tell me what you need.”

You smiled faintly. “You to stop being sweet before I lose my dramatic momentum.”

Jack’s mouth curved. There he was.

“There it is,” he said.

You leaned forward. “What?”

His eyes darkened again. “You.”

That almost ruined you.

So you kissed him before it could.

You kissed his hip. His stomach. The edge of his waistband.

You took your time because you could, because he let you, because the bet had become something warmer and sharper than a game. His breath changed with every kiss. His fingers stayed locked against the couch. His restraint was everywhere now, in every still line of him.

And you wanted to reward it.

You wanted to ruin it.

Both.

You looked up at him. “Hands stay there.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

“Yes,” he said.

You smiled. “Good.”

His jaw shifted at the word.

You saw it.

Then you lowered your mouth to him.

Jack’s reaction was immediate.

His head tipped back against the couch, and the sound he made was low, rough, dragged out of him before he could swallow it.

Your stomach flipped.

Oh.

You wanted to hear that again.

You moved slowly at first, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hands flex, what made his composure fracture by tiny, satisfying degrees. Jack stayed exactly where you had put him, but his whole body gave him away.

The tight line of his throat. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hips wanted to move and did not.

You pulled back just enough to breathe and looked up at him.

Jack was already looking down at you. His eyes were wrecked. Still careful. Still there. But wrecked.

You smiled. “You’re quiet.”

Jack’s laugh came out rough and disbelieving. “Am I?”

You ran your hand along his thigh. “Too quiet.”

His fingers curled harder into the couch. “I’m trying not to rush you.”

Your chest tightened.

God. Him. Always him.

You kissed the inside of his thigh again, softer this time.

“I know,” you said.

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours.

You leaned closer. “You can make noise.”

His breath caught.

You smiled. “That’s also an order.”

Jack’s mouth parted.

For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue.

Then you took him into your mouth again, and whatever he had been about to say disappeared into a broken sound that made heat curl low in your stomach.

There. Better. Much better.

You settled into the rhythm slowly, your hands braced against his thighs, the hem of his shirt brushing your skin every time you moved. Jack’s breathing grew rougher. Less even. Less controlled.

Every time he made a sound, your confidence came back stronger.

Every time his hands twitched and stayed put, you felt it like a victory.

Not the exam. Not the point.

This.

This impossible, careful man coming apart because you asked him to.

Jack said your name. Roughly. Almost a warning.

You pulled back enough to look at him. “What?”

His chest rose and fell beneath his T-shirt. His hands were still on the couch. Barely.

“You’re good at this,” Jack said.

The words landed hot and low.

Your mouth curved. “At this?”

Before he could answer, you lowered your mouth again, just enough to make his fingers dig hard into the cushion.

Jack’s head tipped back. His breath left him rough and broken.

You pulled back, pleased. “That?”

His eyes opened, dark and wrecked.

“At making me lose my fucking mind,” Jack said.

Oh.

Your fingers tightened on his thigh.

Jack noticed.

His mouth curved faintly despite everything. “You like that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not sound smug while I’m winning.”

His breath left him in something close to a laugh. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” you said.

“No,” Jack admitted. “I’m not.”

You smiled.

Then you leaned back in, because you wanted him too affected to be smug. You wanted the rough sound that left him when your mouth closed over him again. You wanted the way his head tipped back, the way one of his hands lifted half an inch from the cushion before he forced it back down.

You saw that. You stopped.

Jack went still. His eyes opened.

You looked pointedly at his hand. “Abbot.”

His hand settled flat again. Immediately.

Jack swallowed. “Sorry.”

Your heart flipped.

You sat back on your heels and looked up at him.

His apology was not playful. Not performative. He meant it.

You softened despite yourself.

“You can ask,” you said.

His throat moved.

You held his gaze. “You can ask to touch me.”

Jack looked at you for one long second.

Then his voice came low. “Can I touch you?”

Your pulse jumped.

You tried to keep your smile slow. Victorious.

It almost worked.

“Where?” you asked.

His eyes darkened.

Your breath caught before he even answered.

Jack’s voice was rough. “Your face.”

That was not what you expected. For some reason, it hit harder.

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack’s hand left the couch slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind.

Then his fingers touched your cheek. Gentle. Almost reverent. His thumb moved once near the corner of your mouth.

Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.

“You’re killing me,” Jack said. Quietly. Honestly.

Your eyes lifted to his.

The room went soft around the edges for half a second. Then you turned your head and kissed his palm. Jack’s breath caught.

“You’re very dramatic,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “Learned from the best.”

You smiled against his hand. “Good answer.”

Then you guided his hand back to the couch.

His eyes stayed on yours.

You leaned forward again.

This time, when you took him into your mouth, his voice broke on your name.

Not loud. Not polished. Just honest.

Exactly what you had asked for.

And you decided, with all the grace and dignity of someone who had won by one point and then abused the privilege immediately, that you loved the sound of Jack Abbot losing control.

You loved it when his breathing changed.

You loved it when his fingers dug into the couch.

You loved it when he said your name like he was asking, warning, and surrendering all at once.

You loved it when he finally said, rough and low, “Wait.”

You pulled back immediately.

Jack’s eyes were closed, his chest rising hard.

You sat back. “Too much?”

His eyes opened at once. “No.”

You watched him carefully. “No?”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your face. “I’m close.”

Your stomach flipped.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Jack saw it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not look that pleased with yourself.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m extremely pleased with myself.”

“I noticed,” Jack said.

You moved closer again. “Do you want me to stop?”

Jack went still. His throat moved. Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“No,” he said.

Your pulse jumped.

His voice roughened. “But only if you want to keep going.”

You smiled softly. Still careful. Still Jack. Still yours.

“I do,” you said.

Jack’s hand flexed against the couch again, but he kept it there. “Then yes.”

You leaned in and kissed his thigh. “Yes what?”

His jaw tightened. You waited. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Yes,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I want you to keep going.”

There. You smiled.

“Good,” you said.

And then you did.

 You kept going. 

Slow at first, because you liked making him wait. Because you liked the way his body seemed to forget what control was supposed to look like one piece at a time. His breathing broke first, roughening with every careful movement of your mouth, every pass of your tongue, every press of your hands against his thighs.

Jack’s hands stayed on the couch.

Barely.

His fingers dug hard into the cushions, the tendons in his forearms standing out beneath his skin. His head tipped back once, then lifted again, because apparently even now, even like this, he could not stop watching you.

That did something to you.

Something warm and powerful and dangerous.

You looked up at him.

Jack’s eyes were already on yours. Wrecked. Focused. Trying.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. “Still okay?”

Jack’s laugh came out rough and almost helpless. “Yes.”

Good.

You liked that. You liked him answering you. You liked him obeying. You liked that this man, this careful, controlled, impossible man, was sitting there with his hands exactly where you had told him to keep them while you took him apart.

So you leaned in again.

Jack’s breath caught hard. 

There. You wanted that sound again.

You worked him slowly, then deeper, then slower again when his hips went tense beneath your hands. He did not move into you. He did not rush you. He only made a low sound in his throat and pressed his hands harder into the couch like the cushions were the only thing keeping him still.

Jack’s voice was strained. “I’m close.”

Your pulse jumped.

You pulled back with a soft breath.

You looked up at him.

His chest rose and fell hard beneath his T-shirt, his mouth parted, his eyes locked on yours with a kind of focus that made the whole room feel smaller.

“I’m close,” Jack said again, rougher this time.

You nodded once, your hand still moving slowly over him.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

Then his eyes sharpened, careful even through the wreckage.

“Where do you want me?” Jack asked.

The question hit low in your stomach.

Not because he asked it crudely.

Because he asked it like it mattered. Like even now, even this close, even when he looked like restraint had become a physical effort, he was still giving you the choice.

Your mouth went dry.

Jack watched your face. “Tell me.”

Your fingers tightened against his thigh.

You swallowed.

Then you leaned closer, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“In my mouth,” you said.

Jack went still. Completely. 

For one second, he looked like the words had knocked the last of the air out of him.

His hands flexed against the couch. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your face.

“Jesus,” Jack said, voice wrecked.

Your stomach flipped.

You smiled, because you could not help it. “You asked.”

Jack’s jaw shifted hard.

“I did,” he said.

You held his gaze. “And that’s what I want.”

Something in him snapped.

Not his care. 

But the last thin thread of composure he had been using to pretend he was fine.

Jack’s head tipped back against the couch, his breath leaving him in a broken exhale as you lowered your mouth to him again.

This time, you did not tease him with almost.

You gave him exactly what he had asked for.

Exactly what you had said you wanted.

Jack said your name. Rough. Low.

Gone.

His hands stayed on the couch, but his whole body gave him away. His thighs tensed under your palms. His breathing turned uneven. His voice broke again, quieter this time, your name pulled out of him like he could not keep it back.

You stayed with him. 

And when he came apart, it was because you had asked for it.

Because he had asked where. Because you had answered. Because wanting him like that had been enough to ruin whatever control he had left.

For a few seconds after, neither of you moved.

Jack’s head stayed tipped back against the couch, his chest rising hard beneath his T-shirt. One hand was still curled into the cushion like he had forgotten how to let go.

You sat back slowly, your own breathing uneven now.

The room felt warm.

Quiet.

Completely changed.

Jack opened his eyes.

They found yours immediately.

Still wrecked. Still careful. Still Jack.

“Come here,” Jack said.

You lifted your brows, trying very hard to look smug and not affected. “Bossy for someone who lost.”

Jack’s hand left the couch at last, reaching for you slowly enough that you could refuse if you wanted to.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “Come here anyway.”

You went.

Of course you went.

Jack caught you the second you climbed back onto the couch, one hand finding your waist, the other sliding along your thigh as you settled beside him. His mouth found yours before you could say anything clever.

The kiss was different now.

Deeper. Hungrier. Less controlled in places, like he had been patient for so long that being allowed to touch you had become its own kind of relief.

You smiled against his mouth.

Jack felt it. His hand tightened at your waist. “What?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “My turn.”

Jack went still. Only for half a second. 

Then his eyes darkened in a way that made your pulse jump.

“Finally,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

That was all the warning you got.

Jack moved.

One second you were beside him, smug and pleased and trying to look like you had not been completely wrecked by the sound of his voice. The next, he had guided you beneath him against the couch cushions, one hand braced beside your head, the other at your hip.

Not rough. Not careless. But immediate. Hungry.

Like he had been waiting for permission and permission had finally become a starting gun.

Your back hit the couch, and Jack kissed you hard.

Your fingers flew into his hair.

He made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled, and that sound alone almost made you forget you were supposed to be the winner.

Almost.

Jack’s hand slid beneath the faded navy shirt, palm warm against your side.

You gasped into his mouth.

He pulled back at once, eyes searching yours. “Okay?”

You nodded quickly. 

Jack’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Words.”

Your chest rose hard beneath his shirt. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Something in his expression steadied.

Then his mouth was on yours again. Hard. Deep. 

Thorough enough that your thoughts scattered, one by one, until there was nothing left but his weight over you, his hand under your shirt, his mouth moving like he had every intention of making sure winning felt exactly like this.

You arched beneath him.

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist.

“There,” he murmured against your mouth.

You swallowed a sound. “Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”

Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you said, breathless.

His mouth moved to your jaw. “Maybe a little.”

You tried to glare at him.

It did not work, because his lips found the spot beneath your ear, and your eyes closed before you could stop them.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved against your skin.

You felt it.

“You are not allowed to be smug,” you said.

Jack kissed your neck. “I lost.”

“Yes,” you said, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Exactly.”

His hand moved slowly over your ribs beneath the shirt. “Then I’m doing what I was told.”

Your stomach flipped.

Oh. That. That was a problem.

Jack’s mouth traveled lower, over your throat, then to the stretched collar of the faded navy T-shirt. He paused there, breath warm against the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course.

For one second, the heat shifted.

Softened.

His fingers touched the worn cotton like he was remembering the morning he had given it to you.

Your breath caught for a different reason.

Then he kissed the shirt.

Right over the faded, cracked letters.

Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours.

He stayed there, mouth against the shirt, one hand at your waist, his body warm over yours.

“What?” he asked.

You swallowed.

You did not have an answer.

Not one that would not expose too much.

Jack waited anyway.

You touched his hair. “Nothing.”

His expression softened. “That wasn’t nothing.”

You managed a faint smile. “I’m still seducing you dramatically.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “From underneath me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not critique my process.”

His smile deepened. Then he kissed lower.

 Over the shirt. Down your sternum. Past your ribs.

Slow enough to make you squirm, deliberate enough to make you understand exactly what he was doing. He did not take the shirt off. He worked around it. With it. His hands slid beneath the hem, pushing it up only as far as you let him, his mouth following the path of exposed skin inch by inch.

Your breathing changed.

Jack felt it beneath his hands.

His eyes flicked up to yours. “Still okay?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers stilled at your waist.

You swallowed hard. “Yes, Jack. I’m okay.”

His thumb moved once against your skin. “Good.”

The word hit low.

You hated him for it. You loved him for it. You still had not recovered from that, either.

Jack kissed your stomach.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

He did it again, lower this time, his mouth warm against the sensitive skin beneath your navel. The hem of his shirt bunched beneath his hand, the faded navy cotton soft against your ribs.

You looked down at him.

Big mistake.

Jack was looking up at you from between your thighs, his mouth against your stomach, his eyes dark and focused and so intent that your breath caught in your throat.

His hand slid to your hip.

The lace of your underwear shifted beneath his fingers.

You went still.

Jack noticed immediately. He stopped.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Can I?”

Your pulse jumped. You nodded, then remembered who you were dealing with.

“Yes,” you said. “You can.”

Jack’s hand moved again. Slowly. His fingers traced the edge of the lace at your hip, not taking, not rushing, just touching like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it against you.

Your head tipped back against the couch.

Jack’s mouth brushed your lower stomach. “You’re quiet.”

You let out a breath that barely qualified as a laugh. “I am trying to maintain authority.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “How’s that going?”

You looked down at him. “Do not get cocky.”

Jack’s fingers hooked lightly at the lace. He did not pull. Not yet.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Tell me what you want.”

Your stomach flipped. There it was again. That steady, devastating patience.

Like he could be hungry and still careful. Like he could want you and still make room for you to choose.

You swallowed. “I want your mouth.”

Jack’s expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.

His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “And your fingers.”

Jack’s thumb pressed once at your hip. Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

Simple. Steady. Absolutely devastating.

He pressed one more kiss to your stomach. Then another, lower.

Your breath caught.

Jack looked up at you. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You nodded quickly. “I will.”

His gaze held yours. “Promise.”

The word landed softly. Serious. Very Jack.

Your chest tightened.

“I promise,” you said.

Jack’s expression steadied.

Jack’s mouth lowered again, and whatever remained of your victory speech disappeared completely.

At first, he kissed you through the lace.

Slow. Careful. Mean, actually.

Because he had asked what you wanted, and you had told him, and now he was taking his time like he had misunderstood the entire point of the request.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Jack.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “What?”

You swallowed hard. “That is not your mouth.”

His mouth curved against the lace. Oh, he was absolutely smug now.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

You glared down at him. “Do not make me regret letting you touch me.”

His hand pressed once at your hip, warm and steady. “Not the goal.”

“Then prove it,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened.

For one second, he only looked at you. Then he hooked his fingers into the lace at your hips and paused.

“Still okay?” Jack asked.

Your breath caught.

“Yes,” you said. “Still okay.”

His gaze held yours. “Tell me if that changes.”

“I will,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

Then he drew the lace down your thighs. Slowly. So slowly you almost hated him.

You lifted your hips to help, and his hand slid beneath you, supporting you with irritating competence while he eased the fabric lower. He did not rush. He did not fumble. He was careful with you in a way that made the heat worse, because you could feel the wanting under it.

You could see it in his face when he settled back between your thighs.

Jack Abbot, who had just come apart under your mouth, who had looked wrecked enough to make you feel powerful for the rest of your life, was staring at you now like he had not even started.

Your stomach flipped.

“That is a look,” you said.

Jack’s hand moved slowly along the outside of your thigh. “Yeah?”

You nodded, trying for steady and landing somewhere else entirely. “A concerning one.”

His mouth brushed the inside of your knee. “You asked for my mouth.”

Your breath caught when he kissed higher.

“I did,” you said.

Jack kissed higher again. “And my fingers.”

Your thighs shifted around him before you could stop them.

His eyes flicked up.

You lifted your chin, even from your deeply compromised position. “Are you reciting the terms?”

His mouth curved against your skin. “Making sure I understand the assignment.”

You stared at him. “You are such a medical student.”

Jack kissed the inside of your thigh. “You love me.”

Your heart tripped.

The words were too new. Too warm. Too devastating for him to just put them there while his mouth was moving up your thigh.

You looked down at him. “You are not allowed to use that against me.”

His expression softened, but his eyes stayed dark. “Wasn’t using it.”

“No?” you asked.

Jack shook his head once. “Just liked saying it.”

Your breath left you.

That was unfair. Completely unfair.

You covered your face with one hand. “You are ruining my authority.”

Jack’s mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh, close enough now that your whole body went still. “I can stop.”

Your hand dropped immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

His mouth curved. You saw it.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

Jack’s hand tightened once at your hip. “I am.”

The honesty did something to you.

Something sharp and helpless.

Then his mouth finally moved where you wanted him, and the thought disappeared.

Completely.

Your head tipped back against the couch.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Jack’s arm slid under your thigh, anchoring you gently, keeping you open for him without forcing you there. His other hand stayed at your hip, thumb moving once like he was reminding you he was there.

As if you could forget.

His mouth was warm and deliberate and devastatingly patient. Not rushed. Not proving a point.

Learning you.

Again.

Your fingers found his hair, sliding into the soft strands at the back of his head. You did not pull at first. You just held on.

Jack made a low sound against you.

Your hips shifted.

His arm tightened slightly around your thigh.

“There?” he asked, voice rough against your skin.

You nodded quickly. “There.”

His mouth returned immediately.

Your fingers tightened in his hair this time.

Jack noticed. 

He did it again, the same way, and your knees drew in around his shoulders before you could stop them. He did not seem to mind. If anything, his hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing you gently back into the couch when your body tried to follow him.

You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”

His fingers spread against your stomach beneath the faded navy shirt. “I’ve got you.”

That should not have made it worse. It did. Of course it did.

You tried to stay quiet.

Mostly because you were still pretending to have some control over the situation.

Jack clearly took that personally. His mouth slowed.

Your eyes opened immediately.

You looked down at him. “Why did you stop?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You got quiet.”

You stared at him. Then you realized.

“Oh, you are unbelievable,” you said.

His brow lifted slightly. “Am I?”

“You are withholding because I’m not making enough noise?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m checking.”

“You are negotiating,” you said.

His hand moved once over your stomach, slow and steady. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallowed.

He was impossible. Terrible.

Perfect.

“I want you to keep going,” you said.

Jack’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Then don’t hide from me.”

Your pulse jumped.

The words landed with heat and weight and that old, impossible thing between you. 

No hiding. Not anymore. Not with his hand on your stomach and his mouth between your thighs and his shirt bunched beneath your ribs.

You nodded. “Okay.”

His expression softened for half a second. “Okay?”

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Okay, Jack. Please.”

That did it.

His eyes darkened.

Then his mouth was on you again, and this time, you did not try to be quiet.

You could not.

Jack made sure of that.

He learned every reaction like it was something he intended to remember. The angle that made your breath break. The pressure that made your hips lift. The rhythm that made your fingers twist in his hair and your knees pull tighter around him.

Then his hand moved lower.

You felt him pause before he touched you. Even now. Especially now.

“Can I?” Jack asked.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

His fingers slid through you slowly. Your whole body went tight.

Jack watched your face. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “God, yes.”

His mouth curved against your thigh. “Good.”

You barely had time to hate him for it before his fingers moved again.

Your back arched off the couch.

Jack’s arm held you steady.

His mouth returned to you as his fingers worked in slow, careful strokes, and that was when your control finally gave up entirely. It did not break dramatically. It just left. Quietly. Rudely. Without consulting you.

You said his name. Once. Then again.

Jack answered with his mouth, with his hand, with the steady pressure of his palm against your stomach when you started to squirm.

You tugged at his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His fingers curled. Your breath caught hard.

“That wasn’t a request,” you managed.

Jack’s mouth moved against your thigh. You felt him smile.

“I know,” he said.

Then he did not stop.

He kept you there, pinned by nothing but his mouth and fingers and the unbearable steadiness of his attention. He did not rush you toward it. He did not drag it out to be cruel. He just listened to your body with the same focus he brought to everything else, and somehow that was what undid you.

The couch disappeared. The laundry. The scores. The stupid one point.

All of it narrowed down to Jack between your thighs, his hand beneath his own shirt on your stomach, his mouth giving you exactly what you had asked for.

You came with his name in your mouth and your fingers locked in his hair.

Jack stayed with you through it.

Steady. Careful. Unfairly good.

He softened the pressure slowly, easing you down instead of letting you drop. His hand moved over your stomach, then your side, then your hip, grounding you while your breathing tried to remember how to work.

For a few seconds, you could not move.

You stared at the ceiling.

The room was quiet except for your uneven breaths and the faint sound of traffic outside.

Then Jack pressed one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Your eyes closed.

“Too much?” he asked.

You let out a breathless laugh. “I think you know it wasn’t.”

His mouth curved against your skin. 

You turned your head and looked down at him.

He was still between your thighs, hair mussed from your hands, mouth soft, eyes dark and careful and pleased in a way that should have been illegal.

You swallowed.

“No,” you said. “Not too much.”

Jack’s thumb moved once against your hip. “Good.”

You pointed weakly at him. “You have got to stop saying it like that.”

His brow lifted. “Like what?”

“Like you know it ruins me,” you said.

Jack’s smile came slow. Warm. Private. Devastating.

“I do know,” he said.

You groaned and covered your face with one hand. “I regret winning.”

Jack kissed your hip. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” you said from behind your hand. “I don’t.”

The takeout containers were open on the coffee table.

The laundry was still unfolded.

The movie was already halfway over, which was fine, because Jack had missed the entire setup and still somehow had questions about the plot.

You were tucked into his side on the couch, warm and loose and thoroughly pleased with yourself. Your underwear was back on, though Jack’s faded navy battalion medic shirt still hung loose over your body, the cracked lettering soft against your chest.

Jack’s arm rested around your waist.

His hand moved absently over your hip beneath the hem.

Not trying to start anything.

Just touching.

Like he could.

Like he was allowed.

Like he liked remembering that.

On the screen, the heroine stormed out of a restaurant after overhearing half of a conversation and apparently deciding that was enough information to ruin her life.

You pointed your fork at the television. “See, this is why communication matters.”

Jack looked at the screen. “That is what you’re taking from this?”

You glanced up at him. “Do you disagree?”

His mouth barely moved. “I think if they communicated, the movie would be twenty minutes long.”

You nodded once. “Efficient.”

“Boring,” Jack said.

You stared at him. “Are you admitting you’re emotionally invested?”

Jack looked down at his noodles. “No.”

“You asked if the sister knew he was lying,” you said.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Plot clarification.”

You gasped softly. “Oh my God.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”

“You care,” you said.

Jack set his container on the coffee table. “I care about narrative consistency.”

You pointed your fork at him. “That is worse.”

His mouth curved despite himself.

You laughed and curled closer into his side, your legs folding beneath you. Jack’s hand settled more securely at your waist, thumb moving once beneath the shirt.

The room felt soft now.

Quieter than it had earlier.

The kind of quiet that came after too much laughter, too much heat, too much feeling. The score slips were still on the table, partly hidden under a napkin and a carton of noodles. Proof of the one perfect point that had started all of this.

You looked at them.

Then at the laundry basket.

Then at Jack.

His hair was still a mess from your hands. His mouth was soft. He looked tired and warm and almost too pleased with himself for someone who had technically lost.

Your chest went tight in the sweetest way.

Jack noticed you looking at him.

His chin tipped down toward you. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “That wasn’t nothing.”

You let out a slow breath and rested your head against his shoulder.

For once, you did not dodge.

You were too tired.

Too happy.

Too in love with him to make it a fight.

“This is probably the best day ever,” you said quietly.

Jack went still beside you.

Just enough that you felt him hear it.

Then his arm tightened around you. “Yeah?”

You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

His hand moved slowly over your side. “Because you won?”

You smiled. “Partly.”

“By one point,” Jack said.

“The one point,” you corrected.

His chest moved under your cheek with a quiet laugh.

The movie kept playing.

The takeout went lukewarm.

The laundry remained deeply, impressively unfolded.

Jack’s mouth pressed softly to the top of your head.

“And the rest?” he asked.

Your fingers curled lightly in his shirt.

You thought about the bulletin board.

The walk home.

The couch.

The way he had looked at you when you were celebrating.

The way he had said it.

Like your happiness had made him careless.

Like he had no interest in taking it back.

You tipped your face up to look at him.

Jack was already looking down at you.

Your throat tightened, but this time, you let it.

“The rest is you,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened.

You swallowed and held his gaze. “Because you told me you love me.”

For a second, he just looked at you.

Warm. Private. A little stunned, still, like hearing you say it back to him in pieces was something he had not figured out how to survive.

Then his thumb brushed once over your waist.

“I did,” Jack said.

Your chest warmed.

You smiled faintly. “I love you.”

Jack went still.

Only for a second.

Only long enough for the words to land again.

Then his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer into his side.

“I love you too,” he said.

You settled against him, overwhelmed and warm and still somehow victorious.

His mouth pressed to your forehead.

The movie kept playing.

The takeout went lukewarm.

The laundry remained deeply, impressively unfolded.

You had beaten Jack Abbot by one point.

Somehow, he still looked like the one who had won.

The problem with Jack Abbot was that he was very good at distracting you.

Which was unfair, because historically, that had been your job.

You were supposed to be the distraction. You were supposed to make sharp comments from across lecture halls, steal his pens, argue over margins in shared notes, and say things that made the careful line of his mouth falter by half a centimeter.

That had been the system.

A good system.

A reliable system.

Then Jack had apparently decided to retaliate by kissing you against the kitchen counter before nine in the morning.

And, unfortunately, he was very good at that too.

Your coffee sat abandoned beside the sink, going cold in its mug. Jack’s hands were at your waist, warm beneath the hem of your shirt, his thumbs moving slowly over bare skin in a way that had made your entire argument about leaving on time collapse somewhere around minute two.

You were supposed to be going to the pathology department.

Scores were being posted at nine.

The final pathology scores.

The final pathology scores that would determine, once and for all, which one of you had performed better on the exam you had both pretended not to care about with the least convincing lies ever told.

You knew that.

You remembered that.

Mostly.

Then Jack’s mouth moved lower, brushing along the side of your neck, and your fingers tightened in his shirt.

“Jack,” you said, breath catching on his name.

His mouth paused against your skin. “Mm?”

You swallowed, your eyes half-closed. “What do you think you got on the exam?”

Jack went still.

Completely still.

For one second, the entire apartment stopped with him.

Then he lifted his head.

Slowly.

His eyes found yours, dark and disbelieving, his hand still under your shirt like he had forgotten where he’d left it.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” Jack said.

You blinked at him. “What?”

Jack stared at you. “What?”

You lifted your brows. “What?”

His hand flexed once at your waist. “You want to talk about pathology scores right now?”

You glanced down between you.

At his hand beneath your shirt. At the way he was standing between your knees. At the counter digging into the backs of your thighs.

Then you looked back at him.

“They post in twenty-three minutes,” you said.

Jack closed his eyes.

You smiled.

“Don’t do that,” he said, opening his eyes again.

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

Jack’s expression stayed flat. “Act like that was a normal thing to say.”

“It was relevant,” you said.

“I had my mouth on your neck,” Jack said.

You nodded once. “And I was very supportive of that.”

His jaw shifted.

You liked that. You liked it too much.

His hand moved once at your waist. “Were you?”

“Yes,” you said. “But I can be supportive and curious.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are not curious.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “You’re competitive.”

Your stomach flipped.

Absolutely not.

He did not get to use that voice and be correct at the same time.

You lifted your chin. “I am academically invested.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You interrupted this for academic investment?”

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “It is a bad thing.”

Your pulse jumped.

Then his hand slid a little higher beneath your shirt, and for half a second, you forgot the entire endocrine chapter.

Which was dangerous.

So you put a hand against his chest.

Jack stopped immediately.

Of course he did.

His eyes came back to yours, attentive now beneath the heat. “You okay?”

That ruined you a little.

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

His thumb moved once against your side. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you said. “I just think we need terms.”

Jack stared at you.

Then his expression shifted.

Not confusion anymore.

Recognition.

“No,” he said.

You smiled slowly. “No?”

His mouth flattened. “No.”

You widened your eyes. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

Jack gave you a look. “I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

“You do not,” you said.

His hand stayed at your waist. “You want to make a bet.”

Your smile widened.

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Unbelievable.”

You pointed at him. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not,” Jack said.

“You are,” you said.

“I was kissing you,” Jack said. “That is different.”

You glanced at his mouth. “Was.”

His eyes narrowed.

You felt triumphant for about half a second.

Then Jack leaned closer, one hand still at your waist, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh.

“What are the terms?” he asked.

Your stomach flipped.

You had expected more resistance.

Which was ridiculous, really.

Jack Abbot had never once backed down from a competition in his life.

You tried to look composed.

You probably failed.

“Winner gets bragging rights,” you said.

Jack nodded once. “Assumed.”

“And dinner choice,” you said.

His thumb moved idly against your side. “Fine.”

“And movie choice,” you added.

Jack’s brow lifted. “Dangerous.”

“You can handle it,” you said.

His mouth curved. “Can I?”

“You were a combat medic,” you said. “I believe in you.”

Jack’s expression warmed. “Generous.”

“And loser does laundry,” you said.

His eyes narrowed. “Now you’re getting ambitious.”

You smiled. “I’m negotiating.”

“You’re abusing power you do not currently have,” Jack said.

You leaned back on your hands, still sitting on the counter. “Yet.”

Jack looked at you for one long second.

Then his voice came lower. “Anything else?”

You swallowed.

The kitchen felt suddenly smaller.

His hand was still beneath your shirt, warm against your waist. His body was still between your knees. Your coffee was still going cold beside the sink. And in twenty-two minutes, your pathology score would be taped to a department bulletin board like a public attack.

You looked him dead in the eye.

“One night where the loser has to do what the winner says,” you said.

Jack went very still.

Not like before.

Not annoyed this time.

His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and careful enough to make your chest tighten.

“Within reason,” he said.

You nodded. “Within reason.”

Something in his face softened.

Only for a second.

Then the competitive edge came back.

“Deal,” Jack said.

You held out your hand.

Jack looked at it.

Then at you.

“You want to shake on it?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said.

His eyes dropped briefly to where he was still standing between your knees. “You’re sitting on the counter.”

“I’m aware,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “My hand is under your shirt.”

“I’m also aware of that,” you said.

He looked at your offered hand again.

Then he took it.

Warm.

Steady.

A handshake, technically.

Except you were still sitting on the kitchen counter, and he was still standing between your knees, and his thumb brushed once over your knuckles like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Deal,” he said.

You squeezed his hand once. “Good.”

Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

Then back to yours.

“We have twenty-two minutes,” he said.

Your pulse jumped.

You stared at him. “We have to leave.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Eventually.”

“Jack,” you said, trying for warning and landing somewhere much less stable.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing just beneath your jaw.

“You brought up pathology,” he said against your skin. “Not me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

God.

You hated him.

You hated him so much.

“You are trying to distract me,” you said.

Jack’s mouth moved against your neck. “Is it working?”

You closed your eyes.

The answer was yes.

Obviously. Disastrously.

Then the kitchen clock ticked loudly enough to remind you that the pathology department existed and had chosen violence.

You pushed lightly at his chest.

Jack lifted his head, smug in the quietest possible way.

You pointed toward the hallway. “Shoes. Now.”

His brow lifted. “Now?”

“Scores first,” you said, sliding off the counter before you could make a bad decision. “Then victory.”

Jack caught your waist as your feet hit the floor, steadying you automatically.

His mouth curved. “You’re very confident.”

You looked up at him.

Then you smiled.

“I have to be,” you said. “You’re going to be insufferable if you win.”

Jack’s thumb moved once at your side. “And if you win?”

You stepped out of his hands and headed for your room to grab your shoes.

Then you looked back over your shoulder.

“If I win,” you said, “I’m going to be worse.”

Jack stared at you.

For one second, he looked like he believed you.

Then his smile started.

Slow and devastating.

“Good,” he said.

The hallway outside Dr. Singh’s office was already crowded when you and Jack got there.

Which was exactly what you had expected.

Half the second-year class had gathered around the bulletin board, shoulder to shoulder, everyone pretending not to care while very obviously caring more than they had cared about anything in weeks.

The pathology scores were taped to the board in a neat, devastating grid.

Exam numbers. Raw percentages. Curve-adjusted final grades.

A single sheet of paper with the power to ruin friendships, inflate egos, and make several sleep-deprived medical students start muttering math under their breath.

You stopped at the edge of the crowd. Jack stopped beside you. For one second, neither of you spoke.

Then Jack glanced down at you. “You ready?”

You looked at the bulletin board. “No.”

His mouth barely moved. “Good.”

You turned your head. “Good?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the crowd. “Means you’re taking it seriously.”

You stared at him. “That is such an annoying answer.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Still true.”

You took a breath, then stepped toward the bulletin board before you could lose your nerve. Jack moved with you. Not touching. Not hovering. Just there.

The crowd shifted enough to let you in, and suddenly the page was right in front of you.

Student ID numbers on the left. Scores on the right. 

You found your number halfway down the page.

Your raw score first.

Then your curve-adjusted grade beside it.

Your brain stopped.

Then restarted. Slowly. Dangerously.

Beside you, Jack had gone very still.

You did not look at him. He did not look at you.

Around you, someone swore under their breath. Someone else laughed too loudly. Two people immediately started arguing about the curve like the paper had personally attacked them.

You reached into your bag, pulled out a pen, and wrote your score on the corner of an old receipt.

Jack glanced at your hand.

You folded the receipt before he could see it.

His brow lifted.

You looked at him. “No hallway reveals.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Why not?”

You tucked the folded receipt into your palm. “Because I refuse to have this moment in public.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened slightly. “This moment.”

You lifted your chin. “You know exactly what I mean.”

His eyes held yours for one second too long.

Then Jack reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen, and wrote something on the back of his folded class schedule.

You tried not to look. You failed a little.

Jack folded the paper once. Then again. Deliberately.

You narrowed your eyes. “That was unnecessary.”

His mouth twitched. “Security.”

You stared at him. “You think I’m going to cheat?”

Jack slid the folded paper into his pocket. “I think you’re going to try.”

You gasped. “I am wounded.”

He looked at you. “Are you?”

You paused. “No.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Didn’t think so.”

That warmth was rude. Entirely uncalled for. You clutched your folded receipt tighter.

Jack noticed.

His gaze dropped to your hand, then came back to your face. “Apartment?”

You nodded once. “Apartment.”

Neither of you spoke on the stairs. 

Or outside the building.

 Or for the first block. 

Which was absurd.

You were adults.

You were medical students, at least, which implied some level of emotional regulation even if the evidence was inconsistent.

Still, you walked beside Jack with your score folded in your fist and your entire body buzzing like you were transporting state secrets.

Jack’s folded schedule was tucked in his jacket pocket.

You knew that because you had checked.

Jack glanced down at you. “You’re staring at my pocket.”

You looked straight ahead. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” he said.

You tightened your grip on the receipt. “I’m observing.”

His mouth barely moved. “That word bothering you less now?”

You shot him a look. “Do not use my own language against me.”

Jack’s eyes stayed ahead, but the corner of his mouth gave him away. “It’s our language now.”

Your stomach flipped. Rude. Completely unnecessary.

You looked down at the sidewalk before he could see what that did to you.

That was when his hand found yours. 

No question. No hesitation.

His fingers slid between yours, warm and familiar, and your entire body reacted like he had done something much worse than hold your hand.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

The tension did not break.

It changed shape.

Became warmer. Closer. Worse.

You looked down at your joined hands, the folded receipt still trapped between your fingers.

Jack’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

“You’re nervous,” he said.

You looked up at him. “You’re projecting.”

His mouth almost moved. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you said. “You’re terrified.”

Jack glanced at you. “Of you?”

You smiled. “Of losing to me.”

His thumb moved once over yours again. “That’s a very specific fear.”

“It should be,” you said.

His eyes held yours for half a second.

Then he looked ahead again.

You kept walking. Still holding hands. Still not knowing. Still both absolutely pretending that did not make the whole thing feel more dangerous.

By the second block, you could not take it anymore.

You glanced at him. “Are you going to ask?”

Jack kept his gaze forward. “No.”

You frowned. “No?”

His fingers tightened around yours. “We said apartment.”

You stared at him. “You are so annoying.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Disciplined.”

“Annoying,” you corrected.

“Disciplined,” Jack repeated.

You looked at his pocket again.

“Don’t,” he said.

You looked back up too quickly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You thought about it,” he said.

You glared at him. “You don’t know that.”

Jack glanced down at you. “I know you.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

There it was again.

The unbearable intimacy of being known by the person you were actively trying to defeat.

You looked away.

Jack did not tease you for it.

That made it worse.

His hand stayed in yours all the way back to the apartment.

Through the last block. Up the stairs. Down the narrow hall. Even while he pulled his keys from his pocket, he did not let go of you until he had to.

 And even then, he only released your hand long enough to unlock the door.

The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel dramatic. Jack’s keys landed on the counter. Your bag slipped from your shoulder. The old floor creaked beneath your shoes.

You still had your folded receipt clenched in one hand.

Jack still had his folded schedule tucked in his jacket pocket.

Neither of you spoke.

Then Jack glanced at the couch. “Sit?”

You looked at him. “Are you asking because you’re nervous?”

His mouth barely moved. “I’m asking because you look like you might fall over.”

You stared at him. “That is rude.”

Jack’s eyes dropped to the receipt in your hand. “Is it inaccurate?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Irritatingly, he was not wrong.

You pointed toward the couch. “Fine. But only because I want you comfortable when you lose.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “Thoughtful.”

“I’m generous,” you said.

“You’re competitive,” Jack said.

You walked toward the couch. “I'm both.”

Jack followed you, his mouth almost curving. You sat on one end of the couch. Jack sat beside you, close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You tucked one foot beneath you and held the receipt against your knee.

Jack pulled the folded schedule from his pocket.

Of course it was still neat.

You hated him.

Jack looked at your receipt. “You folded yours badly.”

You looked down at the crumpled paper in your hand. “It has character.”

“It has structural damage,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Sounds like something a loser would say.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “You haven’t won yet.”

You smiled. “I can feel it.”

“That’s still not evidence,” Jack said.

“It’s intuition,” you said.

“It’s arrogance,” he said.

You pointed the folded receipt at him. “Careful. In a minute, you might owe me laundry.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “And dinner.”

“And the movie,” you added.

His gaze held yours. “And one night where the loser has to do what the winner says.”

Your pulse jumped.

The words landed differently now that you were sitting beside him on the couch.

Much differently.

You swallowed, but you did not look away.

“Within reason,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened by a fraction. “Within reason.”

For a second, the joke slipped. Not gone. Just quieter.

Jack’s knee brushed yours.

Your folded receipt sat between your fingers.

His folded schedule rested in his hand. Tiny pieces of paper. Ridiculous. Harmless.

Potentially catastrophic.

Jack watched you carefully. “You okay?”

You looked at him. “Do not be sweet to me right now.”

His mouth barely moved. “I’m asking.”

“I know,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours. That made it worse.

You looked down at your receipt. “I’m okay.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

You placed your folded receipt on the cushion between you.

Jack placed his folded schedule beside it.

The two pieces of paper looked absurd there. Like a tiny academic death match. You put your fingers on your receipt. Jack put his fingers on his schedule.

“On three?” you asked.

Jack nodded once. “On three.”

You took a breath. “One.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Two.”

Your stomach flipped. “Three.” 

You both flipped the papers open.

For one second, you only saw numbers. Your score. His score.

Then your brain did the math.

One point.

One.

Single.

Perfect.

Point.

You beat Jack Abbot by one point.

Your mouth fell open.

Jack’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Don’t.”

You looked up at him slowly. “Oh.”

“No,” Jack said.

“Oh, Abbot,” you said.

His jaw shifted. “It was one point.”

You picked up your receipt like it had become a sacred document. “The one point.”

Jack stared at you. “That is not a thing.”

“It is now,” you said.

His mouth flattened. “You’re going to be unbearable.”

You stood from the couch. “I am going to be historical.”

“Historic,” Jack said.

You froze and pointed at him with the receipt. “Losers don’t get to correct winners.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You saw it.

That made it worse.

You made a bright, delighted sound and jumped once, score slip clutched in your hand.

“I won,” you said.

Jack leaned back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest. “You did.”

“Against you,” you said.

His brows lifted. “I was there.”

“By one point,” you said.

“Yes,” Jack said.

“The one point,” you said.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

So you started dancing.

It was not graceful. It was not rhythmic. It was mostly you bouncing in front of the couch in your socks, waving your score slip like a flag while Jack watched you with a look that made the whole apartment feel warmer.

“I beat Jack Abbot,” you sang under your breath.

Jack opened his eyes. “That is not a song.”

“It is now,” you said.

His mouth curved despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“I am victorious,” you said, spinning once.

The spin was a mistake.

You nearly clipped your shin on the coffee table. Jack reached out immediately, catching your hip before you could bump into it.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You froze, one hand still in the air, receipt crinkled between your fingers. Then you looked down at his hand on your hip. Then back at him.

“You’re not allowed to tell me to be careful,” you said. “I won.”

Jack’s thumb moved once at your side. His smile softened.

“Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

And there it was. Not teasing. Not competitive. Proud. So proud it almost ruined the whole thing.

Your victory dance faltered.

“Don’t,” you said.

Jack’s brow lifted. “Don’t what?”

You swallowed. “Look at me like that.”

His hand stayed at your hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re proud of me,” you said.

Jack’s expression did not change.

“I am proud of you,” he said.

Your throat tightened. No. Absolutely not.

You could handle winning. You could handle gloating. You could handle Jack pretending to be devastated because you had beaten him by a single point. 

You could not handle him looking at you like that from the couch, morning light on his face, your crumpled score still clutched in your hand.

You looked down at the receipt. “That’s manipulative.”

Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Being proud of you?”

“Yes,” you said. “I was about to be very mean.”

“You still can be,” Jack said.

“No,” you said. “Now I’ll feel guilty.”

His thumb moved once at your hip. “Good.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

Jack looked at you for one long second.

Still smiling. Still holding your hip. Still looking at you like your joy had done something dangerous to him.

Then his face changed.

Like something had landed before he could stop it.

“I love you,” Jack said.

The apartment went quiet. Completely quiet.

Your breath caught.

Jack went still.

Not like he was taking it back.

Not like he regretted it.

Like he had surprised himself with the timing and nothing else.

Your hand lowered slowly, the receipt crinkling softly at your side.

“What?” you whispered.

Jack’s throat moved. His eyes stayed on yours.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time.

Your chest squeezed so hard it almost hurt.

“You’re saying that now?” you asked.

His mouth twitched, faint and helpless. “Apparently.”

“I’m being insufferable,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

“I was doing a victory dance,” you said.

“I saw,” Jack said.

“It was a bad victory dance,” you said.

“It was terrible,” Jack said.

A laugh broke out of you, sharp and disbelieving, and your eyes burned at the same time.

Jack’s hand tightened carefully at your hip.

“Sorry,” he said, softer now.

You shook your head quickly. “Don’t apologize.”

His expression steadied. “Okay.”

You looked down at him, your heart beating too hard.

“You love me?” you asked.

Jack’s eyes softened. “Yes.”

Your lips parted, but nothing clever arrived in time to save you.

Jack did not push. He did not ask. He just stayed there, hand warm at your hip, eyes steady on yours, letting the words exist between you.

You stepped closer.

Jack’s breath caught.

You touched the front of his shirt, fingers curling lightly in the fabric.

Then you looked at him.

“I love you too,” you said.

Jack went very still.

Then his hand slid fully around your waist, pulling you down into his lap, and the receipt crumpled between your fingers as he kissed you.

Not carefully. 

Not at first.

He kissed you like the words had broken something open in him.

You settled over him and kissed him back, laughing once against his mouth because you were happy.

So happy it felt stupid.

So happy it felt impossible.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were darker now.

Softer too.

You lifted the crumpled receipt between you.

“Just to be clear,” you said, breathless, “I still won.”

Jack huffed a laugh.

Then he dropped his forehead briefly to yours.

“I know,” he said.

You smiled. “Say it.”

His mouth curved against yours. “You won.”

“And?” you asked.

Jack pulled back enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re brilliant,” he said.

Your heart tripped.

“And?” you asked, softer this time.

His gaze moved over your face, warm and devastating.

“And I love you,” Jack said.

Oh.

Well.

That was going to be a problem.

A wonderful, terrible, impossible problem.

You swallowed, then forced your chin up because you had a victory to preserve and feelings were not going to ruin your momentum.

“Good,” you said. “Now go fold laundry.”

Jack stared at you.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then his laugh broke free, low and surprised, and you grinned so hard your cheeks hurt.

Jack did, in fact, go fold laundry.

Which was good. It was just. It was fair.

It was also deeply annoying, because he did it competently.

He did not sulk. He did not argue. He did not pretend not to know how to fold a towel, which you personally felt was showing off. He simply gathered the clean clothes from the basket, sat on the couch, and started folding like a man accepting the terms of his defeat with irritating dignity.

You stood in the hallway and watched him for thirty seconds.

Jack looked up from the towel in his hands. “You supervising?”

You leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I’m enjoying my victory.”

His mouth barely moved. “From the hallway?”

You smiled. “I’m deciding how best to use my power.”

Jack’s hands paused around the towel. Only for a second. But you saw it.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Are you?”

You pushed off the wall. “Don’t sound nervous, Abbot.”

Jack went back to folding. “I’m not nervous.”

“You should be,” you said.

Then you turned and walked into your bedroom before he could answer.

You did not close the door all the way.

That was intentional.

You wanted him to know you had left it cracked. You wanted him to sit there on the couch, folding laundry like a responsible adult, knowing you were in your room deciding what to do with him.

That was your right. You had won by one point. The one point. The point, really.

You opened your drawer and found the shirt almost immediately.

His shirt.

The faded navy T-shirt with the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course.

The one he had given you after the first night you slept together. The one he had told you to keep like either of you had been casual enough for that sentence to survive contact with reality.

You touched the fabric. Soft. Worn. Familiar.

Your confidence wavered for exactly one second.

Then you saw your score slip on the dresser, still crumpled from your victory dance.

Right. No fear. Only victory.

And maybe lace.

You changed before you could talk yourself out of it.

The shirt slipped over your shoulders, loose and soft, falling just low enough to brush the tops of your thighs. The cracked lettering stretched faintly across your chest, faded from years of washing, the navy cotton worn thin in places from use and time and whatever version of Jack had existed before you knew him.

The lacy underwear underneath made the whole thing worse.

Not obvious unless you wanted it to be.

You wanted it to be.

Eventually.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Then you pointed at your reflection.

“Winner,” you whispered.

It helped. A little. Then you opened the door.

Jack was still on the couch. 

Still folding. 

Still pretending not to be listening for you. 

You knew because his head lifted the second the hinges moved. 

Then he stopped.

Completely.

The towel stayed half-folded in his hands.

His eyes moved over you once.

Then again.

Slower.

You leaned against the doorframe and let the moment stretch.

“Problem?” you asked.

Jack’s jaw shifted.

“That’s my shirt,” he said.

You glanced down at yourself. “You told me to keep it.”

His eyes came back to yours.

For one second, the room changed.

Not because of the lace.

Not because of your bare legs.

Because he remembered.

The morning after.

The shirt in his hands.

His voice telling you to keep it like that had not meant anything.

Like either of you had ever been good at that.

Jack set the towel down carefully.

Too carefully.

“I did,” he said.

You swallowed.

Then you forced your mouth to curve, because if you let the moment stay soft too long, you might lose your nerve.

“So technically,” you said, pushing away from the doorframe, “it’s my shirt now.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the faded lettering.

Then the hem.

Your thighs.

The hint of lace that showed when you moved.

His breath changed.

Barely.

But you heard it.

His voice came lower. “Technically.”

Oh. Good. Very good.

You took one step into the living room. “How’s the laundry coming?”

Jack did not look at the basket. “Fine.”

You tilted your head. “You stopped folding.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “I noticed.”

You clicked your tongue. “That seems inefficient.”

Jack’s mouth barely curved. “You came out here dressed like that to discuss efficiency?”

You widened your eyes. “I came out here to check on your progress.”

His gaze moved over you again. “Did you?”

“Yes,” you said. “And to provide motivation.”

Jack leaned back against the couch.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

The towel stayed abandoned beside him.

“I’m motivated,” he said.

Your pulse jumped.

You tried very hard not to let it show.

You failed.

Jack noticed.

So you leaned down and picked up one of the clean shirts from the basket.

Slowly.

Unnecessarily slowly.

You made sure the hem of his shirt shifted higher when you bent.

Just enough.

Jack went very still.

You straightened and looked at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were on your face.

Very deliberately.

That made you smile.

“Very respectful,” you said.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Trying.”

You folded the shirt badly and dropped it on the cushion beside him.

“You’re allowed to look,” you said.

His eyes darkened.

“You sure?” he asked.

Your stomach flipped.

Still asking.

Still careful.

Even now.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

Jack’s gaze dropped.

The hem of his shirt.

Your thighs.

The lace.

Then back to your face.

He looked less composed when his eyes met yours again.

Not broken.

Not yet.

But affected.

You smiled. “There.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “There?”

“You’re getting less smug,” you said.

His mouth barely moved. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said.

Then you climbed onto the couch beside him.

Not into his lap.

Not yet.

Just close enough that your bare thigh brushed his jeans.

Jack’s hand moved.

Instinctive.

Toward your knee.

You shifted away before he could touch.

Jack stopped.

His eyes lifted slowly.

You smiled at him. “No.”

His brow lifted. “No?”

“You don’t get to touch yet,” you said.

His expression sharpened.

Not upset.

Interested.

Very interested.

“That part of the bet?” Jack asked.

You tucked one leg beneath you and leaned back against the arm of the couch like you had all the time in the world. “It is now.”

Jack looked at you for one long second.

Then he settled back.

Both hands on the couch.

Open.

Visible.

Obedient.

Your stomach flipped so hard it almost ruined your performance.

You swallowed.

Jack noticed that too.

His mouth barely moved. “You okay?”

You pointed at him. “No being sweet. I’m seducing you.”

Jack blinked.

Then his eyes warmed in a way that made your entire plan feel suddenly, terribly fragile.

“You are?” he asked.

You glared. “Do not sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jack said.

“You sounded surprised,” you said.

“I sounded interested,” he said.

Oh.

That was unfair.

You sat up straighter. “Well, you should be.”

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “I am.”

The answer came too honest.

You lost your train of thought for half a second.

Which was unacceptable.

You recovered by stretching out along the couch, slow and theatrical, one bare leg extending until your foot brushed his thigh.

Jack’s eyes followed the movement.

This time, he did not pretend not to look.

Good.

You pointed your toes against his leg. “You’re still very controlled.”

His hand flexed once against the cushion. “I’m trying to be respectful.”

You smiled. “I know.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Respect is a problem?”

“Your control is a problem,” you said.

His eyes darkened.

You let your foot drag lightly along his thigh.

Just once.

Jack’s jaw shifted.

You smiled. “I’m trying to break it.”

His hands stayed exactly where they were, but his voice changed.

Lower.

Rougher.

“Careful,” Jack said.

Your pulse jumped.

You sat up slowly, then crawled closer until you were kneeling beside him on the couch.

“See,” you said, touching one finger to the center of his chest, “that would work better if I hadn’t won.”

His eyes dropped to your hand.

Then lifted back to your face.

“You did win,” Jack said.

You nodded solemnly. “I did.”

“By one point,” he said.

You smiled. “The one point.”

His mouth flattened, but the heat in his eyes ruined the effect.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Not his lips.

Just the corner.

Then his jaw.

Then the spot beneath it that made his fingers curl into the cushion again.

Jack inhaled slowly through his nose.

Your smile widened against his skin.

“There,” you whispered.

Jack’s voice was rough. “There what?”

You kissed beneath his ear. “There you are.”

His whole body went still.

The callback landed.

You felt it.

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

His control was still there.

Of course it was.

Jack Abbot did not fall apart easily.

But it was thinner now.

Drawn tight.

Straining at the edges.

His eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You having fun?” he asked.

You smiled. “So much.”

His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Good.”

Your stomach dropped.

That one word still worked.

Even when you were supposed to be in charge.

Especially then, apparently.

Jack saw it.

His smile deepened by a fraction.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are not allowed to weaponize that right now.”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “I said one word.”

“You know what you did,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours. “I know what you’re doing.”

You leaned closer. “Do you?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Trying to make me lose control.”

You touched his jaw. “Is it working?”

Jack did not answer immediately.

That was answer enough.

You smiled.

Then he looked back at you.

Really looked.

“You want controlled,” Jack asked, his voice low, “or honest?”

Your breath caught.

The room went quiet around that question.

His hands were still on the couch.

Still not touching you.

Still obeying the rule you had made because you wanted to drive him wild and had somehow driven yourself there too.

You swallowed.

Then you smiled, because you were brave and victorious and possibly very stupid.

“Honest,” you said.

Jack’s jaw shifted.

“Then yes,” he said. “It’s working.”

It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.

Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.

"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.

"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.

You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."

"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."

A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."

"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."

"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."

The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.

"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."

"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"

"Because I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."

Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."

"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.

"I know it."

"You do not know that," she counters firmly.

"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."

"What did you actually see?" she presses.

"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"

Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.

"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."

"And that means he’s in love with her?"

"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.

"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."

You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."

"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."

"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "

You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"

"...No."

"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"

"...No."

"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"

"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."

"Honey—"

"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."

"No, you don't—"

"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."

"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.

Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"

She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."

You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."

"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."

Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," you reply. "I do."

"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."

Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.

"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."

"Honey—"

Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."

Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.

"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."

"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"

You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.

"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."

You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."

"Promise me."

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."

"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."

You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."

"Love you more," she says.

The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.

You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.

Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.

And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Home. With you.

Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.

You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.

He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.

A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.

The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.

Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.

So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.

The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.

And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.

That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.

Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.

He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.

He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.

He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.

He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.

No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.

Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.

He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.

The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.

He's never been good at words.

Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.  

He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.

He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.

You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.

"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.

You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"

Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say.

He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.

You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."

Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."

You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."

The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.

"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."

You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"

"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."

The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.

For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.

He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.

That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."

"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."

You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.

Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.

Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."

"Sweetheart—"

Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows.  "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."

The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.

Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."

You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."

But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.

So instead, he nods once. "Okay."

You don’t answer.

He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."

"I will."

You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.

So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.

But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.

Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.

He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.

You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.

When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.

Jack smiles. "Thank you."

You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.

You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.

You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."

"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.

"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."

Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."

"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"

"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.

You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"

"And—nothing?"

"Nothing?"

"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.

"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."

Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.

He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"

You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.

You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."

He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."

"I’m sure."

And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.

By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.

"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."

Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."

Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."

Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.

"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.

But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.

His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.

Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"

Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."

Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"

Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."

Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."

"It’s temporary—"

"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.

Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."

Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"

"It was the easiest fix—"

"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"

Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"

"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."

Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."

"So take Ellis."

Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."

"Then Crus."

"Jack—"

"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.

Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."

"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."

Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."

Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."

"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.

The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"

Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."

Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"

Robby’s silence says enough.

Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."

"Jack, listen—"

"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."

"I didn’t think—"

"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."

Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.

"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."

Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"

Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.

"She’ll still be here," Robby says.

"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.

Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.

"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.

Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.

Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."

Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?

"Take someone else," he tries again.

Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."

He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.

He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.

You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.

You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.

He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.

But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.

It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.

Jack liked Lily. That was it.

You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.

"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.

You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"

"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.

You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"

Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"

"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"

Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."

"What?"

"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"

Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.

"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."

His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"

Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"

You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"

His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."

The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.

"It’s just a temporary shift change."

"That’s not the point."

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"

Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."

"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.

He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."

"They are, but you're being a dick again."

He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"

It is. But it shouldn't be to him.

Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.

You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.

Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.

"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."

Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."

You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."

"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.

But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."

Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"

You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."

His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.

"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.

As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."

Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—

No.

You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.

So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."

He doesn't follow you when you step out.

Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.

Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.

Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.

You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.

So you don’t.

You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.

"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.

You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"

She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."

Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.

You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."

Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."

You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."

"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"

You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."

"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."

You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."

She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.

She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"

"Yes."

She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."

"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.

She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"

The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.

And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.

So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."

Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."

She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"

"What about Smith?"

Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."

Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"

"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."

You stare at her. "What?"

Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."

You let out a startled laugh. "No way."

"I swear."

"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"

Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."

You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."

"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."

"That's insane."

Princess laughs. "I know."

"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"

Princess straightens, smiling brightly. "Working hard. Obviously"

Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.

Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—

"So..."

You don’t look up. "No."

Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."

"You’re going to."

He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."

You tap through another chart. "Then no."

He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"

You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."

Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."

You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."

He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."

You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."

He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."

You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."

Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."

You look back down at the tablet.

Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."

The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.

You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."

Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"

That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"

You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.

Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.

You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.

You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.

The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.

It doesn't work.

Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.

"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.

Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.

It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"

Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"

Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"

"She switched to days."

Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."

Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."

Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."

"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.

She nods resignedly.

"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."

"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."

The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.

"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."

Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."

"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.

"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.

"No," Parker murmurs.

"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.

Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."

Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."

"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.

"You're on."

Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.

And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.

By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"

Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."

Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"

Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."

Parker winces. "Oh."

Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"

Lena shrugs.

Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.

Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.

Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."

Jack doesn't answer.

Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."

Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him

Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."

"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.

"Bullshit."

Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.

Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."

Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"

Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."

The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"

Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"

Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.

Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."

Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"

Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."

Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.

"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."

Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"

Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."

Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."

Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.

"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"

Jack looks away again. "Yes."

Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."

Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."

"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."

Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.

Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."

Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."

Robby blinks. "No?"

Jack shakes his head once. "No."

Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"

Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."

Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"

Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."

Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."

Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."

"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."

Jack glances over.

Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."

Jack looks away again.

Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."

Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."

Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."

Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."

Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.

Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.

He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.

You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.

And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.

Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.

And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.

Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.

So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.

But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.

Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.

Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.

And maybe you didn’t like it.

Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.

And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.

A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.

And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.

You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.

You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.

Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.

Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.

As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.

Pretend that this doesn't have to end.

You're not fairing much better, the cut on your shoulder still sticky with blood despite the bandages. The bruises on your rib will be a reminder of this hunt long after the night has passed.

A bad hunt. A hunt you only just made it out of. You can thank Dean for still being alive, or maybe he can thank you, both of you only just keeping your heads long enough to make it through. You've always been that for each other, a pillar, an escape, a lifeline.

Dean stops tapping his thumb, you can't tell if he's contemplating talking or just too exhausted to carry on.

"I don't think I can keep doing this-" you sigh, the words barely leaving your throat before you regret saying them, regret opening this conversation.

Deans forehead creases, he knows exactly what he you're trying to say, but he's trying to stave it off as long as possible, "What's that supposed to mean?"

You sigh, looking over at him, "You know what it's supposed to mean."

His jaw tightens, "You're a good hunter."

"I know."

"We can't loose another good hunter."

"Don't you ever think there's more than this? More than this- this death and this fear and this-"

"You're not scared. You're never scared."

"I'm scared shitless, Dean- goddamn I'm scared every fuckin' time. Don't you see that?"

"You don't get scared. I've seen you out-hunt a hundred men-"

"Doesn't mean I don't get scared." You sigh, you knew this would be pointless. You and Dean, hunters who only ever talk about hunting. Trying to have an actual conversation was a long shot, you're at your best when you're strategizing and killing. Not talking. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier to stop."

He tries to laugh, "C'mon sweetheart, you're just beat up- you'll feel better tomorrow."

"I'll feel like shit tomorrow and you know it." You give him a second, then laugh with him. A pointless conversation.

The car drones on, Dean starts tapping again. It's less regular now, more fidgety.

It takes him a few minutes, then he speaks again, repeating himself, "You're a good hunter."

You give the same answer, "I know-" You swallow hard, wrapping your feet up on the vinyl bench. You haven't seen Dean in two months, you're not used to sticking around long enough for conversations after a hunt. But you're both too bruised to do anything but head back to the motel right now, let sleep take you and break apart again tomorrow. "-But this whole barely making it out alive thing- it makes you think."

"We made it out though, yeah?"

"Just."

He glances at you, then back at the road, "I'd be dead if you weren't here."

"This isn't personal-"

"I'd be dead ten times over, and you just wanna quit?"

You sigh, "I don't wanna quit- I'm just- I'm thinking alright? I'm thinking about what options I've got."

"And what options have you got? You're a trained killer- that's not exactly a transferable skill-"

"I'm just exhausted with it, Dean- all of it. Of waking up every day not knowing what's next, of having to limp out of every situation like I'm lucky to be alive."

"It's been near death since we were teenagers, what's so different now?"

"You wanna know the god honest truth?"

You can tell he's agitated now, "Yes! Of course I do!"

"I'm sick of it, Dean- I'm sick of the decisions and the choices and having to be in control all the time. I'm sick of having to think every second of every goddamn day. I just- I want to stop it- want someone else to tell me what to do every now and then!"

There's a pause. He glances at you, you can tell he's trying not to laugh, "No- no you don't."

"Jesus Dean I knew you wouldn't get it- you're so fucking concerned with constantly controlling every situation-"

"Hey, hey- this is getting personal, sweetheart." He chuckles, eyes back on the road, "You wanna work in an office? Have some boss tell you when you can leave, when you can take lunch, when you can piss?"

You roll your eyes, "I knew you wouldn't understand."

"Then explain it to me. Goddamn darlin' I'm not a mind reader."

"I'm mean it, Dean- you're obsessed with being in control. I can see it- every hunt you just wanna take charge-"

"You do too-"

"But only when I'm hunting. That's the difference between you and me, when I'm hunting, sure- but right now- jesus I just want someone to think for me- just wanna turn off my brain and let someone else make the decisions for a bit."

"So- what- if I told you what to do right now you'd actually thank me for it? Because I know you- I know you hate it when I give you orders."

"I don't know, Dean- it's complicated, alright? Sometimes I think I need an out, need some release from all this."

The car hums on. Static, gasoline, smoke. Bloody noses, bruised ribs.

He pulls into the parking lot, the neon signs flickering down on you both. He glances across at you, barely visible, then steps out. You don't talk as you cross the lot, both of you keeping your heads down. It takes until you get to the door for him to glance at you again.

"You need to change that dressing on your shoulder."

"It's fine- it'll last til-"

"You need it changing." He pushes the key into the lock, shoving the solid door open.

You swallow hard, he's probably right, but he doesn't look at you long enough to see that. You follow him into the room as he grabs his duffle, hiking it up onto the small wooden table.

"Sit. I'll do it now."

"Seriously, don't worry I'll-"

"Just sit- let me take care of it." It'd be sweet if his tone wasn't so firm.

There's no room for questions, you sink down at the end of the too-soft bed. You watch him carefully as he riffles through his bag, pulling out the few medical supplies he hasn't used up yet. He sets them down on the bed next to you, a bottle of iodine, some more bandages.

"Take your top off."

Your jaw tightens as you look up at him with a small smile, "Buy me a drink first."

He just rolls his eyes, waiting expectantly for you to do as he says. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it- Dean. You've caught glimpses of him, parts of his body making up a puzzle until you figured out what he looks like under all those flannels and dirty jeans. But you'd pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they arrived. You and Dean. Hunters who only ever talk about hunting.

You tug your top off your body, wincing slightly as you hook it over your shoulder. It's stained with blood, there's no use being precious about it- you throw it across the room, letting it land in a crumple in the corner.

His eyes drop down to your bra, fast enough you barely see it happen, before he's back on your face. Eyes darker, his tongue darts out to wet his lip. He nods slowly, thinking, before he walks off into the bathroom. You hear the tap running, just for a moment, and then he's back, a wet rag in his hand. He's got rid of his own make-shift gauze, the tissue he'd stuck in his nose. He still has a ring of dried blood around his nostrils, red remnants hanging onto the slight stubble on his top lip.

He grins as he finally sinks in front of you, squatting down onto his toes to pull himself eye level with you. He rests one hand on the bed next to you, looking at you like he's considering speaking.

"Breathe." He smiles warmer, eyes locking onto yours.

You realize you've been holding your breath. You let it go, slowly through your nose. You don't smile back.

He finally brings the rag up to your shoulder, you flinch at the feeling, the wound still too exposed to let it comfort you. He moves his free hand to your waist, holding it tight to keep you still.

"Calm down, it's just a little water."

"I'm calm- I just- I'm calm."

He smiles again, the rag pulls away red. You glance down, it's just the dried blood- caked around the cut. He grabs the bottle of iodine, clicks it open. The smell fills the small space immediately, chemicals and chlorine, dizzying.

He pours some out onto the damp towel, presses it against your wound. Orange liquid soaks into you in an instant. You suck in a sharp breath, reach out to grab his forearm as the sharp sting shocks through you. Your nails dig into his skin without even meaning to, swallowing hard to try to keep yourself together.

"Calm down, sweetheart- I'm not gonna hurt you."

You glare at him, "Hurts pretty bad right now."

"Doesn't hurt- come on it's a tickle."

His thumb rubs against your waist, soft like he doesn't realize he's doing it, as he presses the towel further into you cut. You shut your eyes, grind your teeth together, trying not to make a sound.

Finally he pulls it away again, replaces his movements with the bandages, wraps them around your shoulder, the top of your bicep. You slowly open your eyes again, his face only inches from yours. You can see the stubble across his jaw, the sign of a long day. You've never see him this close- maybe once- when you were both thrown in the trunk of a car- but even then it was his knee in your face, not his watchful eyes.

"Do I need to keep telling you to breathe?" He steps away, heads back towards the bathroom. The tap runs again as he washes his hands, clears off the chemicals. You pull at your bandages, flattening them out as he walks back in, takes a seat in the old chair opposite you.

He spreads his legs wide, sinking down as he rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, deep in thought.

You go to stand.

"Sit."

You collapse back against the bed, raising an eyebrow.

He leans forward, pulling his hands together between his knees as he looks over at you, amused, "You listened."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You never listen to me."

"I listen-"

"You never listen to me." He swallows, pulls his jaw tight, then smiles again, a glint in his eye, "Take your pants off."

"Excuse me?"

"You want orders?" He leans back again, relaxed, "Take 'em off."

You roll your eyes, "This is stupid." You stay sat, watching him carefully.

"One time offer- you said you want a release. You can have it. But you gotta listen to me."

You think for a second, then nod- small, imperceptible. He sees it all the same.

"Take. Them. Off."

You stand up slowly, keeping your eyes on him. You wet your lips, trying not to overthink, trying not to think at all. You know the second you do you'll realize how senseless this is.

You reach towards the fly of your pants, tug it down. Then you reach towards your waistband, shuffling it down your legs, past your thighs, your knees, your calves, until your pants crumple in a pile by your feet. You kick them off, finally looking back up at Dean.

He leans forward, "Interesting."

You practically laugh, "Interesting?"

He nods slowly, "Hot- don't get me wrong, fuckin' hot- but yeah. Interesting." His eyes flick over your body, down your chest, your stomach, your legs. Then back to your underwear, the way you shift under his gaze, "You really gonna do whatever I tell you to?"

You swallow, "Depends what you say."

"Kneel."

He's right. You need this. Need what you were practically begging for in the car- someone else to tell you what to do. What to think.

You sink down quickly, let your legs fall until your knees smack against the worn carpet. You blink up at him, trying to make sense of the look smeared across his face, like he's fascinated by what's happening in front of him- analytical and starving.

He curls his finger in front of him, wordlessly beckoning you towards him.

You move slowly, every part of your brain telling you to stop, every part of your body pushing you forward, until you're kneeling in front of him, between his legs.

He hooks his finger under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. His eyes are locked on you, you can see a million thoughts flashing through them as he stares down at you. His jaw sets tight as he slowly moves his thumb, pushing it between your lips. They part around him as you feel the print rest on your tongue, his mouth curling into a surprised smile.

"Suck."

You do as he says, your eyes wide, staring up at him as he keeps his smile. You let your tongue circle his thumb, trying not to make a sound despite your need to moan at just his fingers.

"Fuck-" he mutters, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "-you're good at being obedient, ain't ya?"

You blink up at him without replying.

He grins, pulling his thumb away again, smearing your saliva across your bottom lip, "Where's this girl when we're hunting, huh?"

You tilt your head to one side. You want to protest, but the way he says it sends a jolt through you, a warmth between your legs at his amused but firm tone.

"Always calling the shots- always in charge- turns out you just want someone telling you what to do." He chuckles, leans back, spreading his legs wider as he gestures down to the bulge forming in his pants, "Well go on. You know exactly what to do."

You lean forward, you'd fingers reaching out towards his belt before you even think to stop them. You unbuckle it slowly, trying not to glance up at his face- you can tell he's still grinning down at you. You pull on the worn leather, it slides out of the buckle easily, and then reach towards the fly of his pants. His bulge is already significant, growing bigger the longer you take, swelling below your steadily moving fingers.

You pull the zip down, finally looking back up at him. He smiles at you, a giddy look spreading across his face despite his clear control. You pull at his pants slowly, followed by the waistband of his boxers- half teasing yourself and half staving off the stupid act about to take place.

You finally go for it, tugging hard enough that his cock can spring free. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight- absolutely gorgeous, the tip already wet with precum, the veins along the shaft bulging with arousal.

He chuckles lightly, grabbing your wrist with a loose hold and dragging it towards him. He pushes your hand against his cock, tangling his own fingers into yours until it's wrapped around his length. It barely fits despite your efforts, already slowly starting to stroke him as he keeps your movements slow.

He laughs again, "Bigger than you imagined, huh?"

You only just manage to roll your eyes, "I didn't imagine anything."

He smiles, runs the knuckles of his free hand over your cheekbone. It's a light touch, one filled with a million implications, "It's cute you still think you get to talk back."

He doesn't let you reply, just tangles his fingers into your hair and pulls your head forward. You open your mouth instinctually, let him push your face down until your lips are wrapping around the head. He groans loudly as you take him into your mouth, let him fill you, the taste of him already on your tongue.

"Jesus-" he lets the words spill out as he pushes you lower, until the tip is pressing against the back of your throat. You move your arms away, push them behind your back in a way you know will make him stare. It works, eyes fixed on you as he moves his hands, keeps one tangled in your hair, the other on the side of your head, keeping you wrapped around him.

Your eyes go wide as your breathing gets harder, trying to keep it steady as you take in a slow breath through your nose. He finally lets you break, and you pull your head back, sucking in a sharp breath.

He nods slowly, considering the image below him, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then he pulls you forwards again, back to where he clearly wants you. You open your mouth wider, tongue running along the shaft as he pushes himself into you.

"Good girl, that's it-" He starts to grind slowly, pushing in further on every thrust. You lower your head slowly, his hands keeping you steady as you take more of him, his cock filling your mouth "- taking me so good."

You finally moan, breaking around him as you sink lower. He loosens his grasp, letting you set the pace as he relaxes into the chair, "Wanna make me proud, yeah? Keep going."

You move faster, letting him fill your mouth on every slow thrust. He hits the back of your throat, your whole body moving to keep you from choking as he blocks your airway. You blink up at him, his eyes locked on the sight, a small smile poking at the corner of his mouth.

You lift your head slightly as your tongue runs down the shaft. He lets out a quiet groan, hand back on your head to push you lower, "There you go, doing so good f' me-"

You nod without meaning to, his praise soaking through you. You swallow around him as he speeds up, looking up at him, your eyes starting to well with tears. He brushes his free hand over your cheek, a gentle touch to keep you calm, a reminder to breathe despite his harsh movements. His face is soft, eyes wide and smile growing as he watches you- a picture of disbelief and control rolled into one.

He thrusts harder, fingers tightening in your hair. You gag, tears spilling over as you try to sort your breathing. He smiles, keeping your head down, "Shh- shh- that's a good girl, just a bit more."

He fills your throat, your eyes stinging with the need to take a breath. He keeps you there, watching carefully as you swallow him down, still trying to please him. You mind starts to go, the image of him taking over as only thing filling it, the feeling of him down your throat. For a moment you think he won't break, and for a moment you don't care- then he finally releases his grasp on you, lightly tugging you to pull you back up.

"That's it- atta girl- did so good-" he runs his fingers down over your cheek, brushing away the tears as you choke desperately on air, "-so good, just breathe, sweetheart."

He keeps his eyes on you as your breathing finally starts to even out, sucking in a shaky breath, blinking hard to hide away any more tears starting to form. He keeps his hand on your cheek for a moment, just watching, and then pulls back slightly, taking in your body.

"Stand up." Clearly the time for comfort is over. He pushes his cock back into his boxers.

You look back at him, the situation falling back on you, your mind starting to spin, "Dean- I-"

He can clearly tell, "Don't worry, darling, gonna stop you thinking- you just gotta let me."

You keep your eyes on him, not wanting to reply- you want this. You need this. You know it's stupid, of course it is. One conversation and suddenly you and Dean are doing something neither of you would have expected. What's weirder is it feels so normal, like you should have done this years ago, like he's the only one who can give you this.

He smiles down at you, "Yeah? You gonna be smart and let me?"

You swallow hard and nod.

His cheeks round, "Fuck you're desperate- go on, stand up."

You do as he says, your legs weak as you pull yourself up, knees stained with carpet burn without you realizing, the low sting starting to form. You move to standing, keeping your jaw tight, eyes locked on his.

He moves his hands to your waist, pulls you forward slightly until you're between his legs, you can feel his thighs on either side of you, the heat from his body burning into you through his jeans. His thumbs rub against your hips as he gorges on the sight of you, eyes falling down across your chest and down your body.

He finally leans forward, planting a light kiss on the bruises by your ribs, then looks up at you, lips still set against your skin, "Your body is everything." He murmurs against you.

You swallow hard, a small chuckle, "You're not bad yourself."

His face turns serious, "I mean it- you're fucking stunning- all this time and you've been walking around looking like this? Holding back on me on every hunt, huh?"

You bite down hard on your lip, not knowing what to say, every retort lost.

His grip tightens, "I asked you a question."

"I- I don't know- I-"

"Ohh that's a good girl, already learning how to stop thinking." He smiles like your reply is exactly what he expected. He leans forward again, kissing lightly across your ribs, your stomach, back up towards your chest. It's almost hesitant, but he keeps his eyes on you the whole time, carefully watching your expression.

He stands, pulling his top off over his body. He gives you a second, letting you take him in as your eyes rake his body- the shallow muscles bathed in yellow motel light, the v lines leading towards the bulge he's hidden away beneath his boxers. He leans in again, his hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls you in to a kiss.

Your eyes shut as he takes you, lips colliding, it's harsh and soft all at once. You relax into it, the warmth of his body burning into you, your own hands reaching out to feel his abdomen without even thinking about it. He moves his hand away, you hear the clinking of his belt, the sound of his pants dropping to the ground as he kicks them off.

His hand moves to your throat, lightly holding it as he starts to gently push you backwards. He squeezes slightly, your lips part in a small gasp- he takes the opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth, claiming and desperate.

The back of your legs hit the bed, for a moment he keeps you there, tongue exploring your mouth, fingers feeling the pulse in your neck- then he pushes, only slightly, and you both collapse onto the mattress. He lands on top of you, keeping his weight off of you as he holds himself above you, body only just pressed against your own. You arch into him, pulling him closer, tongues tangles, legs entwined.

His lips find your jaw, your neck, working his way down as you keep your hands on him, feeling the way he moves above you. His fingers work over the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one move and pulling it off of your arms.

His mouth moves to your collarbone as he sneaks a glance lower, jaw tightening as he stops himself, "Jesus- your tits- you really have been holding out on me-"

He glances up at you, a grin across his face, a spark in his eyes. You can tell how bad he wants you- you don't know how long he's been thinking about this but it clearly started before tonight.

He moves towards your chest, tongue dragged along your skin. He wraps his lips around your nipple, teeth grazing it as you arch further into him. You feel his hand on your thigh, gripping it tight, his tongue circling your nipple, body pressed against you.

His hand moves higher, you feel his fingertips against your skin as he skims over you, your legs parting without thinking. He reaches your underwear, lightly pressing against you through the fabric, his fingertip running along your cunt. He feels you, dragging his finger up to your clit, circling it gently as you let out a quiet gasp.

He sucks a dark mark into your tit, mouth on you, hand still moving delicately. He hooks his finger around the side of your underwear, dipping his fingertip into your soaked pussy as he lets out a soft groan against you

"You're so wet for me." He murmurs, tongue dancing over you.

You gasp again as he pushes a finger into you, stretching you out. You legs spread wider, your head falls back as you push against the pillow, his quiet sounds of pleasure washing over you.

He pushes another finger into you and you reach out, grabbing his shoulder tight, nails digging into the skin. You can't help but the small whimper that escapes your lips as he chuckles lightly, "That's just two fingers baby, how many can you take?"

He starts to thrust into you, your whole body moving in time with him, grinding against him, your hand still wrapped around his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut, pleasure sitting in your gut.

He smiles as he pushes in harder, "Fuck you're tight- gonna need to stretch you out if you wanna take my cock."

He adds another finger, you dig your nails into him sharper as your eyes roll back, your body on fire with the feeling. He keeps the rhythm as you grind against him, the feeling rising inside you. You feel his mouth back against your neck, sucking another mark into your skin- somewhere it can be seen.

His tongue dances over you as his hand speeds up. You let out a quiet moan, so close to the release you need, the feeling you've been chasing all night. You grind against him, needy, the room filled with desperation.

He pulls out. You let out a sharp gasp, still rutting against nothing, your body contorting as your gasp turns into a whine. You breathe hard as you collapse back against the mattress, thighs twitching.

He laughs, amused at the sight of you below him, "You adorable little slut."

He moves lower, kissing your still shaking body as he works over you, down your tits, your stomach. He hooks his fingers around the side of your underwear, dragging it down your legs. He kisses back up, finding your inner thigh and sinking his teeth into your skin.

It shocks you back into the moment, immediately reaching down to grab at his hair. He smiles as he pulls away, planting another soft kiss against the sensitive flesh. "Only I get to decide when you cum, you hear me?"

You nod frantically.

"Say it."

"Only you get to decide."

"Decide what?"

"When- when I cum."

He grins, "Fuck- you're so easy."

He finally leans down, keeping his eyes fixed on your face as his tongue reaches out to your clit. You gasp, keeping your hand in his hair as you sink against the mattress again. He circles it slowly, lazy, before dipping lower, lapping at your arousal.

His fingers wrap around your thighs, digging into you as he buries his face into your pussy, tongue darting over you, pushed inside with desperation, working over your clit. He forces himself to slow down, drags a long stripe up your slit, spreading your arousal over yourself.

You lift your hips off the mattress, grinding into him, a needy whimper escaping your lips. You feel him chuckle against you, the vibrations sending shaky pleasure through you as he tightens his grip on your thighs. He moves back to your clit, sucking on it lightly. You gasp, tugging at his hair.

He breaks away, looking up at you, "Jesus sweetheart- you're so sensitive." You can see your wetness glistening on his chin, mixed into his stubble like the blood from his nose.

He leans back down slowly, kissing your clit, his tongue darting out just to hear you whine. He drags your thighs closer to him, pulling them up until they're wrapped around his head, his mouth pressed back over you. He speeds up, pushing his tongue through you, wrapping it around your clit, your need rising quickly.

Your mind starts to blur as you feel him moving, too fast to keep track of what he's doing, too frantic to build up a rhythm, just his tongue and his mouth and his spit combined as your head rolls back again, your body beginning to burn.

He focuses on your clit, rapid movements, darting, sucking, circling. You grip his hair tighter, his own fingers digging tight into your thighs. You rut into him on every movement, desperate for release. You let out a desperate moan, half choked and begging.

He pulls away again, smile curled across his face as he loosens his grasp on you. You try to twist your body away, your breath punched from your lungs as you loose all stimulation, desperately trying to find something. He keeps you steady, hands still on you, face close enough that he can lazily kiss your thigh.

"What's the rule?"

You can't reply, your mind still spinning, your body still seeking release.

He smiles, kissing you again, "Good girl. Stop thinking, that's it- let me decide for you-"

He leans in again, sparkling eyes boring into you as he lets his tongue push against your swollen clit. You gasp, back instantly arching, your body still so sensitive. You feel his fingers back at your entrance, feeling the way you grind against him.

He pushes into you slowly, you feel every inch of his fingers as he fills you, his grin growing wider as he continues to work his tongue over you. You whine out, desperate for more- desperate for him.

He looks like a man starved. You might be the one whimpering, gripping the sheets, but he's just as needy in his own way. His free hand grabs your thigh again, back on the bruises already starting to form, fingers curled into your skin. His eyes flutter shut, lost in your taste, the low groan forced out of him spreads over you.

You comb your hand through his hair, already slick with sweat, your fingers shaking as you touch him. He looks up at you again, a glint in his eye, admiration as he feasts on the sight of you.

His fingers speed up as he breaks his mouth away, still close enough that you can feel him speak against you, "You look cute like this- so fuckin' eager to please-"

He lowers his mouth again, tongue circling over your clit, pleasure shooting through you.

He looks up at you again, "How long have you wanted this? My fingers in your cunt, my cock goddamn aching for you-"

You let out a low whine at his words, hips rising off the bed, grinding against him, tugging at his hair.

He tilts his head to the side, "Awe- you wanna cum?"

"Yes-"

"Beg."

"Please- Dean please- I'll do anything- anything you fucking want- please can I cum-"

He chuckles, "Of course not." He pulls his hand away, looking down at you as he wraps it around your thigh, keeping you still as you body folds in two. You feel like slapping him- like screaming- but your body's too exhausted to do anything but collapse back on the mattress, shaking slightly as you feel the come-down hit.

He kisses your thigh lightly, eyes still fixed on the sight. He smiles, he clearly knows what he's doing, playing with you, completely in control. Your eyes shut as you try to even put your ragged breath.

"How should I fuck you? From behind? Watch your ass bounce as I pound into you, yeah?" His fingers work up the inside of your thigh, gently gliding against you skin, "Or maybe I'll get you to ride me- really make you work for that chance to cum?" He brushes his thumb against your clit. Your whole body shakes- half of you trying to move away, the other half desperate for more. He smiles, "Next time. Right now I just wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk tomorrow."

You feel him move, his body shifting as he drags his boxers down his legs, and then he's back above you, body pressed against yours as he kisses up your chest, nestles his face into your neck. You feel him let out a soft breath as he drags the head of his cock through your pussy, his jaw strained, blinking hard as he keeps himself together.

"Yeah?" All he's able to get out. He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours.

You nod, "Please-"

He doesn't need anything else, slamming into you with a hard thrust. You gasp, hands wrapping around his biceps, your whole body lurching as he fills you. For a moment a striking pain hits you, the feeling of him stretching you out, any foreplay forgotten by the size of his cock. But then that feeling melts, pleasure overwhelming you, the delicious stretch, the feeling of every inch inside of you.

He drags back slowly, making sure you're used to him before he pushes in again, a loud grunt pushed out of him. You dig your nails into his arms, your head rolling back. He takes the chance to bite down on your throat, fixing another mark to your skin.

"So tight- so fuckin' wet- you're doing so good for me-" he murmurs against you.

You can't reply, your mind going numb, just the quiet uh uh uh falling from your lips on every thrust.

"Silly girl-" he mocks, "-you haven't got a single thought left, have y'?"

Any other time, any other day, any other second, you'd punch him for a question like that. But he's right, your whole brain has gone, replaced by white hot pleasure. You feel your pussy clench around him at his words, nails digging deeper into his muscles.

He smiles, "All fucked out- doin' so good-"

He speeds up, biting at your jaw, panting softly as his whole body works against you. You can feel his chest burning into you, the loud pounding of his heartbeat mixed with your own.

"Just stay like that- drunk on my cock- just let me take care of y'."

You whimper, your whole body on fire, the feeling of him feeling you. He keeps thrusting into you, faster, frantic. The room fills with your desperate gasps, his loud grunts, the obscene sounds of his cock inside your cunt. You can't think of anything, just the noise and the feeling and the need.

He moves his lips next to your ear, whispering quietly, "You wanna cum?"

You nod desperately, your chest filled with fear from his betrayals. You blink up at him, eyes sparkling with tears, silently begging him to keep going, to give you your release.

He takes a long look at you, whole body moving above you, then leans back down, nips your earlobe between his teeth, "Stay there- just stay- make me proud- be good for me darlin'- just another minute-"

Your teeth grind together, a small whimper as your lip quivers, your body right on the edge, ready to topple. His hand moves up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around it. It's not tight, but it's possessive, it's a reminder of what he could do to you.

He pulls back, eyes washing over you, analytical as he takes you in, your dancing eyes, your lips parting in another gasp. He smiles, tilting his head to one side, "You wanna be good?"

You bite down hard on your lip, you try to nod but your mind is too gone to do anything.

His face goes dark, "Cum for me."

Your whole body reels, back arching, legs twitching, a loud moan falling from your lips. Your head rolls back into the pillows, eyes squeezing shut, toes curling. Your orgasm shocks though you, you feel like you're falling, tumbling off that precipice you've been so desperate to leap from.

He fucks you through it, devouring the sight like a wolf. You feel as he cums inside you, deep and desperate, his body twitching above you, pace faltering as he tries to keep going. He slows as you collapse back against the mattress, body weak, mind wiped.

For a second he stays there, still slowly grinding into you, his movements lethargic, the bead of sweat at his temple only just clinging on. Then he pulls out with a tight groan, collapsing on the mattress next to you.

The room is quiet for a long minute- the sound of your panting, his ragged breath, the only noise. You feel your mind falling again slowly, beginning to make sense of your surroundings, the rough fabric below your body, Dean's cum dripping out of you, your body slick with sweat.

He moves slowly, like it hurts him just to lift his head, but in time he gets there- gently pushing your body onto its side- his body moving next to you. He spoons you gently, his arm heavy as he wraps it over you, his breathing still rough next to your ear. He finds his place, palm on your sternum, thumb between your tits as he feels your heart pounding in your chest.

"God baby-" he murmurs quietly, kissing just behind your ear, "-y'did so good."

You nod slowly, feeling the fabric beneath your fingertips, still trying to blink yourself awake.

"Made me so proud, so proud- did such a good job- y'such a good girl."

He kisses along your neck, plants a soft one on your shoulder as he turns you slightly. His eyes rake over your body as he props himself up. He kisses the top of your breast, working down over your ribs as he runs his fingers across your thighs. For a second you think he's trying for more- your body too exhausted to even entertain the idea- but then you see what he's looking at- systematically working his way over the marks on your body. He takes his time to make sure you're alright, gently pressing down on any bruising to make sure it's not sore, watching your expression carefully for any sign of pain. Only when he trusts you're okay does he move back next to you.

"You're so beautiful." He murmurs, quieter, almost shy- "I've always thought you're beautiful."

He shifts, pulling away from you as he moves to sit up. He steadies himself against the mattress before he stands- keeping his movements slow. You reach out instinctively, desperate for him to stay close.

He smiles, running his fingers down your arm, "Just a second, baby."

You hear him move away as you close your eyes, sinking further against the mattress. The sound of running water, the soft padding of Deans feet against the carpet. When you creak your eyes back open he's next to you, leaning down as he moves to sit on the bed.

He pulls the damp towel up, gently pressing it against your forehead. The cold water chills you for a moment, shocked by the sensation- and then you welcome it, your body still on fire without you realising. He drags it down across your neck, over your collarbone, taking the chance to flatten out the bandages across your shoulder- the wound you'd half forgotten until now. He quickly runs it over your breasts, momentarily getting distracted by the sight of your nipples hardening. You see bruising on his own arm, where your fingers dug into him, a soft pattern splayed against his skin.

He moves to your thigh, resting it on the purple marks as he looks at you, "Deep breaths, it'll only be a moment, okay? Just gotta trust me-"

You nod, not understanding but trusting all the same.

He drags the towel up until it's between your thighs, gently pressing it against your pussy. You squeeze your eyes shut, the ice cold sensation half thrilling and half shattering. He keeps it there until the feeling washes over you, replaces with the soothing he clearly intended, your body relaxing again, eyes blinking open.

He throws the towel to the side of the room, letting it join the iodine soaked one on the floor.

He stands again, making his way over to his duffle, still resting on the small table. He pulls out his bottle of water, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as he moves back onto the bed, sinking down next to you.

He holds the bottle in front of you- you go to take it, wrapping your hand around it- but he keeps his there. Only when you go to move it do you realize why, your body still weak, arms still exhausted. He helps you, bringing it to your lips and pouring a small sip in. You gulp it down, letting it refresh you more than you realized you needed.

He pulls it away slowly and throws the lid back on and dropping it next to him as he drags your body back over. You lay there quietly, your head on his chest, his heartbeat still thumping desperately in your ears. He drags his finger over your spine, slow and repetitive, lulling you to safety.

You hear the soft patter of rain start to hit the window, the sound of the storm breaking outside. Dean kisses your forehead, relaxing into the feeling, "I'll drive out and get us some food in a bit- what do you want?"

You realize you haven't eaten since midday- the hunt outweighing everything else. You think for a moment, "Fries-" another moment, "-and a milkshake."

He chuckles, "What flavor?"

"Strawberry."

He smiles, "Fries and a strawberry shake it is."

He hold you tight, dragging his finger tips over you. It feels nice, being in his arms, the warmth of his body feels comforting, enveloping.

He looks down at you, locking eyes as he gives you a small smile, "Promise me you're not quitting?"

You quirk an eyebrow, "What?"

"I'll give you that whenever you ask just- promise me you're not gonna quit."

You chuckle lightly, rolling your eyes, "You're saying that was all because of what I said? All for me? You didn't get anything out of it?"

“I bet you can’t tie this cherry stem into a knot with your tongue.”

If there was something Dean liked, it was a challenge. And Dean never backed down from challenges. You would’ve never handed over your alcohol-soaked cherry you plucked from the bottom of your glass to Dean if you knew he’d start doing this every time you or Sam ordered a drink or milkshake with a cherry.

It was cute watching his brows furrow together and tongue prod around against his cheeks as he focused, and then his face lighting up as he held the tied stem between his perfect teeth. Of course, he was able to tie the cherry stem with his tongue. You would be stupid to think otherwise with the number of women he’s been with. Admittedly, you just wanted to see that familiar boyish grin on his face that etches across his face when he proudly shows off anything he’s done. And he does.

But you’ve created a monster.

“Hey! C’mon, man, I was going to eat that,” Sam grumbles as Dean shrugs and bites into the cherry. Already having finished his meal and dessert, Dean was left to boredly watch you and Sam finish the rest of your meals slowly.

“Too slow,” Dean says after chewing and swallowing the sweet fruit, slipping the stem into his mouth to try and tie it.

Sam gives you a look, the “do you see what you’ve done” look. You just give Sam a small, sympathetic smile, but you’re shriveling up inside— beating yourself up for doing this— to both of you. It’s mostly worse for you because you can’t stop thinking about Dean’s mouth. You already thought he had the prettiest lips, plump and kissable. But with the addition of what his tongue could do? You’re ruined.

He’s still playing with the stem in his mouth by the time you and Sam are following him out the door and getting into Baby to drive back to the motel. And you can’t help but stare intensely from the backseat, eventually meeting Dean’s equally piercing, yet curious gaze in the driver’s mirror. “Looks like you’re thinking real hard back there, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I’m trying to use the force to choke you.”

“Well, with the way you’re looking at me, you’re choking the wrong part.” Dean grins, shooting you a wink that has you snapping out of your tense stare to look away sheepishly. Your heart can barely take it.

“Dean, that’s gross,” Sam groans, covering his face in secondhand embarrassment at Dean’s flirting. Dean just lets out a throaty chuckle before putting the car into drive and taking off in the direction of the motel.

You liked to think that you had a chance with Dean at one point, when you were younger and naive.

Freshly thrown into the world of hunting a couple years ago, you thought you could conquer anything with nothing but Bobby’s knowledge and half-baked skills— all the while running on a maximum of three hours of sleep and a case of energy drinks that were sure to be shutting down your insides soon. You learned your lesson quickly when you nearly lost your head fighting an axe-throwing vengeful spirit, only to be saved last second by Dean pulling you out the way. Despite being chewed out for being so reckless, you couldn’t help but think about how he was one of the prettiest men you’ve ever met. You didn’t plan to stick with the brothers either, it just kind of happened. And Bobby lectured you about how good it would be for you since they were so experienced, so it seemed as if you didn’t have much choice anyway.

You curse Bobby sometimes because of it when you find yourself wanting Dean like you’ve never known what true yearning meant until him. Hands grasping for his only to find your curled fingers empty and his across the bar on someone that wasn’t you. You tried to get over it, really tried, but no one ever felt right— even when they felt vaguely like him in between if you squeezed your eyes closed hard enough.

Arriving at the motel, you can feel a sigh of relief slip from your lips seeing the neon red letters blinking in and out sporadically. Sam must’ve been feeling the same thing because he’s the first out of the car and halfway to the room. And just when you think you’re about to be free from this self-made hell you’ve created, opening the car door to get out as well, Dean calls out to Sam.

“Hey, Sammy? We’re goin’ to the convenience store real quick, be back in a bit.”

You pause halfway out of the car, eyes flickering over to meet Dean’s unreadable gaze as he tilts his head for you to get into the front.

“Uh, alright,” Sam says, sharing a brief look with you as you open the passenger door. And the look on your face had Sam biting his lip to hold back a laugh. “Have fun,” is the last thing you wanted to hear from him, mouthing an aggressive “you’re dead to me” before sitting in place where Sam previously was.

You shouldn’t be this nervous. Why were you so nervous? It’s not like you haven’t driven alone with Dean before. You think maybe it’s because of his recent habit he’s picked up that you can’t get off your mind, but you figure out that it’s most likely because he’s quiet. He’s too quiet. No obnoxious singing, no reaching over the console to ruffle your hair or prod at your side to get you to laugh, nothing. And it makes you uneasy.

Looking at him from the corner of your eyes— he doesn’t seem angry. Sure, his eyebrows are narrowed deeply into his glabella, but the rest of his face seems more thoughtful than anything with the stem bitten between his perfect teeth. Maybe he’s constipated? God, you don’t know anymore— does he know? Maybe Sam told him, but Sam would never betray you like that. And now he’s looking over at you with that weird look on his face like you’re the weird one—

“You good?”

No, not really, you feel like a skittish animal who’s never seen a human in its life. “What? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m good, I’m—“ you pause to clear your throat and lean back in your seat while making a small motion with your hand, “— chill… why?”

Dean suppresses a snort, face contorting into one of amusement as you fumble nervously over your own words. He turns back to look ahead, index finger tapping against the steering wheel slowly. “You’re fidgety.” He takes the tied stem from his teeth and mindlessly tosses it into the cup holder.

“I’m not fidgety, you’re fidgety,” Is your quick retort as you cross your arms over your chest and avert your eyes. “I’m cool.” Christ, you act as if you’ve never been around a guy before.

“Uh huh…” By his body language, now Dean’s shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Great, you made him uncomfortable. “Look—“ he starts out and you dread hearing the “I know you like me but we’re just friends” speech. “If I made you uncomfortable earlier with my joke, I… uh, sorry,” he says almost sheepishly. And you don’t get why he’s apologizing because it’s not the first time he’s ever made a flirty comment or joked with you like that before.

“What? Dean— no, you didn’t…” You trail off, hands falling onto your thighs to tap your fingers anxiously. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“You looked it. And maybe it’s just because I didn’t notice it before, but I don’t wanna do anything that you don’t feel comfortable with, y’know?”

Banging your head against the window would be ten times better than confronting what you’re about to confront. Damn him and damn your inability to hide the flustered expression creeping over your face. “It’s not like that,” you manage out in a strained voice.

“Then what’s it like?” There’s a tinge of frustration as he says your name and looks over at you. “Because I don’t get— “

You don’t say anything, your silence answers enough as you turn your head and look away nervously like a guilty dog after chewing up the furniture.

“Oh.”

Oh.

There’s a long beat of silence that hangs in the air between you like a thick fog, weighing heavy on your chest. You don’t dare look at him, not when your ears are burning and your stomach’s trying to climb into your throat. You try to stay calm, keep your cool, but your heart is thumping like it’s about to knock your ribs loose.

“You— you like me? Like… like-like me?” Dean says it out loud like he’s in disbelief at the thought.

You let out a short breath in what could sound like exasperated amusement at his words. “I want you. I’ve wanted you, Dean.”

Now he looks at you. Fully turns his head for a second, his jaw slack with surprise before he quickly turns back to the road.

You laugh, self-deprecating and breathless. “See? This is why I didn’t say anything.”

“No—no, hold on,” Dean says, pulling Baby over into a near-empty parking lot and throwing her into park. He twists in his seat to look at you now, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to solve you. “You’re saying that you actually… you’ve got a thing for me? Like, have had a thing?”

You let out a groan like you’re in pain. “Yes, Dean— since the axe-wielding ghost that tried to mount my head on a wall.”

Dean blinks. “You’re kidding.”

You shake your head.

“That’s… fuck.” He rubs a hand over his face. “All this time, and I’ve been—” he groans. “Jesus. I thought you were just… not into me.”

You finally meet his eyes again, confused. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I’m into you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And I’ve been too chicken shit to say anything ’cause I didn’t wanna screw up what we had. I figured if you did like me, you would’ve said something by now.”

You blink this time.

And then you’re cracking up into a fit of laughter, not entirely sure if it’s from the situation or if you’re about to lose your mind over the fact that Dean Winchester of all people wanted you.

Dean gives you a look, one that’s unsure and slightly concerned.

“Sorry,” You quickly stop laughing and clear your throat, avoiding his eyes again. “I just—“ you take in a deep breath and exhale, leaning back into the passenger seat. “I feel stupid now,” You murmur, head tilting back to press against the headrest as you look at the roof like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Yeah, well I feel stupider.”

Both of you sit in silence for what feels like eternity as awkwardness eats away at your nerves until Dean is picking up the cherry stem from earlier and messing with it between his fingers, like he’s waiting for something. And Dean doesn’t wait. At least he usually doesn’t.

But this was different.

“Dean.”

His gaze meets yours, a sheepish almost hesitant look on his face as you push down the urge to run away from the situation.

“Can I kiss you?”

You can practically see him perk up at the question, lips curling just wide enough to show his perfect teeth with a gleam in his eyes. “Really?” His mouth twitches like he’s rewiring before clearing his throat and relaxing. “I mean, yeah.”

And your lips pull into a small grin at his behavior before moving in your seat to face him, his own body turning to you as your hands subconsciously find their way to cup either side of his face to pull him forward over the console.

What you didn’t expect was for him to get too excited and shift his head forward eagerly, forehead slamming into yours.

“Fuck!”

“Ow— shit, sorry!”

You hiss in pain, hand flying to rub at the spot as Dean winces. “Let me kiss you, Dean. You’re like a walking OSHA violation for romance,” You grumble.

Despite the countless women he’s been with, Dean doesn’t remember ever being this awkward— or embarrassed. But he can’t help but get nervous, because this isn’t a passing one-night stand with any woman. You know him. You’ve seen him at his worst moments, the ones where he’s screaming until his vocal cords are raw and his chest is heaving, the ones where he breaks everything he touches because he’s never known how to truly fix things regardless of the bravado he puts on acting like he does.

And it scares him.

Because you’ve never pulled away, never looked at him differently. He wasn’t just a hunter, wasn’t just Sam’s older brother, wasn’t just someone who was doing everything they could to stop an apocalypse— he was just him. Just Dean.

And when your lips finally pressed to his, he was yours.

Dean melts near instantly when your lips slant to shape against him, a calloused hand dropping the stem he’d been anxiously fidgeting with to rest on the back of your neck. There’s a sighed groan that rumbles through his chest and into his throat, head tilting to deepen the kiss. You’re able to taste the cherry pie he had earlier at the diner when he coaxes your lips apart to explore the inside of your mouth, tongue lapping against your own salaciously—mind growing fuzzier each passing second. You refuse to pull away until you’re out of breath and taking in gulps of air, but even then, you’re still hovering just centimeters away from Dean’s lips. He looks just about the same as you, chest rising and falling heavily but ignoring the need for any air other than the breath on your lips. His eyes flicker over your face to take you in, hand moving from your nape to cup the side of your face to carefully wipe his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Wish I did this years ago,” He whispers breathlessly before guiding you into another kiss. This time, his hands are dropping to your thighs to scoop you from your seat as he unbuckles your seatbelt to pull over the console onto his lap. Your legs shift to straddle him properly, ass pressing into the steering wheel before a loud blaring of the horn has you and Dean jumping away from each other. You let out a quiet snort shortly after realizing what happened, leaning forward away from the wheel and into Dean’s chest with your hands resting on his broad shoulders.

“This isn’t very tactical,” You point out with a small grin, Dean chuckling at the levity of the situation before it tapers off into a thoughtful hum.

You watch his head tilt and eyes flit over the backseat before meeting your gaze again, his hands briefly squeezing your thighs. “Depends,” He murmurs, “How far do you want to go?”

Swallowing down the small lump in your throat, you take in the look on his face, the only light reflecting off his features being from the dull luminosity of the moon and faint dashboard lights. And he’s really looking at you, drinking you in like he’d be satisfied if you’d stop here and continue the rest of the night like normal. But that’s the last thing you want because despite the look in his eyes, the bulge in his jeans says otherwise and you don’t think you could say no even if you tried. “Wanna go all the way,” You hear yourself saying quietly before thinking any further.

“Yeah?” Dean murmurs before leaning forward to press a softer kiss to your lips, hands rubbing over your hips before lifting them. “Backseat then, pretty girl.”

A throb pulses through you to your lower stomach, but you hide it by giving a half-hearted nod in return to his words and climb into the backseat, shifting to get comfortable as Dean follows close behind. Just as he climbs over the console, his hand slips off the seat and he tumbles into your lap, foot kicking into the radio with a string of curses following behind as you giggle. The radio crackles to life quietly, the familiar intro to Drive by The Cars playing.

“Fuck—uh, meant to do that,” Dean clears his throat as he moves out of your lap and properly settles into the backseat, kneeling on the seat between your legs.

Your forehead bumps against his, lips clumsily slotting together, hands roaming to undress one another eagerly. You push his jacket off his shoulders, sighing softly into his mouth when his hands ruck up your tank top to grope and palm at your chest. He pulls away from the kiss to tug off the tank top, tossing it aside before leaning back in to kiss down from your lips to your jaw and then to your neck. Sucking in a shaky breath, you can’t help but shiver when his warm lips trail down your cleavage and murmur a surprised noise when his knees drop from the seat to the footwell. “Dean, what are you—” You start out before he’s quietly shushing you and mouthing a trail of kisses down your tummy to the waistband of your jeans.

“Jus’ wanna taste, that okay, baby?” He mumbles against your skin, eyes meeting yours for permission as his hands hover over your jeans.

You crumble under his gaze quickly and nod with a hazy hum before he’s unbuttoning and pulling down your jeans. Your feet kick off your boots lazily when your pants bunch down at your ankles, leaving you in just your bra and underwear.

“God, you’re so pretty, sweetheart,” Dean says reverently, fingers ghosting over your inner thighs before pushing them apart to make more room for him. “So fucking gorgeous,” he adds as his eyes fall to the damp crotch of your underwear. “This all f’me, sweet girl?”

“Mhm,” you hum back, hips jolting when he brings a thumb to press against the wet spot, rubbing small circles over your clothed clit. You try not to squirm too much, but it’s difficult when he’s taking his time with you and talking to you like this, not to mention how he’s looking at you with a carnal hunger in his eyes.

Dean’s low and heavy chuckle breaks you out of your muddled thoughts, a moan slipping past your lips as his thumb drags down from your clit to press forward. The shallow feeling of his thumb prodding just at your entrance through the cloth causes your hips to jolt again. “Sensitive, sweetheart?”

“Dean—” you whine out, growing frustrated with his teasing touch. “Please,” you whisper, hands holding yourself steady on the seat, nails digging into the vinyl seat. “Need you.”

Groaning roughly, Dean’s fingers are curling into your underwear and tearing them off before hooking his arms around your thighs and angling your hips to fit against his mouth. The first taste he has of you is a filthy mouthful, tongue dragging through your slick folds upwards to your clit, sucking harshly enough to make your hips buck up.

You gasp out, hand flying to his hair to grip at the short strands as he laps you up with fervor, arms trapping your thighs from shutting around his head. “Baby— feels s’fucking good.” But he’s barely paying attention, too busy burying himself further between your thighs like it was his salvation. And he can’t help but chastise himself over taking so long to finally have you like this, hands squeezing and holding your thighs to keep them still for him as your arousal drips down his chin.

“Keep still, baby, gotta keep still while I eat this pretty pussy out. Fuckin’ dripping for me,” he rasps out heavily between mouthfuls of your cunt. “Been wanting this, huh? My mouth on you.” You’re trembling in his grasp at this point, but he’s barely started with you. His nose bumps against your clit when his tongue slips down to slide past your tight entrance and then back up to suck around your throbbing bundle of nerves. When you don’t answer him, his hand slaps against the outside of your thigh lightly, mouth parting from your core. “Answer me,” your name slips from his lips and it sounds sinful, sending shivers down your spine.

“Yes!” You whimper out, fingers curling into his scalp. “Wanted you, wanted your mouth on me, De.”

“Atta girl,” he gruffly murmurs out before going back to eating you out eagerly, shifting on his knees from how uncomfortable his cock straining in his jeans were. God, did it ache to not be in you, filling you up and stretching you out to fit around him like you were made for each other. But it sure as hell made it worth the ache seeing you crumble beneath him like this, begging for him like his touch is the only thing you’ve ever known.

And when you fall apart, thighs straining against his firm grip in attempts to clamp down on him, he groans into you. You barely make a noise, your mind swimming in pleasure as you grind against his tongue, chest stuttering at the erotic noise of him loudly slurping up everything you have to offer. Your limbs feel heavy, fingers uncurling from his hair to lazily fix it all the while still trembling from the aftermath of your orgasm.

Dean lets out a breathless laugh at your blissed out state, pulling away from you as he wipes the rest of his mouth with the back of his hand. “You alright there, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” you mumble out as you gather yourself back together, watching him move back onto the seat with you. Your legs sit spread over his thighs, sitting between his legs and shuddering when his bulge brushes against your sensitive pussy. “Need all of you.”

“I know, baby girl,” he croons, lips brushing against your own before he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans to pull his cock out of his briefs and nearly signs in relief. It’s thick and lengthy, curved just slightly in a way you know will have your thighs shaking by the end and it’s throbbing with need. When his hand wraps around the shaft of his cock, precum spills out from his tip in rivulets down his length to slicken himself up with a throaty groan. Just as his free hand reaches into his tossed jacket to pull out a condom from his wallet, you grab his wrist.

“M’on the pill, wanna feel you.”

And Dean freezes in place just momentarily to look at you before he’s dropping the condom and crashing his lips against you again like you just broke the world’s best news to him. “Wanna feel you too,” he muffles between your kisses before he’s guiding the tip of his cock to slide between your folds with a moan. “Been thinking about this, having you finally— all spread out and needy for me,” he admits quietly, lips twitching up at the corners when your hips jerk at the way his tip rubs over your clit. He then slips down to your entrance, pressing just barely past your tight hole. “Looking like a goddamn dream,” Dean nearly whimpers as he slides in past the tip, forehead pressed to yours.

Your moans mingle with his own stifled noises, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, holding onto him as he crowds you between the seat and his body, squishing you in the best way possible with every inch he’s slowly pushing into your warmth. “Dean,” you mindlessly let out, a desperate whine falling from your lips as he bottoms out finally. “Please, I—“

“You’re perfect, so fucking perfect for me,” Dean pants out, face falling to the crook of your neck as his hips still against you to take a moment. “And pretty,” he adds with a pitchy sigh as he slowly grinds his hips into you in an experimental manner. “Oh, fuck—“

Your ankles lock together around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to push him deeper despite being pressed against you like the concept of space didn’t exist. “Move, please,” you plead, hips shifting to move along with him until he’s holding you still.

“Uh, uh, baby,” he murmurs, grinding into you again. “You let me do the work. We’ll get there, promise.” His arms wrap around you, hands sliding up your back to hold onto you before he’s sliding in and out of you slowly with his face still tucked into your neck. “Just needed to keep myself from coming right away, you feel too good.”

You’re getting hazy again as his cock breaches places you’re sure no one else could ever reach and accept that you’re ruined for anyone else. You take in his scent, nose and mouth pressed against the slope of his throat as he continues to fuck you slow and thorough like he’s memorizing every ridge and bump inside of you. He smells like faint woodsy cologne with an overwhelming scent that was uniquely him: motor oil, gunpowder, leather, faint smoke, and sweat. And you drown in it, clutching onto him weakly and moaning lowly into his skin when he angles his hips to hit that spongy part buried in you.

“That’s it, baby, all you have to do is let that cock slide in and out of you, just like that,” Dean groans, pace picking up just barely until a mixture of your arousal and his precum is frothing at the base of his cock, dripping down his balls. “My pretty girl— ruin me so fucking good, don’t need anyone else but you,” he rambles mindlessly as he brings his forehead up to press against yours again, lips barely brushing together. “M’all yours. This cock is yours. You hear me, sweetheart?” Dean huffs against your flushed face, chest rising and falling heavily as his hips falter just slightly.

You nod like you’ve barely got any sense left, lidded eyes meeting his pupil-blown ones, barely even a ring of green left. “All yours, too, Dean. Wanna be with you,” you let slip out before you can stop the words from coming out. You’re too far gone at this point, coil drawn tight in your tummy and clit throbbing for his touch.

“Yeah? We can do that,” he whispers before he’s kissing you, lips desperate and hips rutting up in short yet deep strokes into your clenching heat. “Take you out on a proper date tomorrow, how ‘bout that, huh? Just like my girl deserves.”

Your heart clenches in your chest, aching in a good way as you nod again, lips moving along his own subconsciously until he’s pulling away.

“You close, sweetheart? Can feel you around me,” he mumbles, earning a small “yeah” from your parted lips. “Where d’you want it?”

“Inside,” you respond without a second thought, earning a breathy sounding “fuck” in your ears from him.

“You just want it all,” Dean lets out an airy laugh before he’s focusing on bringing you to the edge, half thrusting and half grinding into you with fervor. “Gonna fill you up till you’re fucking stuffed with my cum, baby. Not gonna waste a single drop,” he grunts as he brings a hand between your bodies to rub his thumb over your clit in time with his thrusts.

“Coming, Dean— fuck! Please, please, please…” you practically slur out, thighs quivering when he circles the pad of his thumb over your clit harder as he grinds up into your sweet spot one last time, sending you tumbling over the edge again. Your vision blurs momentarily as he ruts into you a few more times, whining under his breath as your tight cunt pulses around him in a desperate need to milk his cock dry until he’s coming in you with a broken curse and stilling hips.

His release fills you, warm and viscous until his balls are emptied and he slowly pulls out, eyes dropping down to watch his cum slip out of your soft pussy with a groan. He uses his thumb to swipe it up before pushing it back in, chuckling at your weak whimper in return. “You were so good for me, sweetheart.” He tenderly kisses your lips as you both catch your breath, resting his forehead to yours.

The radio still plays in the background quietly, multiple tracks ahead now to Angel Eyes by The Jeff Healey Band and you sigh.

“You alright?” Dean asks, eyes flickering over your exhausted expression as he brings his clean hand up to cup the side of your face with care.

“Yeah,” your voice comes out scratchy before you let a beat of silence between you pass over. “Did you actually mean it?” You clear your throat, finally meeting his gaze. “The date…”

Dean gives you a once over before doing a terrible job of holding back a grin, thumb tracing over your cheek. “Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t mean it, pretty girl.”

Your lips shape into a small smile back. “Okay.”

“C’mon, gotta get back to the motel or else Sammy’ll take all the hot water,” Dean murmurs, placing a final kiss to your forehead before shifting to help dress you and tuck himself back into his jeans.

The drive back to the motel is quiet for the most part aside from Dean’s content humming to the radio, his hand over your thigh— thumb rubbing soothing circles over you.

Sam is still inside, sitting by the small desk table the motel comes with, reading up on some lore when you enter. He takes one look at the both of you, and he isn’t stupid which is why he mockingly asks:

“So, what’d you get at the store?”

“Son of a bitch— that’s what we were out for!” Dean groans, scrubbing his face. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—

“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”

The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.

He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.

So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.

“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”

He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.

“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”

And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.

You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.

You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”

He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”

You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.

Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”

He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”

You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”

He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.

God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.

The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.

The door slides open with a quiet beep—

And the air hits you like a punch to the face.

Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.

Chemical.

You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.

Gas.

“No, no, no—”

You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.

The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.

You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”

But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.

The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.

You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.

Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.

Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.

You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.

His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—

Connected. Like he feels it too.

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.

And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.

To you. And him. Together.

—-

You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.

By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.

By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.

He, unfortunately, looks fine.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.

You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”

He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.

It makes your teeth itch.

“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.

A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.

Mental static. Not yours.

“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”

You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”

You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”

He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”

You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”

You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.

Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.

The door hisses open.

Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.

“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”

You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”

“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”

Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”

Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”

“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”

“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”

She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”

“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”

You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”

You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”

“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.

You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”

He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.

Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.

Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”

“What? Why?” you ask.

“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”

You blink. “Escalation?”

“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”

You stare.

Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.

He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.

He falls in step beside you.

And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”

You don’t look at him.

He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”

—

The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.

Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.

You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.

It doesn’t work.

There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.

Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.

You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.

The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.

“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”

“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”

His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.

You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”

He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.

Blackjack. Of course.

“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”

“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”

You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.

Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.

You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.

You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”

He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”

He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”

He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”

You don’t answer right away.

Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.

But it’s not the room. It’s him.

You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.

Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.

Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—

Wait.

Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.

It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.

For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is lower now. Cautious.

You nod too fast. “Fine.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.

“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”

“She said it’s temporary.”

“She also said we might share dreams.”

Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”

“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”

A beat.

“You think I want you in mine?”

That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.

The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.

You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.

You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”

He snorts. “In that order?”

“Especially in that order.”

You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.

You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.

— 

The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.

You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.

The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.

You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.

None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.

His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.

You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.

You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.

From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“You feel that too?”

It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.

You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”

And you mean it. Sort of.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.

He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.

Then, “No.”

You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”

A breath passes.

“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.

“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”

You stay still. Hold your breath.

“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”

The weight of it lands between you like ash.

“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.

“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”

Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.

His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."

“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.

There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.

“Well. Fuck me.”

You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”

His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.

Want.

It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.

You flinch. Inhale sharply.

He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”

You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”

“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”

You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.

“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”

“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”

You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.

“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.

“Good thing I don’t work here.”

You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.

You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I already do.”

You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.

—

You’re dreaming.

You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life. 

You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.

And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.

You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.

Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.

Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.

Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.

But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.

Bucky.

But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.

Your dream flickers.

A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.

Your pulse stutters. And then—

It hits.

The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.

And suddenly you’re underground.

A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.

It’s his.

“Bucky?” you call out.

No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.

He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.

He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.

He’s not Bucky. Not here.

You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.

The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.

He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.

“Don’t look.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.

He still won’t face you.

“Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”

But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.

Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.

You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.

“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.

“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”

He winces. Like that makes it worse.

“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.

His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.

The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly.

And then—

—

You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.

Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.

You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”

“Yeah,” you rasp.

You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.

He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”

“No. But it’s still mine.”

You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.

“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.

He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”

You nod once.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”

You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.

The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.

“I’m not tired,” you say.

He glances up at you. “Me neither.”

It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.

You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.

No one speaks for a while. And then—

“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”

The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw. 

You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.

Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.

And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.

Is it the link?

You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.

“Do you have them a lot?”

He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low.  “Used to. Nightly. For years.”

You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”

“Not like that,” he admits.

Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.

“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is. 

“Was it easier this time? With me there?”

This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.

You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.

You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.

—

You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.

You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.

You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.

You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.

Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.

He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.

You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.

“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”

He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”

“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”

It’s a joke. You think.

But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”

You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.

There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“I feel… weird,” you murmur.

He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.

You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”

“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”

Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.

And then the door hisses open.

Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”

You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”

You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”

You blink. “Somatic?”

Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”

You just stare.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”

“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”

You freeze.

“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.

She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”

You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.

Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”

You and Bucky don’t move.

“You mean—” you start.

“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”

You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.

Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”

She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.

The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.

“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.

“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”

Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.

You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.

Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.

You swallow. Hard.

He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.

Low. Sharp. Direct.

Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.

Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.

The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.

He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.

“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.

“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.

Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.

“That. The thing with your legs.”

You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”

“I know,” he growls.

And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.

You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”

“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”

You lock eyes. And don’t look away.

The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.

Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.

Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:

“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.

Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”

“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”

He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It feels like the point.”

You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”

He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”

There’s a long pause.

And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”

You blink.

“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“About you.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”

“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.

Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”

“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”

His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”

You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“That.”

You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”

“Look at me like that.”

You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”

“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”

You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”

You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.

It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.

“You think about it too,” you say quietly.

He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.

“Nothing reckless.”

You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”

“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”

You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself.  You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.

His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.

You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.

“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”

You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.

He is.

“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.

—-

The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.

Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.

It doesn’t work.

You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.

Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.

And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.

You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.

But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.

And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.

And worse—you want him to.

You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.

But something flares like it’s hungry too.

Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.

You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.

The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.

How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.

Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.

The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.

You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.

You press your hands over your face.

“Fuck.”