Gemini's Hidden Library

Ormund's return to Oldtown extended far beyond being just well-awaited, since the morning of his departure, you felt as though each and every fibre of your being longed for him, for his presence, for his touch. As Lord of Oldtown and Head of House Hightower, his duties led his presence to be required elsewhere, taking the role of supreme commander of the extensive host of House Hightower in loyalty to the Green faction. The Targaryen battle for the crown had expanded its impact across the Realm, dividing Houses, causing conflict, and straining those involved, including your Husband, Ormund.

He was notably away more, busied with carrying out the commands of the King and fighting against those in indefinite support of the usurper, Rhaenyra, in order to ensure the Realm remains just and in order. Even when Ormund's duties did not stray him away from Oldtown, it did stray him away from you, with late nights in his solar or in the bustles of meetings being more common than his form lying beside yours in your marriage bed.

Ormund had been gone for almost the entirety of a moon; the raven notifying his path to repatriation had been something you had been waiting for more than you cared to admit, leaving the pit of dread that had been piled in your stomach for weeks to slowly be replaced by a sense of relief and expectation; your Ormund was soon to return to the Hightower and to you. The days that followed his letter seemed far longer than any other; hours passed with a lack of haste, where all you could think about was Ormund and how far away you suspected he was from the city, and at night, you could barely sleep as thoughts lulled around in your head constantly.

Over the many months that the war had grown, you had gotten used to the subconscious feeling of worry and the foreboding possibilities of Ormund being injured or worse, if that was even possible, but the feelings that accompanied his awaited return never ceased in feeling so large and important. On the fourth day of awaiting his return, these feelings increased tenfold as a rider came ahead to announce that they were soon to arrive, and a few hours later, you could see the masses of the Hightower campaign approaching the city from one of the many windows of the Hightower, causing your heart to thunder against your ribs.

The few afternoon hours that followed between the arrival of the singular rider and the arrival of the sheaf of Hightower military forces were filled with the bustling feeling of relief that bloomed inside of you, and ensuring that everything was set in order for your Lord husband and his arrival. Water was to be warmed for your husband's bath to soothe his aching body, the cooks and kitchen staff were ordered to organise his favourite foods for a meal after his long journey, and clean clothes, as well as the finest oils and perfumes from Lys, were to be set out for him.

You were one of the first to greet Ormund; your steps were swift as you trailed through the hallways, stairwells and corridors which led towards the stables and training yard of Hightower, and your hands gripped onto the fine material of your deep green dress so as not to trip on the ends of your skirt. You arrive in the yard just as Ormund manoeuvres his horse towards the stable boy and dismounts the armoured steed so it can be tended to after its service. You watch as Ormund's jaw clenches as his gaze drifts to a few soldiers standing grouped beside their horses, still mudied with grime and whatever gifts the road had given them during the campaign, his steps heavy against the ground with a sense of pragmatism and clear fatigue as he moves towards the entrance of Hightower.

As his gaze moves from the men towards in front of him, where his dark eyes find your own, a smirk crosses his lips, his lazed pace shifting to a slightly faster one as he approaches your form. You comply by taking a few steps forward, meeting him at a short distance away from the steps, with a small, almost girlish smile curving your own plush lips. Ormund lets out a small sigh, which seemed to stem from relief, as he stood in front of you for a few moments before his armoured body moulds against your own as he pulls you into a tight embrace, his rough hands clenching at the material at the back of your dress.

The embrace, though not entirely long, allowed for enough time for his face to bury in the crook of your neck and inhale your scent, one that felt more like home than Oldtown itself. He retracts himself from you, but keeps contact with you by moving his hands to rest on the backs of your forearms. He is the first to speak up between you, his voice a mixture of calm authority and a firmness that was still present from the campaign, "I'm glad to see you", he states. You do not allow his words to lie in the air between you for too long, replying with a quickness that could only accompany the comfort and glee of his presence. "As am I.., I have missed you a great deal", you admit with a small hum, as his thumbs gently rub against the soft material of your sleeve, a contrast to what he had gotten used to at camp and campaign.

Your gaze trailed across his face and then the rest of him in search of any new injury or changes since the last time you had seen him, but to no avail; he was still your Ormund, and you could find no imperfection on him but the dirt staining his boots. After your reunion unfolded for a few more moments, you ushered him inside as the sky played hues of dark oranges and yellow, with the pretence that a warm bath and a meal were awaiting him. You walk closely beside Ormund as you follow the hallways and stairwells to your shared chambers, your hands intertwined with one of his arms, heavy with the weight of his silver armour, conversation flowed freely between the two of you, between moments of comfortable silence that lay over the sounds of your steps against the stone floors.

The bathing chambers, which were connected to your shared room by a door, had already been prepared by the servants; the bath was filled with water that steamed with the clean yet prominent scent of oils, which could be recognised from your shared chambers. A look crossed Ormund's face as he walked into your shared chambers, expressing his pleasure at the fragrance that emanated from the bath in the receding room; a clear and obvious contrast to the rancid smells that coincided with the effort of campaigns. His hands work off his armour, a duty usually rested upon the hands of a squire, for in his case, it was Daeron; you knew Daeron was well, leading you to simply assume that the boy was tired after the campaign, and Ormund had given him leave, after all, he did have something akin to a soft spot for his second cousin.

You watch as Ormund sheds the last of his armour, placing it on top of a chest to be polished and put away by the servants of the Hightower. His gaze soon drifts to you as he turns around to face, taking a few measured steps towards you before his hands find yours. "Would you care to join me?" he hums out against the flesh of your knuckle as he brings it to his lips to place a kiss on the warmth of the back of your hand, you can feel his lips curl into a knowing smile across the width of your knuckle. He doesn't give you a moment to reply, let alone think of a way to articulate your words, as he moves, his hands going to wrap around your hips, pulling you towards him, his gaze boring into yours in a way that you knew you did not need to express your answer; both of you knew you would agree.

A small sound escapes his lips as his head moves to lower against the crook of your neck, his lips coming in contact with the warmth of your skin; the sound was comparable to a knowing scoff or gentle huff of merriment. His hands move to the lace of your dress's corset, his fingers fiddling with the material to untie it as he presses kisses against the expanse of your neck and bare shoulder, causing your breath to catch in your throat. He lets out a small hum of delight as he unties the lace of your corset, his hands retracting away from it and going to rest on your waist, his lips pulling away from your skin to speak, "Come on," he murmurs against your skin, his words less of an urge and more of a welcome.

His hands stay on your waist, but they angle down so his fingers tangle in the material of your skirts while you lean into his touch fully, your hands going to rest on the mounds of his shoulders, the buds of your fingertips lazily trailing across the pattern of his tunic, gripping the material when his lips return to working across the softness of your neck. His kisses evolve to become sloppier and more depraved in nature, trailing from your shoulder, to one side of your neck, across the very top of your chest and to the other side of your neck, with gentle nips resting in between every few gentle contacts of his lips on your skin. "Ormund," you breathe out mindlessly in a way that seemed as though you just wanted to feel the weight of his name on your tongue. As your eyes flutter shut for a few moments, he lets out a hum in response to your words, the sound vibrating against your skin.

His hands tighten around your hips as he guides you towards the bed, all thoughts of bathing seemed to slip his mind as he focused on the tension that wound between you too. He urges you to sit on the edge of the bed with a small push of his hands that leads you down. His mouth moves towards yours, capturing your lips with his own in a way that threatens to swallow you whole as your hands roam the expanse of his arms, gently trailing your palm up and down the side of his arm. He only pulls away as his hands hastily bunch up the material of your dress, pulling them upwards as he lowers himself to kneel before you, as your hands drift to latch onto his shoulders.

His gaze moves towards the heat between your legs that had been building up during the encounter, and you could feel yourself clenching with need and desire for his touch to lower towards where you needed it most. His hands continued to push up your skirts, so it was bunched up around your hips until he found it to be sufficient enough for his liking. Your own hands came to his aid as you moved to hold the material from falling back down, allowing his focus to remain solely on the wetness he had been eyeing since the very moment he kneeled before you.

His hands moved to free you from any other cloth or material that was obstructing his path before his hands trailed up and down the warmth of your thighs, moving to grip them as he slowly lowered his face deeper between your thighs. You feel the warmth of his breath on you before his lips, they trail across the inside of your thigh, living kisses as small gifts before reaching the desperation of your heat. You feel him pause before his lips come in contact with your heat as he moves your legs upwards towards his shoulder, and therefore forcing your back to lower to the sheets of the bed.

Ormund's hands tighten around the plushness of your thighs; his ring and the coldness of its metal were a sharp contrast to the slopping warmth of his mouth and tongue as it trailed between your folds. His tongue moved up and down a few times, trailing the shape of your heat before focusing on your clit, slowly tracing circles and sucking at the bud of nerves, causing a gasp of pleasure to shamelessly escape your lips. At the sound, Ormund presses his face deeper into your heat, his nose pressing into you as his tongue presses flat against your clit, drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it every so often.

Your breath quickens as he continues to move his tongue against your clit, the feeling of something building in the pit of your stomach urges you further as one of your hands moves to run through his hair and grip onto his locks. Ormund continues, his movements becoming slightly sloppier due to dedication rather than desperation; it was clear that you coming undone on his tongue was something he had been craving long before his return home. "O-Ormund.." you manage between hitched breaths, "I think…I think I'm going to-", you make no effort to finish your sentence, he seemed to already know exactly what you were going to say as his movements became even more devoted to ensuring your release.

His tongue worked at the same pace that made the room feel as though it was spinning, but it felt deeper in a way; his tongue pressed harshly against as he drew circles and sucked on your bud. Your hands tighten, trapping his locks of hair between your fingertips as your legs tighten around his head, locking him against your heat as you feel yourself teasing the edge of release. Ormund adjusts your position, using his grip on your thighs to move them upwards and pressing them open to allow better access to your heat. He continues trailing his tongue around your clit until you find your breathing to become unsteady and quickened as you feel yourself coming undone for your lord husband, your thighs trembling as he continues to tongue fuck you through your orgasm until all you could gasp out was his name.

After a few moments, he pulls away, your hand falling back in your lap whilst he pushes himself upwards so that he was standing before you, his hands still mindlessly resting on your thighs. It was in this position that your guys landed on the bulge in his breaches, the material tented and poor at hiding the outline of throbbing length. He moves on top of you, standing between your thighs as his hands press against the bedding on either side of your head. His mouth goes to press against yours, pulling you into another kiss and forcing you to taste your own sweetness as one of his hands draws back down to push down his breaches to release his length.

He pumps his length a few times before he pulls his lips away, his gaze finding yours as a means of asking if he could continue, you let out a small hum that danced along the line of being a moan. Your hands find themselves back on his shoulders as you let out a small exhale, preparing yourself for the feeling of his length; a feeling that you had been craving since the day of his departure. Ormund lets out a breath himself before he aligns himself with your sopping wet entrance, before his tip slowly presses into the heat of your walls, causing a gasp to escape your lips and your legs to wrap around his waist. He takes a moment to steady himself at the feeling of your tightness before he continues to press his length into you, this time a moan escapes your lips as your head presses back against the plushness of the bed as you clench around the fullness his cock gives.

He moves from pressing his hands against the bed to his elbows, his head moving to burry himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent before he begins rolling his hips. Your hands move from his shoulders to wrap around him, hands gripping at the material at the back of his tunic, while his length dives in and out of you with the movements of his hip, slightly desperate with the longing formed from being away from you for almost a moon, yet with a dominance that could only be stemmed from the authority of someone like Ormund. The pace he set was deep and even, not too slow to cause you to whine with need and not too fast to cause you to ache; it was a pace that allowed you to feel all of him as he pressed against your G-spot while causing your breath to tremble and quicken with pleasure.

You could not help the moans and gasps that mindlessly escaped your lips as you felt pleasure building in your stomach once again, your eyes shut and your mouth shamelessly agape for every sound to spill out. It seemed that Ormund was the same way, with every hushed grunt or groan that vibrated off his lips after every few measured thrusts, it was clear that he himself could feel a heat bubbling within him. It took a few moments before the first curse escaped his lips as one of his hands moved to grab your leg and hoist it over his shoulder to allow himself to thrust deeper inside of you, while the other remained clenched in the sheets of the bed.

"You…feel so good," was all he could either manage or be bothered to groan out as his hips continued to slam against your own with a pace that seemed to slowly quicken before it soon shifted to a rhythm fueled by the need for release for both of you. You could feel yourself clenching tighter around his length, your gasps insistent as you felt the similar feeling of release build within you, coinciding with the sounds that were escaping Ormund's own lips.

It did not take long before Ormund's thrusts became ragged and messy during the few moments before you both reached your peak, his hands gripping tightly onto the sheets while your fingers dig into his flesh as your hips buck against his own. You came just a moment before him, entangled in whimpers and unadulterated sounds, while he let out a trembling groan as he filled your womb with a few more disarrayed thrusts for good measure.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.

Everything is going well… so far.

Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.

Baelor wasn’t spared.

He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.

He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children. 

“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.

“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”

“How could she do that to her own cousins?"

He looked over and saw who they were talking about.

A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity

“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”

Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.

“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”

“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”

"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”

It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.

Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.

Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.

A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.

“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered. 

Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.

“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."

Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.

...

“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.

Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”

Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”

You smiled at their antics.

These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.

“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.

“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.

“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”

You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.

“You think the song is true," Mina asked.

“What song?” You asked.

“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”

You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”

“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"

And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.

The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.

You remained.

Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered. 

The other part of you feels empty.

No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.

You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?

“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.

You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.

“Thank you.”

You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.

Conversations at the surrounding table stop.

You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.

“What a…” You mumbled.

“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.

You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.

Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.

Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.

“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.

“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.

You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?

“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”

A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.

“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"

You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?

“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."

Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.

“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”

There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.

You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.

Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.

“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”

You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.

A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.

“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”

He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.

...

Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.

The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.

If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.

He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.

“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”

“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”

Baelor smiled softly but shyly. 

The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.

He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.

“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”

“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”

Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.

“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.

The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”

The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.

“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.

The laughing stopped.

The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.

“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”

“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”

"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”

The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.

“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”

The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.

“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”

“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”

The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”

Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.

...

You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.

You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.

The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.

You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.

Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.

You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.

You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.

You bow when he reaches you.

“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.

You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”

He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."

“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.

Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”

“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.

He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him. 

He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”

“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.

“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”

You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”

Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”

You bowed one more time and left.

Your whole body felt tingly.

...

She made it for him.

She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.

He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.

Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.

Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”

“Are you alright?” His son asks.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”

"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.

“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”

“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”

“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”

“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.

Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”

They started walking.

“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”

Baelor remained silent for a moment.

I

"I brought three kinds of medicine, two different movie choices, and hot tea, which I will be forcing you to drink," you firmly stated as you barged into Beau's room during a Thursday in November. He hadn't shown up for breakfast in the food hall and hadn't answered your texts, so when you found Dean waiting in line to pay for his food, you demanded to know where Beau was.

Beau's room was completely devoid of light, air stale. At the sound of your voice, he startled awake with a cough that sounded painful. You flinched. He squinted as he looked at you, trying to discern your figure in the darkness.

"Angel?" He asked in a scratchy voice that sounded nothing like him. The nickname he gave you because of your Halloween costume that year was followed by another coughing fit. He lets out a groan once the coughing subsided. You frowned at the state of him. He looked like he’d barely gotten sleep and he was actively shivering despite the heater turning the room into a sauna.

"Oh, my Beau," you placed what you brought on his dresser before making your way over to his bed. You chucked your hoodie off and then crawled in next to him.

"You'll get sick," he mumbled as you draped your arm over his stomach. You scoffed and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.

"And then you can take care of me." He snorted and gave your thigh a squeeze.

"You have class."

"And you're sick," you countered. He rolled his eyes, trying to hide the smile threatening to grow on his face. Snaking his arm under your neck, he fell back asleep as you gently combed your fingers through his hair. Hours later, he wakes to him spooning you. Your back cemented against his chest. He felt his heart speed up as he heard you let out a soft sigh after he pressed a kiss to the back of your head. Burying his face in your hair, he fell back asleep with a smile on his face.

II

"Are you sure he won't mind me wearing his jersey, Dean? That seems like it might be crossing a line," you huffed as he tugged one of Beau's spare jerseys out of his bag and threw it directly at your face. You knew Beau was nervous about this game because they were playing against Harvard, a team with no losses yet this year.

"You are the only woman Beau would be okay with wearing his jersey tonight," Dean assured you. You stared down at the fabric in your hands, the "13" underneath "MAXWELL" stared up at you. You originally planned to make a sign like Allie was, but Dean insisted you had to do more.

"Fine," you agreed, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach at the thought of how Beau would react to seeing you.

The stadium is completely packed by the time the three of you arrived. You followed after Dean and Allie, settling into the seats Dean bought for the three of you before you even had a chance to look at the tickets. They were as close as you could get to the field.

The sound in stadium was deafening, so Allie had to practically shout in your ear when she told you, "He's going to go crazy when he sees you in that!" You rolled your eyes at her playfully.

"I doubt he'll care," you told her. You heard Dean scoff next to her and you narrowed your eyes at him before quickly looking back to the field when the music announcing the home team’s entrance starts. Beau is the first one who runs out, the matching jersey hugged his frame while the one on you flooded. As he made his way back to the side of the field, helmet in hand, you saw his eyes scanning the crowd.

The sound, as loud as before, seemed to dull as he finally found you. A huge smile stretched onto his face as he waved to you. His eyes fell to your chest, and you saw him freeze mid-wave. His brows furrowed, face becoming serious before he gestured for you to turn around. You pulled your hair over your shoulder and turned so he could read the back.

Looking over your shoulder, you saw the smile returned to his face before he blew a kiss to you and then looked over at Dean and gave him a thumbs up. You giggled at how giddy he looked and sat in your seat as he started getting ready for the game.

You were on his mind the whole game, not in a distracting way, but in a way where he wanted to impress you since you decided to wear his name and number across your back. Briar ultimately won, the stadium went absolutely crazy as it was one of their best games to date.

The three of you had joined in on the crowds' chants when Allie turned to you, a shit-eating grin planted on her face.

“You know, you could celebrate tonight by letting Beau take that off you." She wiggled her eyebrows at you. You gave her shoulder a light shove and reminded her that "Beau doesn't think about me like that, we've been over this."

And if you didn’t see the way Dean slapped his hand against his forehead, you'd blame it on you watching Beau run up the stadium's steps to get to you.

III

"And you're sure you don't mind me kissing you?" Beau rolled his eyes at you and then shook his head.

“For the last time, Angel, if it helps you land the audition, plant one on me!” You giggled at his exasperation.

“I just want to be sure that this won’t make things weird,” you said throwing your hands up in defense playfully. You handed him the script before you grabbed your own.

“Okay, just read the lines as best you can. Ready?”

He nodded. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, let it out slowly, and then opened your eyes. The two of you started, the scene an argument between a married couple because the husband just lost his job. The husband begging the wife not to leave him even though he can’t keep a job.

You had to give it to Beau, the man could act. You almost believed there was real emotion charging his acting when he got on his knees, hands gripping the end of your dress as he begged you to just listen to him, that he’d fix everything if you just kept loving him as he loved you. You delivered your lines perfectly.

You finally turned away from him, making to storm across the room before you felt his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging you towards him. You spun into his chest, heart pounding in your ears. The hand not in his grip was placed on his chest as you stared up into his eyes.

Beau’s eyes drifted to your lips before looking back into your eyes. You nodded slightly giving him permission. And even though the script didn’t specify what kind of kiss it was, you didn’t expect that.

He placed his hands on the sides of your face before slamming his lips onto yours. And the moan he let out was definitely not in the script. He kissed you like he was starving, your lips finding his again and again.

“So I was thinking we could start getting rea-OH FUCK!” The two of you jumped apart at the sudden voice, your chest heaved as you tried to suck in air, fingers gently brushed your lips.

Allie stood in your room’s doorway, completely shocked by what she’d witnessed. You immediately started shaking your head at her.

“No, no, this isn’t what it looks like! I needed help for the audition. We were rehearsing lines, it was nothing else,” you explained hoping she wouldn’t press the matter. What you didn’t see was Beau’s devastated face because of the wording you’d used. The ache behind his ribs grew as the pressure from your kiss started fading.

IV

"It's two in the morning. Are you okay?" Beau asked concerned as he picked up the phone call immediately after the sound of the first ring jolted him out of sleep. He heard rustling from the other end of the line.

"Angel, I can't hear you," he yawned out as he sits up in his bed. And then he heard it. Moaning, you moaning. Muffled like the phone is under a blanket. Beau's breath hitched. And then came a man's voice telling you how good you're being for him.

And Beau hated himself for not hanging up as soon as he realized you'd somehow butt-dialed him in the middle of having sex, but he'd blame it on the shock if questioned. He heard the man tell you to get on your hands and knees, and only after he heard you beg the man in a whiny voice to stop teasing you and what he assumed was the man smacking your ass with a groan, did he yank the phone from his ear and end the call.

He didn’t realize how heavy he'd been breathing until he laid back down, cock throbbing, strained against his boxers. And it's not the first time he'd gotten off thinking about his best friend, but it's the first time he'd done it knowing exactly what you'd sound like underneath him.

V

"I just really, really love him," you cried into your cup. Hannah had been sitting next to you on the hockey house's couch, listening to you rant about Beau. At a certain point she had wandered off to the bathroom, but you felt her settle back down next to you. You hadn't looked at her because you had started tearing up after she left, and you knew the tears would fall if you looked at her.

"Wait, who?" You heard next to you in a voice that was definitely not Hannah. Your body froze, eyes widening as you slowly turned your head to look next to you, already knowing who would be sitting there.

Beau was staring at you with a frown on his face.

"Angel, you didn't tell me you're in love."

"I mean, we don't really talk about those things," you said quietly with an awkward laugh. You prayed he didn’t realize you’d been talking about him.

"We don't talk about our hookups, but of course I want to know if you're in love." And that was the first and only time Beau ever lied to you because he knew that he didn’t want to ever see you fall in love with someone else. But knowing that you had already fallen in love with someone felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. His mind focused immediately.

“It’s nothing serious. I would’ve told you if it was,” you promised, voice shaky. “He doesn’t love me back anyway.” You gave him a sad smile.

Beau felt like the worst person in the world for having felt relieved that whoever you were in love with wasn’t in love with you too. He immediately shoved all of his emotions to the side after he saw a tear roll down your cheek. He swiped it away before he gave you a kiss on your cheek.

“Well, he’s an idiot. Come on,” he told you as he stood, fingers wiggling at you. You laced your fingers through his and let him pull you up. He weaved you through the other people at the party.

“Where-” you started.

“Guest room, Angel. Party is over for us tonight.” He gave your hand a squeeze. And your heart physically ached at how much you feel for him while knowing he would never feel it in return.

The rest of the night consisted of Beau giving you the shirt he’d brought to sleep in, him gently wiping your makeup off, grabbing you both water, advil, and snacks, before the two of you finally climbed into bed.

“Mamma Mia?” He asked as he turned on the tv.

“Please,” you murmured as you threw another chip in your mouth. And that’s how the two of you fell asleep an hour later: tipsy, Mamma Mia playing quietly, chips spilled on the ground, and you curled up on top of him.

Now

Beau smelled you before he saw you. The theme for his and Dean’s joint birthday party being masquerade caused him to be vigilantly searching for you since the party started an hour ago. You had warned him that you wouldn’t be taking the theme lightly and that he’d have to find you. He realized now that you hadn’t been joking.

But as soon as your perfume, that blend of coconut and vanilla, hits his nose, he whips his head around to the woman walking towards the kitchen. You have on a short, blood red dress, dripping with rubies; a loan from the theatre’s costume department. The way it hugs your body has every man’s head turning to follow you. Beau’s jaw tightens at this revelation. Your toned legs are accentuated by the stilettos digging into your feet, and all he can think about is having them thrown over his shoulders.

As you get to the kitchen, you look back towards Beau over your shoulder, your mask covering enough of your face that most people wouldn’t know who you are.

But Beau isn’t most people, and he’ll be damned if any other man holds your attention tonight. With no hesitation, he moves through the crowd, eyes fixed on you, the smirk on your face growing as he gets closer.

“How long have you been here?” Is the first thing out of his mouth as he pulls you down the hall next to kitchen and crowds you against the wall. He’s not even trying to hide the way his eyes are cataloging every centimeter of you, something which doesn’t go unnoticed by you as your cheeks grow warm.

“Long enough to see you and Emily getting cosy,” you tell him, head cocking to the side, jealousy coating every word. He tugs your mask off your face before he dips his head, mouth next to your ear, and whispers, “I’m begging you to tell me that’s jealousy I’m hearing.”

Your breath hitches, head jerking back to look into his eyes. The smell of the alcohol lingering on his breath mixed with the cologne you had bought him for his birthday makes your head go fuzzy.

“Jealousy?”

“If this isn’t jealousy, I can always go see where Emily went off to.” Your eyes narrow looking up at him as your hand shoots down to wrap around his wrist. He lets out a chuckle.

“Don’t.”

“No?”

You firmly shake your head. He begins to smile before stopping, thinking back to the month before when you’d been crying over the man who didn’t love you. The two of you hadn’t discussed it again after that night, but he knew he wouldn’t survive trying to make a move finally if you still had feelings for another man.

“You still in love, Angel?” Your eyes flicker over his face. The open desperation painted on it knocks the air out of your lungs. How hadn’t you seen it? All the times Allie and Hannah, or even one of the hockey guys implied Beau felt the same way come rushing into your mind.

And that realization, coming from the wild look in his eyes, is what gives you the final push.

“With you, my Beau? Always,” you breathe. And his lips are immediately on yours. You kiss him back frantically, your hands settling on his shoulders, you slide one up the back of his neck, fingers tugging at his hair as he digs his fingers into your hips. His hands hold you firmly against the wall as he breaks the kiss, but then he starts sprinkling your face with light kisses until you’re giggling.

“Say it,” he begs, and when you don’t respond immediately, he adds in a, “please.”

“I’m in love with you, Beau Maxwell,” you whisper as you look into his eyes.

“I’m in love with you, Angel, desperately.” He rests his forehead against yours for a second.

“I know this isn’t romantic, but I am unofficially asking you to let me be your boyfriend,” he raises his finger to cut you off as you’d opened your mouth to question him, “Unofficially because I can’t wait for you to be mine, but I also know you deserve to be asked properly, so I’d like to prepare that.”

“I would love nothing more than for you to be my boyfriend,” you say, pushing up on your toes to kiss him again.

He stops you right before his lips touch yours and asks, “Just to be clear, I was the one you were in love with last month, right?”

It had been a thought plaguing him since this blasted war had begun. It had come to him in the middle of the night, causing him to reach out across the bed pulling you closer into him. He held you tighter after that. Night after night, praying to the seven that they could prolong his departure.

He did not mean forever. He knew that was impossible, and he would do as duty called, but by the Gods he simply wanted more time with you. To be with you. To enjoy you. To perhaps leave you with a reminder of him that came with a rounded belly and swollen breasts.

And so he set out on a mission as if it was graced upon him by the Seven themselves. He had received a raven only days ago gracing him with the wonderful news that you were in fact with child. You and the maesters had began to think it was a boy. A son. Another man to carry on the Hightower name and legacy. His legacy. His love for you.

He would be the first son of his made out of the love rather than duty. But you had always been more than a duty. More than an obligation. You were his heart. You were his soul, and when his time came whether it be now or even years from now during his final moments he would close his eyes and picture you.

Like he was doing now. But this was far from innocent. This was not the love sick man wishing to be reunited with his lovely wife. He still was that, but this was different. This was more. This was sinful.

Gods helped him he had tried to not succumb to it, but as the days passed it became harder. And finally he fell to his knees, embracing the sinner he was. Because the thoughts of you did not pass, but no they came back each night while he lay alone tri-fold.

And sure he could probably fuck a whore like most soldiers away on battle, but none of them would ease the hunger. None would be able to even try to feed the hunger that he currently felt.

None would be you. None would be able to quite make the small sound you made every time he pushed his cock into you. Or to even come close to the glorious scent of your skin.

He moaned slightly as he could picture it now, and if he could focused hard enough it felt as if you arousal was burning his nose. As if he was actually burred deep in your soaking cunt as he feasted like it was his last meal.

Ormund let out a ragged breath as he closed his eyes, his hands moving up and down his shaft quickly. The imagines had not changed. To now. To trying to picture what you looked like with the life that now grew inside you.

Your swollen breasts. He could hear the small whine of his name you would let out as he touched your sensitive nipples. He could feel your fingers latching through is hair trying to pull him off. His hand stuttered slightly at the thought of when they would begin to leak milk, dripping down your chest that he would greedily lick up. Or if you would let him relieve you of the ache of when they began to feel to full without a babe in sight to feed.

Then your his came to mind. The way they would be widening in preparation for the entrance of the babe in the following moons. He could feel his hands digging into your skin, pressing bruises into it. The way he would hold them, grounding himself to you, gripping you tightly as he fucked in and out of you the way that caused your toes to curl.

He wondered if your ass had grown as wall, and how it would feel for him to hold you there by the fat of it when he fucked into you against the wall. Preferably the one in the hall when he became to greedy to make it to your chambers. When you would have to bite into his shoulder trying to silence yourself.

You always seemed so embarrassed afterwards, but Gods he enjoyed it. He liked the fact that the servants in the castle could know exactly who made you feel that good. On the marking on his shoulder, the one that left a faint scar as your teeth imprint never fully healed.

He was close. He was so fucking close he could feel it in the way his balls ached, and his knees threatened to give out beneath him.

So finally he thought of your stomach growing by the day. The constant reminder to everyone just who you belonged to. That you grew the Lord of Hightower's babe in your womb. In the new positions he would have to take you in to avoid harming the babe.

That did it. He let out a small groan, your name falling from his lips as he painted his hand with his own seed rather the walls of your cunt. He squeezed himself harder at the base trying to mimic the feeling of how your hole clenched around him with your own release.

He stood there for a moment, ragged breaths, mind fuzzy with only thoughts of you. But one last thought came into his mind, and it was softer than the other. It was you, turning toward him with a son, that had his eyes, perhaps your nose and hair color.

He let out a sigh, as the remainders of his high wore off and he was left with the burning truth. He was not in Old Town, but yet hundreds of miles away from you with no return in sight. Instead of your sweet smell and easy smiles he was surrounded by smelly soldiers.

Gods he longed for you, but he would not have to persevere as duty demanded.

With his other hand, Dean checked his phone, seeing Logan’s message. He had read it. He just brushed it off when you called and asked to have late lunch together. 

‘’That was a serious thing?’’ 

‘’Yes,’’ replied Logan. 

‘’Since when do we do house meetings?’’ 

‘’Since now.’’

Dean glanced at you, then back to Logan. ‘’Can we raincheck? Because we were supposed to—’’ 

‘’No,’’ all three boys said at the same time.

A beat of silence followed and Dean set you down. He didn’t carry you through campus like that. Just up the stairs of the house after you mentioned that you were wearing a brand new lingerie set. 

You looked between them, then back to Dean. ‘’It’s okay. I can go wait upstairs.’’ 

‘’Actually,’’ Garrett cut in. ‘’This is about you too.’’ 

A frown drew between your eyebrows. You didn’t even live there. 

‘’Mostly him,’’ Tucker corrected, pointing at Dean. ‘’But you're involved.’’

Was this about the box of cookies you finished and put back in the cupboards the other night? Or the hair in the shower? Because Logan always complained about the clogged shower drain and having to fix it. As if they didn’t all have hair too… 

Without asking questions, you followed Dean to the couch and sat down.

‘’What did we do?" the latter asked, wanting to get this over with quickly. 

The three roommates exchanged looks.

Then Tucker threw his hands in the air. ‘’You have got to stop treating this house like it's a honeymoon suite.’’

‘’We're all happy you found each other. Great. Wonderful. Love that for you,’’ Logan continued, explaining what Tucker meant. ‘’But some of us would like to walk into our own kitchen without wondering if we're about to see something that’s gonna make us regret that 11pm cereal craving.’’

Dean laughed. ‘’You guys are being dramatic.’’

‘’Am I?’’ Tucker shot back, raising a dark eyebrow. 

‘’You’re worse than rabbits during mating season.’’ 

‘’Don’t compare my girlfriend to a rodent,’’ Dean warned Logan, pointing a finger at him.

You shrugged. ‘’I take no offense. Rabbits are cute and very intelligent little beings.’’ 

‘’And stop leaving doors open,’’ Garrett added. ‘’We already have to see it in the locker rooms, we don’t need more exposure to your naked self.’’

‘’Fine. I’ll close the bathroom door when I shower. Are we done?’’ 

‘’No.’’ 

Dean slouched deeper into the couch, one arm draped around your shoulders. ‘’Fine. Continue your presentation.’’

‘’Thank you.’’ Logan pointed at him. ‘’Second issue: the noise.’’ 

Dean opened his mouth to protest again, but Logan raised a hand, silencing him with the kind of authority usually reserved for coaches and angry mothers.

Garrett nodded gravely beside him like this was an official courtroom testimony. ‘’The noise,’’ he repeated.

You knew the walls were thin, but once you were in the moment you kind of forget about it. And it’s not like there’s innocent ears in the house. You were all adults with an active sex life. You’ve heard girls moaning and their gruntings from all of the bedrooms. 

‘’Don’t act all innocent,’’ you said, your eyes falling on Logan. ‘’Dean’s room is right next to yours. We can hear you too.’’ 

At that, Dean squeezed your thigh proudly. Under your sweet appearance, there was a girl who didn’t bite her tongue. 

‘’Do you want to hear the playback? Because I can—’’ the blond added, loving how the tables had turned around. 

‘’That won’t be necessary,’’ Logan interrupted, making the other boys laugh. 

Dean grinned, that cocky, unbothered smirk he wore like a second skin. ‘’See? She's got a point. We're not the only ones being loud in this house.’’

Tucker rubbed his temples like he was suddenly aging ten years per minute. This house meeting was not going anywhere… 

══════════════════

At eight years old, she has lots of opinions. It had started that morning when she woke up and decided she did not want to brush her teeth (which you of course had to convince her to do), she’d been upset to find that Jack was working and could not ride bikes with her (as they liked to do on Saturday mornings he had off work), and then suddenly decided that she absolutely would not be getting her Flu vaccine you had already scheduled her for at your local pharmacy today.

It isn’t often you give in to your daughter's outlandish whims, but you also know that aversions to needles is something that can become worse the older a person gets. You dealt with parents fainting over their child getting a small shot in the arm enough to know that you did not want your daughter to one day fear needles that much. So that’s why you made her a deal.

Get your vaccine from mom at work and maybe you can see Jack.

She’d been all for it, of course. From the day you’d introduced her and Jack seven years ago, she and him had been attached at the hip. It’s why you know that bribing her with the thought of his attention is a sure fire way to get her on board. 

“Can we go see Jack now?” she asks the minute you step on the chaotic emergency floor. Even though she didn’t see her biological father often, and had known Jack since she was a baby, she still liked calling him Jack. You and Jack never correct her because you know that kids can have a hard time relinquishing titles like that.

“Have to get your shot first,” you tell her, weaving through doctors and nurses striding by in a frenzied hurry. You’re mostly trying to get off this floor before she sees something traumatizing.

You pass a young woman screaming at the top of her lungs in the psych hold area and you cringe, angling your daughter’s curious gaze away.

Entering through this floor had not been your first idea. Pedes was a few floors up, and not nearly as chaotic as the emergency floor. It also tended to not have nearly as much blood or gore. It had just about the same level of loudness, though—especially when babies are concerned.

“Is that my favorite pedes doctor coming in on her day off again?” 

You flinch and turn your head just as you and your daughter have just about made it to the elevators. Since Jack’s been working more day shifts recently (to get better aligned with you and your daughter’s schedules, bless him), a whole new cast of characters has been taking up residence in his stories.

This one you recognize immediately, though. 

“Dana,” you say with a short laugh, reaching out to give her a quick sidearm hug, the other still holding your daughter’s hand captive in your own.

She returns it softly, grinning at you with that warm, toothy smile.

“Hey hon.” She releases you after a quick pat on the back, eyes glittering. She looks down at your daughter and bends on her knees. “And here’s the one we’ve all heard so much about from Jack.”

You adjust your hand to rest between your daughter’s shoulder blades, gently nudging her forward. She’s dressed in a bedazzled rainbow dash t-shirt (the best My Little Pony, in her opinion) and a tulle skirt, and several butterfly clips in her hair. She’s been picking out her own outfits recently, but luckily they were still pretty cute.

She looks back at you nervously, but offers Dana a smile when she turns her head back. She gives the older woman a small wave.

“We didn’t want to have to spend the day at work,” you say to her, “but someone is a little hesitant to get her flu shot, so I thought I’d just bring her in and do it here.”

Dana shoots you a knowing look. “Well, let me know if I can help you guys at all.”—she turns to your daughter then, a smile on her painted lips—“Maybe if it all goes well, you can come see me for some stickers afterward?”

Your daughter grins, looking back at you. “Can we go do it now?”

You laugh at her sudden enthusiasm, turning to Dana. “You should come join us on the pediatric floor.”

“No thank you,” she says, shaking her head, “if I had to hear babies crying all day I’d lose my mind. Those days are over for me.”

“You have the touch!” you tell her over your shoulder as you weave into the elevator with your daughter in tow. 

“I have bribes.” Dana’s laugh follows you as the doors begin to slide shut. “Not the same thing.”

You continue to smile even as the doors slide shut and the familiar weightless feeling takes hold as the elevator moves. Your daughter slides her hand from yours and you quickly check your phone for any notifications. The last text you received was at 7am this morning—Jack sneaking out but not without telling you he loves you over text and that he’d made breakfast.

You bite your lip as you relive the butterflies that erupted in your stomach from the simple phrase. 

That is what is so rare, so special about Jack. He loves you unconditionally. Your last boyfriend, your daughter’s father, had practically skipped town when he found out you were pregnant. As far as you were concerned, he was just a sperm donor.

Luckily, you had met Jack about six months into your pregnancy. Somehow in that brief period when you spoke infrequently in between night shift consultations, you being single had come up in conversation and he made his move. 

Two years later, he was the one doing puzzles with your daughter and drawing with crayons at the kitchen table. Later, he was the one teaching her how to ride a bicycle and tie her shoes. When you and Jack got married four years ago, your daughter had beamed ear-to-ear during the entire reception—and had run up to give her new step-dad a huge hug that resulted in many resounding “awws” in the audience.

Your daughter knew no other male parental figure except Jack, not really. Your ex visited on holidays, often with some kind of lazy $20 Target gift card and a Hallmark card. There’s some kind of the mysticism that comes when you’re a kid that’s visited by an absent parent once in a blue moon that keeps them haunting the back of your mind like an apparition, always.

She doesn’t know him like you do, and she only sees him twice a year, so she doesn’t have a fully-realized image of what he is or what kind of person he could be. She gives him graces that she wouldn’t afford anyone else in her life that are constants because of that mysticism and childhood naïveté. You don’t blame her—can’t. You do blame your ex, but there’s really not anything you can do about that either—except demand child support and remind him with texts of her birthday coming up every year.

You reach over to squeeze her shoulder affectionately and she looks up at you, giving a small smile.

“It will be over in no time, I promise.” You let go of her shoulder just as the elevator dings and the doors slide open to the, thankfully, much quieter pediatrics floor.

In the distance, you hear a baby crying that is quickly soothed by their mother’s voice. You glance down at your daughter as she steps into the floor behind you and your heart pangs.

Her eyes are wide, taking in every person that walks by with scrutiny, and she tries to hide the slight tremble to her hands. 

You bend your knee, putting on your trained pediatrics smile. Her eyes dart to yours, a plea on her lips. “It will be over so quickly. I promise. And then we will see Mrs. Dana and she will give us stickers and we can go see Jack and give him a hug.”

She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable, still, but she nods and follows you as you lead her to the circle of desks near the center of the room. It’s a very similar setup to the emergency floor, except the rooms are less windowed for privacy and the walls are painted in a soothing nature scene for the kids to enjoy.

You find one of the pediatrics nurses, a friend of yours, and you ask him for some assistance. You set your daughter down in one of the stools at the front.

“Okay, this is mom’s friend Henry, and he’s going to help us with your flu shot. Is that okay?”

Your daughter looks over at the mid-twenty year old man standing across from her, hands clenched into little fists in her lap. She nods, then starts pulling at one of the strings in her rainbow skirt.

You look over at Henry, who begins prepping the shot. Your daughter stares at you with a tremulous chin, eyes beading with tears.

As Henry begins to wipe her upper arm with a sterile pad, she flinches and turns away, hiding her upper body from sight.

“I want Jack,” she says softly, “can Jack do it? I promise I will if he comes.”

You sigh and turn to Henry, who shrugs. You look down at your phone and raise a brow when it vibrates in your hand, as if beckoned.

Jack<3: how did little one’s shot go today? i’m on lunch

“Stay here with Henry for a minute, okay, honey? I'm going to go make a phone call.” Your daughter nods, but gives Henry a skeptical side eye as he continues to stand in front of her.

You back far enough away that your daughter can’t hear and press on Jack’s contact info to call him.

It only has to ring once before you hear his voice on the other side.

“You okay? Need me to head out?” 

Your stomach flutters at the concern in his voice, even though you think it might be a little sadistic to feel that. Maybe it’s just that every day, in little moments, you’re reminded how much you and your daughter mean to him.

“If I were to tell you I’m in pediatrics right now, with little Miss-Afraid-of-Needles near-hyperventilating at just the thought of getting her flu shot, what would you do?”

“I thought you guys had an appointment for that?” You can hear shuffling on the other end and the sound of someone asking him a question, which he replies in a muffled voice you can’t make out. 

“Well, I made a mistake,” you tell him, “I let her decide where we go to get the shot. I also promised she would see you after and that Dana would give her stickers. And she’s still upset about it all.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, you know that?” 

You snort a laugh through your nose. “Like you’re any better? Don’t think I didn’t see the smiley face you made her out of chocolate chips on her pancakes this morning.”

“It’s our Saturday tradition, honey. You know that.”

“I know, I know,” you laugh again, “just don’t try to lecture me about being too soft on her when I can literally hear you running to catch the elevator right now.”

He chuckles, then quietens.

“—I think the elevator’s about to arrive. I’ll see you in a minute?”

You nod, then you realize he can’t see you. “I love you. Thank you for making the time.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies. “For you? Always.”

The call cuts just as you hear the elevator doors ding on the other side of the call. You turn around to look at your daughter, only to find her putting stickers all over poor Nurse Henry’s arm. You grin at her enthusiasm, striding over.

“You getting Nurse Henry looking pretty over here?”

Your daughter clams up as if she’s expecting you to be angry at her sudden 180 in emotion. You know kids, though, and you know that her fear was real and that just because she’s been distracted doesn’t mean she was faking it before. You squat down to her level, gently stroking her hair.

“Jack’s coming up now to give you your shot.”

Your daughter beams, but after a moment shrivels in on herself, her lip trembling. 

You give her a kiss on the cheek. You pull back, forcing her to look at your eyes with a hand on her chin. “It will be okay. I promise.”

As if on cue, the elevator doors open and Jack comes striding in. He looks around for just a few seconds before his eyes land on where you stand across the room. He beams and quickly strides over.

Henry steps back as Jack takes his spot.

“Hey, bug,” he says to her. He pokes her arm and she lets out a soft laugh, turning away. “I hear you’re a little scared of your shot?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It hurts. And I can’t sleep on my arm at night when I get them.”

“Well,” Jack says, snapping on a pair of gloves from nearby, “sometimes life is about doing things that might make us hurt for a day or two so we don’t get really hurt later.”

“But I’ve never had the flu before,” she says, furrowing her brows.

“Do you remember what I told you about our bodies? That we have fighters inside of us that are usually really good at keeping viruses like the flu from making us sick?” She nods, so he continues. “Well, this shot”—he picks up the needle to show her—“has a code in it that those little fighters can learn, so that when you do get the flu, you might not get sick at all, because now they know what they’re fighting.”

Your daughter nods very seriously. “So my fighters are like Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash learning more about Nightmare Moon so they can stop her from taking over the world next time she shows up?”

You notice from the corner of your eye Henry biting his lip to smother his laughter. Meanwhile, you’re actually pretty impressed by her comparison to her favorite show. You also think in the same train of thought that maybe she needed less screen time.

“Yep, exactly,” Jack agrees enthusiastically. “And this shot is like the Elements of Harmony coming to change Nightmare Moon back into Princess Luna.”

Now you’re the one holding back your laughter. You look over at Jack, impressed by his knowledge. He shoots you a sly wink as if to say ‘I know more than I’m letting on.’

Your daughter squares her shoulders and nods. “Okay,” she says, “do it. I’m ready.”

Jack smiles and grabs the sterile swab to rewipe her upper arm. She flinches at the cold liquid and you walk over to stand in front of her.

“Just look at me,” you tell her softly, “it will be over before you know it.”

She follows your direction obediently as Jack lines up the shot with her arm. As the needle enters, your daughter winces and tenses, but keeps her eyes on you all the while. Jack pushes the liquid in then removes the needle. He puts on a colorful bandaid to the wound.

“All done,” you say with a grin, “you did so good.”

She bashfully drops her eyes. “It barely even hurt.”

Jack stands, removing the gloves with a small, affectionate smile pulling at his lips.

She stands up from her stool. You think she’s going to move toward you when she surprises you by turning to hug Jack around his waist. Jack tilts his head toward her, surprised.

“Thanks, dad,” she says into his back. “You’re the best.”

She continues to bury her head into his scrubs, and Jack pats her head as he meets your shocked gaze. You think your mouth must be hanging open, but you can’t help it.

She pulls away and looks up at him. She frowns. “Why are you crying, dad?”

Jack wraps her in a gentle side hug, wiping away the small tears that had leaked out. “Nothing, bug. Just happy.”

Your daughter lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She begins to move away from the two of you quickly. “Okay, well stop crying and come pick out stickers with me.”

You snort at her drill-sergeant order and look over at Jack, who continues to grin and shake his head. You reach over to loop an arm around his waist, planting a kiss to his cheek.

“You earned it,” you whisper, “only a dad knows that many My Little Pony references.”

Jack lets out a laugh, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a full kiss.

The moment is broken when your daughter lets out a loud groan from across the room. “Come onnnn, gosh you guys are so gross!”

You laugh and pull away. You sweep your hand toward your daughter with a sarcastic grin. “C'mon, Jack. Fatherhood awaits.”

"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.

Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.

The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.

You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.

No, no, no. Not right now.

You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.

"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."

Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."

You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.

You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.

You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.

From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.

"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did you—"

You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.

Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.

He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.

"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.

"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."

You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.

"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He searched into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.

"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.

Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.

The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.

He couldn't risk waiting.

"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.

"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""

The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.

"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.

Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"

As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.

Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.

"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."

Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.

"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. She’s just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.

"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."

Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.

"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."

Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.

"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.

You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.

Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."

When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.

Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"

You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."

You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.

"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.

"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"

"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"

Jack’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."

You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No… no, it's… it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."

Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.

"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."

"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."

"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."

After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.

Two hours later, the results were back.

"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, you’re completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."

You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."

"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed it’s just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. That’s all that matters."

You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."

"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."

"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."

-

Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.

"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "I’m pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."

You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."

"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."

"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. It’s my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.

He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.

"Here. Open it."

You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.

You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."

"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."

You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.

"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."

"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"

You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."

Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly… delicate with that."

"Shut up, Abbot, and discharge me."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.

But then, he fell in love with you.

Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didn’t want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.

Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the team’s victory party.

You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.

"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."

He went utterly, terrifyingly still.

"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.

"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."

Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.

"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."

"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."

A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.

"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."

"Tuck, please—"

"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.

"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."

You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.

"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."

You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.

By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.

And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.

They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.

And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.

He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.

You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. You’d done it. You’d looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like you’d carved out your own heart with a dull knife.

Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."

Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."

You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."

You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.

Tucker was watching you.

Usually, he was the anchor of his friend group—observant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.

Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. You’d told him you were done. You’d looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.

His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtaking—flushed, wild, and utterly out of his reach—and he wasn't the only one who noticed.

A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.

Tucker’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.

They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. He’d made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.

He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.

That was it. Patience was officially dead.

Tucker’s grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.

"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.

Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.

He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brain—the part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby drama—was dead and buried.

Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.

You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.

You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.

Tucker’s massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.

"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.

The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tucker’s fist cracked across his jaw.

The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.

The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.

Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.

"Tuck—" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.

"Mine," he murmured fiercely.

He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.

He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.

Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Dean’s jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.

Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.

"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."

Before you could formulate a response—before your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just done—he dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.

It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.

You're tired, exhausted in fact, it's been one of the longest days you've had in a while. Your professors synced up to be the biggest assholes ever, lectures running long making you late to the others, You had a long shift at your job at the library that resulted in missing your boyfriend's hockey game and now you two were fighting, you don't even know what the beginning of the argument had been, just that it had been going on for too long and it was making your headache worse but you refused to lose.

"We've been through this before" Garret huffed.

"And I've told you before, I'm not interested so drop it" You retaliated.

"We've gotta compromise here babe" He uses the pet name as a weapon.

"You have to compromise" You're not even trying to make sense anymore "I dont care, I'm done with this argument" You sit down on the desk and pull the makeup remover wipes you keep there out to start getting out of your makeup.

"Well I'm not, and while we're on this topic-" You cut him up by turning around, sighing and lifting your shirt to flash him, it stuns him for a second and that's enough for you to decide the discussion's over, you turn back to the little mirror and start wiping away "No… no, you can't just use your boobs as a weapon" He frowns "We're still talki-"

You turn around and do it again "I swear to God if you keep talking I'll just take it off and do the rest of my nightime routine shirtless"

"Is that supposed to make me shut up? Because it feels more like an insentive to keep-"

You cut him off once more "Garrett, I have a pounding headache, have had the longest day ever and all I want is to crawl into bed and pass out for a few days, keep talking and I'm putting you on a sex ban"

His face melts, he realizes how tired you look and instead of fighting back he nods and leaves the room, you think it is because he's still mad and finish your routine with a frown on your face, you would go downstairs and look for him but you're exhausted, so instead you get into his bed and bury yourself into the blankets, you'll talk to him tomorrow, apologize and compromise or whatever it was he wanted you to do.

Garrett was't angry though, he wasn't looking for apologies and he hadn't left to give you space, he makes his way back upstairs and enters his room with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other "Here baby" His voice is soft, a complete contrast to the volume he'd been using before while you were arguing "Take this before you fall asleep, so you don't wake up with a headache"

You take the pill, swallow it with some water and then move aside signaling for him to lay next to you "'m sorry" You mumble.

"I'm sorry too" He kisses your forehead "But don't think flashing me your boobs will win you every argument ever"

You hum into his chest "We'll see"

However, tonight was Briar U’s first night of The Nutcracker. And you just happened to have scored the coveted part of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Act I had gone smoothly and you were gearing up for your big moment. Little did you know your poor boyfriend was looking for you the entirety of Act I.

“Hand me that program again.” Beau whispers, earning some glares from the women in front of him. Dean passes the program to Beau.

“She’s listed as a principal, why hasn’t she come out yet?” Beau asks.

“Dude, I have no idea.” Dean whispers back.

“Did I miss her?” Beau asks rifling through the program again. Two women in front of him turn around glaring at him. No doubt for how noisy he’s being. Allie leans over Dean.

“Beau, the Sugar Plum Fairy doesn’t come out until Act II.” Allie says. “And shut up, your theatre etiquette is horrible.” She says shushing him. Beside her Hannah laughs quietly.

The house lights flicker before a voice comes over the intercom. “We hope you’re enjoying The Briar University Ballet Company’s production of The Nutcracker. At this time we will be breaking for a 20 minute intermission.”

“What!” Beau exclaims.

“Snack time man.” Dean says, getting up from his seat.

“What! I didn’t know ballet had a half-time.” Beau says. “I guess I’ll go buy more flowers.” He says.

The twenty minutes pass quickly and you’re buzzing as you take the stage. All of those practices leading up to this. You floated across the stage, every movement flowing effortlessly into the next. The hours spent bleeding through pointe shoes, the rehearsals that stretched late into the night, the corrections that had once reduced you to frustrated tears,they all culminated in this moment. When your Cavalier took your hand for the Grand Pas de Deux, you trusted him completely.

Everything went flawlessly, and it was finally time for curtain call. You step forward with Elliot, your Cavalier, as the crowd goes wild. You smile, soaking in the moment. Then a familiar voice cut through the entire theater.

“THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND!” You froze for half a second before fighting back a laugh. Oh no. Beau.

“PLEASE CLAP!” He says. The audience burst into laughter. Someone wolf whistles. The applause somehow became even louder.

You looked toward the audience just in time to see Beau standing at full height, clapping over his head like he’d just watched Briar win a national championship. Beside him, Garrett laughs so hard he can barely stand.

Logan cups his hands around his mouth. “WOO!” Dean covers his face with both hands.

“I don’t know him,” he mutters to the women from earlier.

Allie laughs at Beau and the guys’ utter lack of theatre manners. Garrett stands to join Beau. Hannah elbows Garrett.

“You are not helping. Clap like a regular person.” She says in between laughs.

“Oh I absolutely am, she killed it!” He says. Garrett stands to join Beau, shouting toward the stage.

“LET’S GO, Y/N!” He yells. Another whistle echoes through the theater. What had begun as polite theater applause somehow transformed into the kind of ovation usually reserved for a game winning goal. You couldn’t stop smiling. Your cheeks ached as you curtsied once more. You couldn’t wait to find Beau after curtain call. He finds you first, three bouquets of flowers in his arms.

“Was that your boyfriend yelling, ‘That’s my girlfriend, please clap’ from the audience?” You bury your face in your hands.

“…Yes.” You admit. Elliot grins as Beau finds you, his face lighting up. Elliot turns to you.

“He’s adorable.” Elliot says eyeing your boyfriend up and down.

“He is.” You agree. Elliot sighs dramatically.

“It’s such a shame.” He says. You raise an eyebrow.

“What’s a shame?” You ask.

“That he’s aggressively heterosexual.” Elliot says. You burst out laughing as Beau approaches.

“Baby, that was insane!” Beau says, switching the flowers to one arm as he pulls you into him with his other. Elliot grins at the two of you.

“Okay, I’ve got to ask. Do you have a brother?” Elliot says. Beau’s brows furrow in confusion.

“Uh no, I have a sister.” Beaus offers. Elliot looks disappointed.

“Damn, that’s of no use to me.” Elliot says disappointedly. He considers for a moment.

“If you ever discover you’re bi,” he begins.

“Elliot!” You say, slapping his arm.

“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just keeping the door open.”

Beau laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Elliot winks at him.

“Most definitely.” Elliot confirms, before walking over to some of his friends.

“Sorry, he’s a little forward.” You laugh. Beau laughs too.

“You did so good! These are for you of course.” He says handing you all three bouquets. Red roses, pink roses, and white roses. Every variation that was being sold at concessions.

“Thank you, baby.” You say.

his mouth opens, breath catching hard enough that you see his chest stop and inhale heavily. the assignment is forgotten, the laptop screen dimming as he turns fully, and before you can even smile he’s dropping straight to his knees on the carpet of his bedroom floor.

the sound is a soft thud but like every ounce of tension leaves his body at once. his hands rest on his thighs, palms open, and those hungry, yearning eyes lift to meet yours, they’re wide, dark, almost pleading.

“come to me, baby” he says, voice low and rough, every word wrapped in that same aching need that makes your stomach flip. he almost sounded like he wanted to cry. your poor baby was so overworked.

you take the few steps that close the distance, and the second you’re within reach his hands are on you, gentle at first, his fingertips tracing the edge of the fabric at your hips before sliding up, palms warm against your skin. he leans in, pressing his face right against your stomach, breathing you in like he’s been starved for it.

a soft, shaky exhale leaves him, and you feel the shake in his shoulders as he holds himself back from pulling you down too fast.

his fingers hook under the thin straps at your hips, not tugging, just holding, feeling the texture of the lace against his skin. he looks up again, those same puppy eyes darker now, lashes low, and you can see how hard he’s fighting to stay still, to let you come to him the way he asked.

the clear yearning is there, enough that you feel it in your own pulse.

you thread your nails through his hair, and that’s all it takes for him to surge forward, mouth pressing open kisses along the line of lace just above your navel, tongue flicking out to taste skin wherever the fabric allows.

his hands slide around to cup your ass, squeezing once before he drags you even closer, burying his face between your thighs without hesitation. the lace is already damp from how wet you are, and he moans against it, the sound vibrating straight through you. “john” you moan quietly.

he doesn’t rush. he stays on his knees, worshipping every inch he can reach, kissing the inside of your thigh, the sheer thin covering your pussy, breathing hot and heavy until you’re rocking against his mouth without meaning to.

his tongue presses flat through the fabric, licking slow and deliberate, soaking the lace even more until it clings to you. every time you tug his hair he groans, the sound needy and desperate, and he looks up again with those same hungry eyes like he’s asking permission to keep going, to pull the delicate material aside and finally taste you properly.

when you nod, his fingers are quick but careful, easing the lace down your hips just enough to bare you to him. he doesn’t stand up yet.

he stays right there on the floor, pulling you forward until your thighs cover his face, and then his mouth is on your bare pussy, tongue sliding through your folds, lips sealing around your clit to suck gently before he flattens his tongue again and laps at you like he’s been thinking about this all day. “ugh, you- you make me feel so good johnny.”

his hands grip your ass tighter, holding you steady while he eats you out with slow, thorough strokes that make your knees shake. if it wasn’t for his grip on your ass, you would’ve fallen to the floor by now.

you can feel how turned on he is, the hard outline of his cock against his sweats, but he doesn’t touch himself. he just keeps his focus on you, licking and sucking until your hips are rolling against his mouth and soft sounds are slipping from your throat.

every few seconds he glances up, checking your face with those same yearning eyes, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters in the world right now.

when your thighs start to tremble harder he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your clit, then another lower, tongue dipping inside you for a moment before he stands in one fluid motion.

his arms wrap around you, lifting you easily, and he carries you the short distance to the bed without ever looking away from your face.

he lays you down carefully, the lace still tangled around one thigh, and climbs over you, settling between your spread legs.

he kisses you then, so deep, slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, while his hand works between your bodies to shove his sweats down just far enough. the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick from how ready you both are, and he pauses there, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.

“tell me you want this honey,” he whispers, voice wrecked, eyes searching yours like he needs the words as much as the act itself.

when you pull him closer and say yes, he sinks into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the deepest he can with a groan that vibrates through both of you.

he stays still for a moment, just feeling you around him, then starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips so every stroke drags against that perfect spot inside you.

his hands never stop moving, sliding over the lace still clinging to your body, fingers tracing every strap and bow like he’s memorizing the way it looks on you.

he leans down to kiss the swell of your breast above the cup of the bra, teeth grazing lightly before he sucks a mark there, claiming you even as he fucks you deeper. the bed creaks under the steady rhythm he sets, each thrust pushing you higher, and he keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, watching every reaction, every flutter of your lashes when he hits just right.

you come first, clenching around him hard enough that his rhythm falters, and he follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he spills inside you with a broken moan, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays there, cock still twitching, pressing soft kisses along your jaw and whispering how beautiful you look, how much he needed this, how he’ll never get tired of seeing you like this just for him. “you’re just so perfect baby.” he whimpers into your neck. “i’d do anything for you. anything, i promise.”

~ ~ ~ ~

For the past three weeks, you’ve hardly had time to see them. Motivation for your final installment finally hit about two weeks ago. And between that, Phoebe, and seeing Jack at any off-chance you can, your schedule hasn’t lined up with your friends until now. 

That’s not to say you haven’t been in contact. The group chat seems to blow up every time you let them know you have plans with Jack, which, in all honesty, has been quite often. 

Over the past three weeks, you don’t think you can actually count how many little dates he’s taken you on. Dinner, lunch, early morning coffees after you drop Phoebe to school and he finishes a night shift. 

Any free moment you both get that coincides with the other, you make the most of it. Whether it’s for twenty minutes to grab some breakfast after shift and drop off, or two hours in the afternoon or evening when Pheeb’s is asleep for dinner and a very sneaky but hot make-out session. 

And of course, Bella is the one that insists on photos of said dates. Sometimes you just send a photo of your food and drinks, Jack’s hand around the mug or his chest at the back of the frame. More recently, however, like the last few dates, you’ve sent them selfies. 

Goofy ones, where Jack is feeding you a forkful of pasta in your kitchen. Candid ones, where he’s walking ahead slightly but his arm is stretched behind him, his fingers intertwined with yours. And sometimes, photos together; both grinning or pulling a face into the camera—cheeks pressed against one another and eyes sparkling with someone you don’t want to acknowledge just yet. 

You’ll never admit just how often you find yourself looking through your camera roll for them, how long you spend admiring them, how warm your cheeks grow and how wide your grin stretches. 

But your friends, they know. Of course, they know. Bunch of fucking busybodies. 

“When are you gonna bring Jack to brunch, then?” Chloe asks over the rim of her water. “He could’ve tagged along today.”

You scoff a laugh out at that, shaking your head and pinching up a piece of lettuce that slipped from your sandwich. 

“You want me to bring the guy I’m dating to girls brunch?” You ask. “When have any of us either done that? It’s a silent rule that men are forbidden from our brunches.” 

Bella shrugs with a smirk, leaning over to steal a french fry from your plate. “A one-off wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

You roll your eyes with fondness. You know what she’s doing. That she wants to see you and Jack in each other's space for herself. Wants to watch the way he interacts with you, wants to know exactly what he does to make you the way you are. 

Happy. Relaxed. 

“He’s busy today.”

“Overtime?” Leone speaks around a mouthful of food. 

You heave a breath, gently placing your chicken sandwich back on the plate. The girls know that movement. It’s a tell you have when you’re about to drop a piece of information that may either excite them or anger them.

“He has a SWAT shift.” 

You expected the silence, the wide eyes, the blinking. You knew they would smirk, shrill, smack you for keeping something so interesting to yourself. 

But you didn’t expect all of them to start fucking swooning. Chloe and Leone are fucking lesbians, for fucks sake. 

Karis leans closer with wide eyes. This is probably the most interest she’s shown in your involvement with Jack that isn’t just a soft smile or engaging eye contact. “SWAT? As in…”

“He’s a medic. Goes in with the team in case any one gets hurt.” 

Bella blinks at you, slight hurt in her eyes that you didn’t tell her but the shock and excitement is much more prominent. Her expression morphs into something feline and a smirk curls at the corners of her mouth. 

“He must be dicking you down so good.” She laughs, eyes flickering around the group. “You just know he talks her through it.” 

You can’t hide the heat that rises to the apples of your cheeks. She whirls to look at you again. 

“A man in two uniforms… you lucky bitch.” 

Karis splutters into her water, Chloe quickly reaches an arm around her to pat her back but Leone is staring at you and your warm face with squinted eyes. 

“No…” she says slowly, like she can sense what you’re not admitting just by the look on your face. 

You turn to her, subtly shaking your head with a hard look in your eyes to shut the fuck up. But Bella catches it, lets her eyes dart between you both as the smirk turns to confusion. 

“What?” she asks, voice a bit shrill. 

Leone keeps her accusing gaze on you when she speaks again. “You haven’t slept with him yet?” 

The table stills, so does Karis’ coughing fit. All eyes turn to you. Not just shock or bewilderment this time, but… disgust? Pinching brows and grimacing lips. They look at you like you’ve got three fucking heads. 

Your hands drag down your face as you sink back into your chair. You didn't want to have this conversation with them. Not out of embarrassment or hesitation, but because they’re nosy and know how out of character it is for you to be seeing someone for a month and not have some form of sex with them.

Karis leans closer to the table, napkin clutched in her dainty fingers. 

“Is it… is it because he can't?” She’s polite enough to almost whisper the question, to look sheepish and afraid of offending. 

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is completely involuntary. Because you’re hit with an onslaught of mini-memories. Remembering all the dry-humping and the fact that you’ve definitely felt just how hard he does get. 

“He’s forty-four. Believe me, he can get it up.” 

Chloe shakes her head at you, like your answer isn’t good enough. “Then, why…”

You shrug. “We’re just… taking our time. We really like each other and I—I have Phoebe to consider, you know? We get along great without the sex, and I just…”

You can’t explain it to them. Not really. It’s odd, wanting to keep it a secret, the fact that both you and Jack agreed you didn’t want to rush this. That you both wanted to take your time. It doesn’t help that you don’t know what the fuck you are, but not having sex yet… It feels like the right call to make. 

You don’t think they’ll understand that, and that’s okay. 

Karis is tied down and expecting. Chloe and Leone have been together since high-school and sometimes they invite a third. And Bella… Well sex is very important to Bella. 

You don’t want teasing, don’t want judgement. You like whatever the fuck is going on with Jack. You love your friends, but you don’t want their opinions on the matter. Don’t want them interfering with what you have. 

You find yourself overcompensating for it and speaking again. 

“We’re keeping it platonic around Phoebe. She loves him, it’s not a secret, but I’m kinda trying to limit how often they see each other. I don’t want her getting confused.”

The truth of it seems to soften their judgement and confusion. Bella moreso. Because she does the same. No man she dates ever meets Florence unless she’s absolutely certain they will be a stable figure in their lives. It doesn’t affect her from dating shamelessly and fucking anything she find a attractive, but she doesn’t allow that to touch her daughters life. 

The realization of just how much you like Jack is quite clarifying for her. 

“But, isn’t he okay about Phoebe? He was great with her at the birthday party.” She probes softly and you find yourself mirroring her expression, warmth filling you.

“He’s so natural with her. They’ve got such an intense bond, it’s odd. They just get each other, I don’t know. And he always asks about her. If we go on a date or he comes over when she’s sleeping, he’ll always bring something for her. A toy, or a treat.” 

And it’s true. 

Jack understands that you’re a mother before anything else. That Phoebe comes before anything else. He respects it, understands it. Adopts it, even. If you’ve had to cancel a date, he’s more than happy to rearrange. He lets you choose what will work best for you and her. Shows interest in her little life and the things she likes. 

And it’s fucking terrifying.

Because you’ve never dated someone that cares enough about you to care about her, too. Never met a man who isn’t bothered by you having a child, who accepts it and embraces it, who understands and considers it with everything he does that regards you. 

It makes you realize just how phenomenal Jack is. And how desperately you want whatever you have with him to keep growing. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

If there’s one thing you hate about dates, it’s the fancy dinners in expensive restaurants and the overwhelming expectations that comes with them. 

In the past three months of dating Jack, you’ve only been on two of those said dates. The first one was fine, wonderful, even. The food was gorgeous, even if the portions were slightly too-small and the cost was incredibly over-priced. The atmosphere was gentle and intimate and it felt good to dress up more than you usually did. 

But you felt out of place. Your personality felt squished into a suffocating bubble. Too aware of how loud your laugh was. You felt like you were performing, something you’ve never done before and it left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

The second one, though, was awful. The moment you sat down, next to a group of women that were Jack’s age, you felt an uncomfortable gaze on the side of your face. At first, you assumed it was judgement. That you were younger than him by a fair few years. 

But when a woman approached and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder like she was familiar with him, you quickly understood. She introduced herself as an old friend of Jack’s from fucking highschool, though the slightly familair sparkle in her eye suggested it was a little more than that. 

Demi, her name was. Out for drinks with her friends. Devastatingly beautiful, long legs peeking through a black cocktail dress and silky hair that curled around her shoulders. She was the complete opposite of you in every sense imaginable. A successful lawyer, naturally stunning beyond belief. She was graceful in how she spoke and held herself; glowing skin and perfect posture. 

Angelic, if you were being honest. And not to mention, Jack’s age. There was that familiar tilt of an aching pain when you watched her talk with him, when you observed just how perfect they actually looked together. 

But despite her silky voice and perfectly manicured fingers, her captivating face and entrancing eyes, Jack did not encourage it, did not allow the encounter to move past pleasantries. Because Demi hadn’t paid no mind to you; had been rude enough to ignore your presence, to impose on what was very clearly a date. 

Jack was respectful when he cut her off, when he introduced you. When he said it was nice to see her again before angling his chair closer to you and refusing to offer her even another glance. Demi, to her credit, got the hint and left. 

But it had put a sour on your mood and Jack could sense it. You’d tried to continue through the date, to not allow doubt to wedge its way into your mind. But like last time, you felt out of place. The feeling had grown tenfold and it was Jack’s decision to throw cash on the table and guide you out of the restaurant with his fingers curled around yours. 

“That place was a drag.” He’d grinned at you, and twenty minutes later, you both found yourselves singing karaoke in a dive bar. 

It was a silent understanding then, that the both of you preferred dates that had a bit of personality to them. 

After that night, unless it was an impromptu coffee catch-up or takeout at your apartment, dates consisted of watching weird movies at the theater, bowling, arcades, crazy golf, karaoke or, like two days ago, a fucking panic room.

Tonight is supposed to be no different. Burgers and drinks and a comedy show. Somewhere along the past three months, these get-togethers have been feeling less like dates and more like hanging out with your best friend. 

And not in an awkward shift of feelings type of way. No. It’s in a way that makes you feel like you’ve known Jack for years, that he’s always been a figure in your life. His presence is now familiar, like he’s slotted perfectly into your life like a missing piece. 

Despite minimizing how often he and Phoebe see one another, he asks about her constantly. Before every date—if he comes to yours or picks you up—Jack will bring a little bouquet of flowers for her. Or a bracelet making kit, or an action figure she’s fixated on, or a CD for her little stereo in her room. 

Phoebe draws him pictures a lot, asks far too often when she’ll get to see him next. And on the very odd occasion when you invite Jack to the park with you both, or he stops in for a coffee or to help fix something broken, they’re like two best friends finally reunited. 

It both warms and breaks your heart at the same time. You’ve done everything you can to not allow them to form too deep of a connection, and yet it’s happened anyway. 

And Jack, he understands. He’s respected your decision since day one, when you made it clear that Phoebe comes first. He’s agreed, never once grown frustrated when you’ve had to cancel a date because she’s unwell or just wants you. 

You can’t help but feel guilty when you do cancel. Can’t help but feel like Jack deserves someone who does have the time for him that’s undisturbed. That he should pursue someone that doesn’t have the added responsibility of a child like you do. 

Maybe that’s why your stomach feels like it’s in knots when Tom calls to tell you that he’s bringing Phoebe home now, at 4 p.m. instead of tomorrow morning. You feel like nothing short of a let down as you type yet another apology text to Jack for the sixth time this month alone. 

You: are those tickets for the show tonight refundable? 

Jack: No, but they were only twenty dollars each. Do we need to cancel?

You: pheebs is coming home now

Jack: Is she okay?

You: yeah, he said she’s upset and wants to come home… think she just wants to be with me. I’m sorry jack 

Jack: Don’t ever be sorry, honey. Diva comes first always

Your heart feels heavy when you read over his final text again and again. You don’t get any time to write a reply because there’s a knocking on your front door the moment your fingers hover over the keyboard, about to tell him that maybe he should go with someone else instead. 

Phoebe all but barrels into the apartment when you open the front door. You watch the blur of her form race down the short hall and into her bedroom, slamming the door with more force that a four-year-old should have. 

You turn slowly back to Tom who stands at the threshold, your brows raised as you blink. 

“What’s the deal with her?”

There's a bitter look on Tom’s face—his screwed together and lips curling in a grimace. You know this look far too intimately. He’s angry. He doesn’t even pass you Phoebe’s weekend bag, just swings it into the corner of your entrance hall.

“We need to have a little conversation.” His tone is cruel, belittling. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and you instinctively reach for the front door, almost preparing yourself to slam it in his face if necessary. 

“I’d prefer to know why Phoebe is upset first.” 

Tom scoffs at that, at your strict yet unbothered tone. “And that’s why we need to have a talk. She’s been nothing but rude to Kirsty all weekend. Refused to talk to her since she woke up this morning and now has a problem with me, because I scolded her for it.”

Your own face screws up at his word, almost mirroring his own expression. 

“I’m sorry, who the fuck is Kirsty?” 

“My girlfriend.”

Your eyes are blinking far too quickly, lips parting and your head begins to shake as you try to remember him ever mentioning the fact that he was seeing someone or that he was considering allowing them to meet your fucking daughter.

“Girlfriend?” It almost comes out as a shriek. “Since when? And why the hell is she around Phoebe before I’ve even met her?”

You don’t think it’s an unfair thing to get upset over. Tom is known for his lengthy track record in flings and short-lived relationships. When he decided to be more involved in Phoebe’s life, you had made it clear that he wasn't to subject Phoebe to any of his flings or so called relationships unless he spoke about it with you first. Unless you met them first or that he had at least been with them for longer than a fucking month. 

You never wanted that around Phoebe, for her father to parade a new woman every three weeks and it confuse her, for her to think it’s fucking normal. 

But the look of Tom’s face turns from disgust to outright anger. 

“Who’s Jack?” 

That causes you to pause. To blink. To consider how the fuck he knows who Jack is. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Who’s Jack, Y/N?” His voice is growing louder, his tone turning darker. “Because I’ve had the pleasure of hearing that name for the past three weeks. Non-stop.”

Now it’s your turn to get a bit angry. A scoff escapes you before you can stop it, your hip cocking to one side as you rest a hand on it. “Okay first of all this is the third time you’ve seen Phoebe in the past three weeks. And second, Jack is my neighbour.”

Tom’s arms cross over his chest, fury burning in his gaze. “Phoebe said he’s your boyfriend.” 

You’re left stunned, yet again. 

Jesus Christ, Pheebs.

You’ve tried so hard to remain platonic in front of her, not wanting to confuse your little girl when neither you or Jack really know what is going on between you. You’ve been mindful of him not being around her too much, of not blurring any lines in front of her. 

“We’ve been on a couple of dates. It’s completely platonic in front of Phoebe. Not that I have to explain myself to you.” Your own tone is growing bitter, annoyance bleeding through every word. 

Tom takes a step closer, imposing in your personal space. “You want to meet Kirsty? That’s fine. But I want to meet Jack.” 

You scoff, about to burst into argument when Tom cuts you off. 

“You don’t get to be in control all the time. You might be her mother but I am her father.” 

The rage begins to bubble over and you step toward him, closing the distance with nothing but resentment in your eyes. The thought of breaking his fucking nose is all you can think right now. 

“Actually, Tom, I do. Because I am her mother always. Day and night, rain or shine, I show up for her. You pick and choose when you want to be her fucking dad.”

His jaw ticks, you can see how he clenches his teeth. Those nostrils flare the same way they used to when he’s trying to control his anger. Just as quickly as you think he’ll snap, he steps away. 

“I’m not budging on this. Get your mom to have Phoebe on Friday night. Preston’s at 8. You bring Jack and I will bring Kirsty.” 

Your instant reaction is to shut him down. To tell him to fuck off and slam the door on his face. But Phoebe is your main concern above all. The last thing you want is for him to take this out on her, to stop seeing her just to spite you. 

So you stare at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of you giving in. But your duty as a mother is much stronger than your pride. 

“Fine.” 

You don’t wait for another word to leave him. You keep your eyes on him as you shut the door on his face and then you’re leaning against it, loosing a frustrated breath before your ears perk up at the sound of One Direction blaring from Phoebe’s room. 

You knock on her bedroom door as you open it, halting at the doorway. She lays on her tummy on her bedroom floor, feet kicked up in the air as she colors in a page of her Spider-Man book. Her little stereo still sits on her dresser and you slowly approach to turn it down a few buttons. 

You join her on the floor, mirroring her position and picking up a blue crayon to color in a car stuck in Spider-Man’s web. 

“So, you’re back early.” You comment casually.

She doesn’t answer. 

“I was thinking we could have a pizza night?” You try again. 

“Sure.” The words are small when they come out of her and you frown. 

“Do you want to talk about what’s upsetting you?” 

It’s a very subtle movement when she shakes her head and your heart feels heavy. You’ve decided you already fucking hate this Kirsty for whatever she’s done to upset your daughter. But you won’t push her to talk. 

The whole situation is a bit sobering, if you’re being honest. Like it’s an insight to how Phoebe will be when she’s a teenager riddled with confusing feelings and hormones. You won’t force her, won’t push her. 

“Okay, well… if you want to talk, you know Mommy will always listen, right?” 

You spend the next twenty minutes with her, coloring in silence. You sing along softly under your breath to the songs that play on her stereo, and after a little while, when you purposely start to sing the words wrong, you get a laugh out of her. 

Another ten minutes, and she agrees to leave her room. She lets you turn off the music and sits at the kitchen island while you unpack her box of Play-Doh and tip out all of her cutters. 

You’re about to reach for your phone to order in some pizza when there’s a knock at your front door and your entire body stills. The last thing you need right now is Tom showing back up to throw another fit and for Phoebe to be a witness to it. 

So it’s quite carefully that you approach the door, only now in this moment hating the fact that you don’t have a little peephole. But the anxiety is quickly diminished the second you wrap a hand around the handle and a familiar voice calls from the hall. 

“Pizza and ice cream delivery for two beautiful girls in apartment seventeen.” 

You swing the door open with a grin, eyes drinking over his attire; khaki trousers, a black t-shirt…simple and yet you think he looks better and better every time you see him. 

He grins a bit boyishly when you beam at him, his previous worry of you scolding him for showing up when Phoebe is with you unannounced quickly fading. 

She hears him before you can speak, jumps off the stool at the kitchen counter to race for him, his name screeching out of her as she barrels into his good knee. 

Jack somehow manages to balance the two boxes of pizza and tub of ice cream on one hand while the other reaches down to cradle the back of Phoebe’s head. He smiles softly down at her, lets his fingers scratch soothingly at her scalp before looking back up to meet your eyes. 

The hesitancy in them is clear to you, it's the same thing that shines on your face. The desire to reach across for a kiss, a hug. But he stretches out the hand holding the food toward you instead. 

“Just dropping these off.” He explains, voice rugged and it comforts the tense corners of your body and mind. 

Your gaze softens as Phoebe unwraps herself from Jack’s leg and reaches for his spare hand to drag him into the apartment. “Mom just set up my Play-Doh!”

You stop her with the gentle call of her name and she frowns at you for the interruption. “Go wash your hands, Diva. Pizza then Play-Doh.”

She huffs but releases Jack’s hand and drags her feet down the hall to the bathroom. Jack stifles a laugh as he watches, walks toward the counter to place the boxes down and quickly scoops you into his arms when he hears the water running. 

Your arms snake around his waist, nuzzling your face into his cotton shirt and savoring the scent of him and his cologne. Jack kisses the top of your head, a soothing hand stroking up and down your back. 

“I’m sorry for just showing up without asking first. Just wanted to do something for you both.” 

You shake your head against him, against his apology. Craning your neck up enough to look at his face, your lips pucker in a silent request for a kiss. Jack obliges with a lopsided grin, gently pressing his mouth to yours and humming at the familiar taste of you. 

It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do. The water turns off and you gently untangle yourself from Jack’s hold, feeling the tenseness of Tom’s visit return the moment that you do. 

“No, she needed it. I needed it. You’ll stay?” 

Jack’s shoulders drop in something that looks like relief. He nods, fights off a grin that’s forming, but you catch it anyway. Don’t mean for the look to set your stomach ablaze and into a fit of stompeding elephants, but you’ve quickly come to terms with the fact that you have little control over how your body and mind reacts when it comes to Jack. 

Phoebe doesn’t leave Jack alone when you eat together. She sits with her stool pressed closely against his, clinks her bottle of water against his glass every time he or she takes a sip. 

She catches him up about the things she’s been doing since she saw him last two weeks ago. And Jack listens, pretends you haven’t already told him. 

After dinner, she forces him to sit on the living room rug with her, superhero figures scattered across the ground and Lego blocks thrown everywhere from Hulk smashing buildings apart. 

It’s terrifying how natural and domestic it all feels. You and Jack are on the floor with her, playing and laughing. He fits in too easily. Like he was supposed to have been here a long time ago. You know he can sense how tense you are, that there’s more to it than having to pretend you’re just friends for Phoebe’s sake. 

After an hour playing on the ground, you take note of the small grimace Jack tries to conceal, the awkward way he stretches out his leg. You disappear with the excuse of grabbing a drink but you return with a pair of crutches in your hand. 

Jack blubbers out a laugh at the sight and frowns when you give them to him. 

“Take it off, know it’s bothering you. She won’t care.” 

He blinks at you, back at the crutches while Phoebe talks in a deep voice with the dolls. 

“What the f—” he catches himself before the curse can slip out. “Where did you get these? Why do you have these?” 

You shrug, returning to the floor with your legs folded beneath you. “They were left in the laundry room when we moved in. Kept them in case they were needed one day.”

Phoebe watches Jack’s movements closely from the corner of her eye as he stands with a grunt and sits on the couch. She keeps her dolls moving but her focus is entirely on him, when he rolls his pant leg up to reveal metal, when the click sounds through the room and a sigh slips from his mouth. 

She hides her shock well for a four-year-old when Jack removes the metal completely. Like she’s now only just realizing that the prosthetic means he only actually has one real leg. It causes a pinch to form between her brows, her gaze to flicker over to her dolls that have two legs. Plastic, yes, but two legs that are the same. 

She turns back to look at him fully this time, her dolls long forgotten. “Jack?”

He peeks up at her, still leaning over himself slightly to massage the tender part below his knee. “What’s up, kid?” 

Pheebs ponders for a moment, chewing on her inner cheek. “What happened to your leg?” 

It’s a loaded question, one you both knew she would ask eventually. But you still catch the way Jack stiffens slightly; your own body locking up a bit at the sight. You don’t intervene, even if a suitable answer is on the tip of your tongue. 

It’s Jack’s story, not yours. And if he needs an out, he’ll look to you for it.

But he doesn’t. He keeps his tender gaze on Phoebe and leans forward to rest his elbows on his lap. “It got hurt a long time ago. So, the doctors had to give me a new leg.” 

She frowns harder. “But you’re a doctor.” 

Jack smiles at that, at how her mind is trying to understand. “Yeah. But, you know…some things can’t be fixed no matter how hard you try.” 

You watch Pheebs as she tries to absorb the truth of Jack’s words. Can see her brain filtering every syllable, like she’s storing the information away for later use. You don’t chime in, don’t try to overwhelm her with an explanation or an example. 

Eventually, she shrugs. “I don’t care if you have an old leg or a new one. Or even just no leg.” She giggles at that last part. 

Jack’s eyes soften impossibly at her bluntness, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he regards the kid with more tenderness than you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” 

She nods. “I still wanna be like you when I’m big.”

It’s such a simple statement to her, but one that cleaves your heart in two and almost shatters Jack completely. The only man to have ever made such a positive impact on Phoebe’s life is your father. 

Tom has never had the connection that Jack has bloomed with her. She has never trusted anyone so easily and so lovingly as she does Jack. 

Perhaps it’s his kind and calming nature, his softness and security that bleeds from him whenever he’s in your presence. Or perhaps, Phoebe just senses things. Perhaps she knows Tom will never truly be something stable in her life, but Jack…she looks at him like he’s such a wonder to this world.

Like he’s something so incredibly stabilizing to her. 

It reinforces that anxiety; of being a single mom and finding love again. Of trusting someone enough to let them in, to believe they won’t walk away when the going gets tough. Your mind feels like a broken record. The doubts of you and Phoebe being too much, both of your needs and requirements being more than someone initially signed up for. 

But Jack stares at your daughter like she’s a gift he’s always wanted but never allowed himself to have. Like she’s breathed a new lease of life into him. Like he’ll love and protect and guard her with his life until his final breath. 

He looks at her like a father should look at a daughter. And that scares the living shit out of you. 

Because it’s been three months. Three months of dates and kisses and falling for a man so much older than you. Three months of trying to keep him and Phoebe separated so as to not confuse her. Three months of trying to juggle parenthood and a career and a love life and not allow yourself to get too swept up or lost in the moments. 

Three months and everything you’ve tried to prevent is happening anyway. 

You’ve been foolish to keep them apart, maybe. To put a wedge between their bond. But you couldn’t have either of them growing attached to the other only for it to go to shit in two months time. You’d handle the fall out like you have done with everything else in the past. 

But not them. You could never put either of them through that. 

Anxiety lodges deep within you at the realization of it. Fear cripples you from the inside out; wrapping around your bones before seeping into your organs. It’s like you’re struggling to breathe, the beginnings of a panic attack right on the precipice of dragging you under. 

You force yourself to break their gentle moment, to shatter the internal peace and acceptance that Jack has found with how easily Phoebe saw past his disability.

You feel sick to your stomach for doing it. 

“Okay, Diva. Bath time.” 

When you look over to Jack, he’s already gazing at you. There’s a longing look in his eyes and a deep rooted wave of peace and fear and conflict passes over him. He offers a tearful, thin-lipped smile and your shoulders sag as Phoebe rushes off to her bedroom in search of pyjamas. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice is soft when you ask him, gentle. 

Jack holds out a hand to reach for you and you slowly move closer to him, standing between his parted knees. His hands settle on the outsides of your thighs, his touch tender and careful. Your fingers find his peppered curls, nails gently scratching at his scalp in soothing movements. 

He leans his head against your lower tummy, thumbs tracing patterns over your jeans. 

“I don’t have words to describe how beautiful that kid’s soul is.”

Tears well in your eyes at his broken words, the sound of his voice so vulnerable and so proud. You can’t help the sniffle that escapes you, the pride that swells within you and the adoration that your heart bursts with. 

Not just for Phoebe, but for him. 

“You are an incredible mother, baby.” 

You laugh through a soft cry because you’ve lost count of how many times he’s told you this; how wonderful you are with Phoebe, what a fantastic parent you are. You’ve always known you’ve tried your best, always believed yourself to be a good Mom.

But Jack, he makes you know it. 

You slowly sink down to your knees in front of him, hands moving to cup his face as his reaches up to hold gently at your elbows. His eyes are wet when he looks at you, face pink like he’s trying to keep in his tears. 

It only makes yours fall more. 

Your thumbs brush soothingly over his high cheekbones, a smile pulling on the corners of your mouth before you lean in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

He lets you walk away, watches your every step through distorted vision until he hears the melodic laugh of yours and Phoebe’s in the bathroom when the water begins to run. 

Jack doesn’t move at first. He lets himself bask in the sound of your happiness, lets it fester in that crevice of his heart—no, not fester—grow. It spreads gently, warm and certain, nestles so deep into him that he can physically feel weight lift off his mind and soul. 

For a moment, Jack lets himself believe. 

He lets himself ignore those worrying thoughts; not good enough, too old, not whole. He allows himself to accept Phoebe’s words, the weight of them, the truth in them. Lets himself believe your eyes when you look at him, the relief in your body when he’s close, the lightness in your presence in his company. 

He’s noticed how he seems to take your worry away a lot of the time, just from being near you. How your stress fizzles into something you allow yourself to think about later. Like he’s more important than it. 

More than that, he notices your hesitancy when it comes to Phoebe. It’s something he understands, undoubtedly. Something he respects and refuses to ever push or question you on. Because there’s no label on what you are, nothing to reassure you he won’t just stop texting or calling or showing up one day. 

It puts a bitter taste in his mouth, makes shame swell along with that dangerous feeling he gets around you or when he thinks about you. 

Makes him realize that Jack really is a mess of mixed emotions. Full of desire and want and adoration, and yet too careful because he doesn’t want to push; reserving himself and his actions because he doesn’t want to be too much, to overstep. 

The only thing he can do to stop himself from spiraling, is clean. 

He tidies away Phoebe’s toys, refluffs the cushions on the couch and turns on the lamps in the living area. He clears the kitchen; loading the dishwasher and breaking down pizza boxes to fit in your little recycling bin under the sink. 

It’s when he’s wiping down the sides that he hears your footsteps and Phoebe’s quicker ones following. Hears your gentle voice telling Phoebe to say goodnight. 

He turns with a smile, still leaning against the sink with the crutches propped up by the fridge. An act that he usually wouldn’t be so open to commit in front of someone new. To be vulnerable enough to hobble on crutches with his leg off. “Look at this Diva, all fresh and in the pyjamas I got you!”

She beams at him, offering a twirl. “Jack, can you take me to bed?” 

His eyes snap to yours, brows raised at her proposal. You stifle a laugh, relieved to see him a bit more himself and despite your previous need to keep them separated, you find yourself shrugging. 

Jack looks back down to Phoebe with a grin. “Sure, kid. Say night to Mommy.” 

You try to ignore the way that makes you feel when it rolls off his tongue. How natural for him to say Mommy and not your Mommy like Tom does. Try to ignore how easily and quickly Pheebs listens to him. 

You crouch down to give her a squeeze, peppering playful and exaggerated kisses across her cheeks and under her chin. Her laughter bubbles out of her little body; loud and unapologetic. 

“I love you, Diva. See you in the morning.” 

“Love you, bestie.” She gives you one last squeeze before pulling away and leading Jack down to her bedroom. 

He offers you a wink as he passes, heat curling at your insides. And you watch as Phoebe races into her bedroom, and don’t hide the fact that you’re ogling Jack’s ass when he follows on his crutches. 

In the ten minutes it takes for Jack to settle her to bed, you manage to finish the rest of the kitchen and brew two mugs of steaming hot tea and get settled onto the couch, flicking through Netflix to find something for you both to watch. 

When you’re scrolling through the comedy section, Jack returns with a gleam in his eyes that you’ve never once seen before. 

You squint at him. “Did she settle okay?”

He hums, rests the crutches against the wall and settles beside you on the couch. His arm is immediately thrown over the back of it and you’re instinctively reaching to hand him his tea before curling into his side. 

“Yeah, out like a light. Read her that Peter Pan book, sang to her.”

Your head whips up to look at him with wide eyes and a grin tearing your face in half. Jack looks down at you with lopsided amusement. “You sang to her? Can’t believe I missed that.”

His once amused expression morphs into something almost predatory, a taunting glint in his eye and a sinful curve to his mouth. It turns your insides molten. 

“You want me to sing to you, sweetheart?” His voice drops an octave, something you’ve noticed is unintentional and only seems to come out when he flirts intimately. 

You can’t help the giddy smile that worms its way onto your face. His eye contact is still something you’ve not yet grown completely accustomed to. Intense in the way that it feels like he’s looking directly into your soul. 

It makes you forget momentarily about everything around you.

All you can do is close the distance to press your lips against his, grinning against his mouth so wide that he feels it, mirrors it. When he pulls away, Jack brushes the hair from your face and you have to busy yourself with reaching for your tea before you get sucked under his spell. 

“Did she tell you why she was upset?” He asks softly. 

You lean back into him with a sigh, blowing softly at the steam rising from your mug. “No, but it seems like Tom’s had another woman around her and she doesn’t like it.” 

Jack’s brows raise involuntarily and he’s thankful you’ve got your gaze locked on the TV, back to flicking through Netflix. He hums, instead. Keeps his mouth shut tight on what he thinks about that. 

It’s not his place.

“She’s been mentioning you to Tom.” Your voice is quieter when you speak again, but the words ring loud in Jack’s head. 

He’s already staring down at you when you move your head to sneak a glance up at him before returning your attention to the screen across the room.

“Phoebe called you my boyfriend.” 

Jack blinks, momentarily stunned by the information. A mixed array of emotions swirls through him. Relief, uncertainty, hope, excitement. But more than that, understanding. You’ve been tense all evening, unsure in your movements, a little unlike yourself. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat as dread and doubt begins to bubble. Has it made things too real for you? Made you realize that you’re not ready for that? That perhaps entertaining him has been a mistake? 

He clears his throat, still looking down at you despite your attention not being on him. “Is that why you’ve been on edge this evening?” 

You chew on the inside of your lip, considering. “No—yes, no—I don’t—”

Your chest is heaving slightly, words contradicting the other, your thoughts. But Jack lets you do it, lets you try to sort through your jumbled mind and heart. He doesn’t push, he never has. He waits, patiently. Even if his mind is tearing him apart in the process. 

It's that idea that forces you to turn beside him; knees folded and pressing against his hip, his arm still thrown over the back of the couch and his fingers reach to brush tenderly across your shoulder. 

There’s a calmness in his eyes that isn’t in yours, a silent reassurance that whatever you’re feeling—thinking—is okay. That whatever you decide is okay. He’ll respect it. Respect you and Phoebe. 

“What is this, Jack? Us?” Your voice is quiet, tone breaking just slightly when you speak. “Because I can’t—I don’t do casual. Phoebe comes first in everything that I do and this can’t be any different. We’ve been nothing but friendly in front of her and she’s going around telling people that you’re my boyfriend and I—”

“Hey, woah. Okay, breathe.” Jack coos as you begin to spiral, shifting slightly to reach for your hand and chase your frantic gaze. 

“Listen. Us—whatever this is—it’s whatever you want or need it to be. But no one said anything about casual. Nothing about you or Phoebe or us is casual to me.” 

Jack’s tone is resolute, punctuating every word he speaks like he needs you to understand what he’s saying. That every syllable is true and genuine. It’s enough to make you finally meet his gaze.

“So, what is this, then? What are we?” You hate the desperation in your voice; the sheer vulnerability that bleeds from your heart and drips off your tongue. 

Jack’s expression softens impossibly further and he rests his tea on the arm of the couch before reaching to cradle your jaw. He watches you for a moment, admires. His thumb reaches to smooth the elevens creasing between your brows, to trace the slope of your nose.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but…I kind of like the title that Phoebe has given me.” 

The string of anxiety snaps clean, shoulder dropping noticeably in relief. Your lashes flutter at him, heart thumping like the wings of a wild bird. “Yeah?”

Jack hums, a tick of a smile daring to pinch his cheeks. “Yeah.” 

Your tongue licks across your dry bottom lip, pulls it back between your teeth as you regard him. The gentleness he possesses for you, the tenderness in which he holds you. 

“It’s not too soon?” You whisper. 

He frowns at that, rolls his own bottom lip between two rows of teeth. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene, but I don’t think you know just how much you both mean to me.” 

Even with your bottom lip sucked into your mouth, it doesn’t stop the slight trembling of your chin, or the silver that begins to line your eyes. Jack’s head cocks slightly to the side at the sight. 

“Baby, I know you want to protect Phoebe in everything you do. I respect that. I admire it. But, I want to make it clear to you that I understand that you two are a package deal. And my interest and care for you doesn’t end with you. It includes Pheebs.”

It makes you pause, forces tears to spill down your warm cheeks. His care for you. For Phoebe. It’s the most he’s ever verbally clarified about this relationship, about how he feels about you. It doesn’t extend to Phoebe, doesn’t stretch to her. It includes her. Wholly. 

And Jack notices the way you fixate on his words, on his admittance. That it’s not lost on you how vulnerable and open he’s being. But he gives you the time to consider what he’s said. To let you interpret them in whatever way you need to. 

Because he’s not ready to truly admit just how far he’s falling. Not just yet. Jack doesn’t want to scare or overwhelm you. He meant what he said when he told you it’s whatever you want it to be. That you have and always will have control.

With a shaky breath, you nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you back into his side, cradling your body close to his. 

“Don’t ever get lost in that pretty head of yours. Just talk to me, baby.” He kisses the top of your head, reaches a hand to smooth down your flyaways.

The tender touch soothes what’s left of your anxiety and you finally feel yourself begin to relax fully. His scent envelops you in the most gentle of ways; something that has grown to be familiar and comforting. 

Your neck twists so you can look back up at him, lips puckering slightly but it’s enough for Jack to understand what you’re asking for. He gives it to you with a breathy chuckle, capturing your lips in a tender kiss—soft and gentle and intimate and…sure. 

But when you pull away with hesitancy in your eyes, that certainty curdles into worry. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks carefully. 

You smile, but it’s nervous. “You’re not working Friday night, right?”

Jack’s brows raise slightly, comically. Were you nervous about asking him out on a date? He squints at you, pecking your lips again. “No, baby. Night off. You wanna do something?” 

You grin but it's emotionless, fingers tracing the buttons on the TV remote.

“Actually, we have a double date Friday night with Tom and his girlfriend.” 

You peck his lips once more before shifting to look at the screen and press play on the movie. Jack blinks at the side of your face, slightly in confusion, more so in disbelief. He barely watches any of the film, too caught up in his head. 

Too busy figuring out how he’ll sit through dinner with Phoebe’s father without ending the night in a fucking jail cell. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

this chapter is a belated happy birthday to my very loyal reader @cafereads and a belated graduation present to one of my lovely anons!! <3

OKAY, AGAIN I AM SO SORRY FOR IT BEING SUCH A LATE UPDATE BUT I PROMISE WE ARE SOOOO BACK!!! Next chapter is going to EAT i promise you, it's my most anticipated chapter to get to in this series. Also, a lil updated, I have decided that chapter 10 of this series will be the FINAL PART!! i will definitely come back and revisit them for check-ins but as it stands, pt.10 will be the finale of this series and while i will be so sad to see it end, i am also super excited to be able to move onto other fics i have plans for and drafts that are taunting me lol

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Allie had once asked her offhandedly what would be in her sex room if she had one. Admittedly, her cousin had been very drunk and had just finished watching Fifty Shades Darker. Humouring Allie, she had taken a sip of her drink and answered.

“A king sized bed. A damn good stereo system. Maybe a scented candle or two. Nothing crazy. Just a man who loves me.”

“You love love!” Allie had squealed. “But seriously, that’s it? No sex swing? No handcuffs or blindfolds?”

“Nope.” She’d laughed nervously. “None of that has ever appealed to me. I just want to feel loved. Be romanced a little bit. I want a man to make the effort.”

Allie had never forgotten that conversation. So when John Tucker called her one afternoon and asked what he could do to make YN’s first time special, Allie knew exactly what to do.

What Tucker didn’t expect was to be sent a detailed checklist over Apple notes.

“Allie,” he’d asked nervously “why are silk boxers on this list?”

“Just trust me!” Allie had insisted. “She wants to be wooed! And romanced! Make her feel special!”

“And dressing up like Hugh Hefner is going to do that?”

“Try less playboy mansion and more Tom Cruise in Risky Business.”

When Dean walked past the open door of the bedroom while Tucker was setting up, he couldn’t hide his smirk.

“Seriously? Dude, you are so fucking whipped.”

“Shut up! I just want her to feel safe with me.”

“Tuck, I don’t know a single person that wouldn’t feel safe around you. Just be yourself, and make sure she feels like she can also be herself.”

He spent ages getting ready. Picking out the right collared shirt, the right pair of Levi’s jeans, the right cologne. He even put curl cream in his hair, which happened so rarely that Garrett almost passed out in shock.

Tuck came down the stairs with his phone, wallet and keys, yet still somehow worried that he missed something.

“What?” He asked cautiously, pausing in the living room when he noticed the other three hockey players staring at him with shit-eating grins.

“Nothing.” Garett smirked “we’re just wondering why you have an entire IKEA’s worth of tea lights in your room.”

“And why you smell like a rich asshole who’s just been arrested for embezzlement.” Logan laughed.

“First of all, fuck all of you.” Tucker glared. “Second of all, I want you all out of the house tonight. She’ll feel more comfortable if she’s not worried about you jackasses listening in. Third of all, can one of you please turn on the tea lights before you leave?”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “We got you, bro. Just promise the rest of the house will get to meet her eventually.”

The night had gone perfectly. A great dinner at a new resto-bar that her boss had given her a gift card for, and a phenomenal showing of the Briar theatre department’s rendition of Shrek: The Musical, in which Allie shined as Princess Fiona. YN looked beautiful in her strapless polka dot dress and red heels.

The house was eerily quiet when they returned. Thankfully, the others had heeded John’s warnings and fucked off for the night. Tucker led her upstairs, gently rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

When Tucker opened the door, even he had to admit that he was pleased with what he had put together. One of the other players had lit up all of the LED tea lights before they left, illuminating a path from the door to the double bed, which was sprinkled with wrapped Hershey’s kisses and confetti hearts. A teddy bear sat on the nightstand, innocently hugging a fresh box of condoms.

YN wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as she looked at the setup. “Tucker,” she breathed, fingers feeling tingly. “what is all of this?”

“I wanted your first to be special. I mean, it’s my first with you, which makes it special for me as well, but you deserve perfection. You deserve to feel comfortable and relaxed and like your best self.” Tucker explained, hooking his phone up to the Bluetooth speaker on his desk.

Marcy Playground’s Sex and Candy started to play as she sat on the bed, a bright smile on her face as she played with the sparkly confetti.

“It’s perfect.”

Tucker beamed, moving to sit next to her. “I thought the music would help you relax. Quiet some of the noise in your head. I know you’re nervous, but I promise I’m going to take really good care of you.” His touch was gentle as he combed her hair behind her ear, leaning in for a soft kiss. “Hang on one second, I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared down the hallway, and she unwrapped one of the small chocolates, softly singing along under her breath. While she waited, she sent a quick text to Allie.

This was all you, wasn’t it? That conversation we had after you watched Fifty Shades? He’s just brought it to life!

When Tucker came back, she had to bite her lip to stifle her laughter. Tucker was wearing a ridiculous leopard print silk bathrobe and a pair of aviator sunglasses. His chest was bare, and he wore shiny black silk boxer shorts. He struck a dramatic pose in the doorway, peering at her over the lenses of the glasses, and she found that she couldn’t hold back her laughter any more.

“What are you wearing?”

“Can’t a man dress up for his woman?”

“Like a character in the Godfather?”

Tucker groaned. “I was going for Risky Business!”

“You thought I wanted Tom Cruise?” She raised her eyebrows. “Honey, I’ll only ever want you.”

He rejoined her on the bed, where she carefully pulled his sunglasses off, folding the arms in and placing them on his nightstand. He gently caressed her sides through the fabric of her dress, his chest warming when she leaned into his touch, exhaling softly.

“Let me take care of you, baby.”

She smiled, leaning in to kiss him, fingers coasting along the lapels of his ridiculous bathrobe. She tastes like chocolate and smelled like vanilla, two contrasts that made his head spin. Testing the waters, he gently slipped his tongue into her mouth, trailing his hands further up her sides, staying respectfully clear of the zipper on her dress.

She gently scraped her nails against the skin on his neck, and he could feel her smile into the kiss as he started to gently play with her hair. Feeling bold, she nipped at his bottom lip with her teeth, blushing almost immediately afterwards.

“I like that you aren’t shy right now.” Tucker said softly, trailing one hand up the hem of her dress. “It tells me that you trust me, and fuck, baby, I feel so honoured that you trust me to do this for you.”

“You’ve ruined me for anybody else.” She laughed nervously, running her hands up and down his arms. She didn’t quite know what to make of her feelings for John Tucker.

He made her feel safe and protected, like she could be herself instead of one of the many faces she had to put on in order to get through her day. He was someone who made her feel valued, and made her laugh. Someone she couldn’t imagine ever losing.

It felt too soon to say she was in love. That was an emotion that felt too big and too scary to voice, almost as if she was subconsciously hoping that he would say it first, making it okay for her to admit the same.

She could feel him smiling as he started kissing her neck, gently squeezing one of her boobs over her dress. He loved the way she inhaled, and how her fingernails dug into his skin around the same time that he squeezed. “Tucker.” She breathed.

“I know, baby. You’re so good. So perfect.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair, guiding his face back to hers. “I might get clingy.” She warned in a breathy whisper.

“Then it’s a good thing I like clingy.”

Laughing, she kissed him again, sliding her hands behind her back to undo the zipper on her dress, letting the fabric fall and reveal her bare chest.

“Holy shit.” Tucker breathed, reaching out to touch her with shaky hands. “You fucking undo me, baby.”

She swore she could hear her heart pounding in her chest, louder than the soft rock playing in the background. His thumbs trailed gently over her peaked nipples as he stared at her in wonder.

“C’mere darlin’” He drawled softly, pulling her closer and twisting her body so her back rested against his firm chest. He ran his hands over her breasts, kissing her neck deeply and breathing her in.

His hands moved, sliding under her dress and over her bare thighs. “You’re so beautiful.” He hummed, gently nipping at her earlobe. His hand came to rest gently over the crotch of her panties, the other tracing hearts against her thigh.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked softly, kissing her shoulder.

“Good.” She breathed. “Nervous, but good.” She laughed, moving her skirt aside to lace her fingers with his. Her chest heaved with anticipation, her dainty cherry necklace resting at her breastbone.

Tucker smiled softly against her skin. “This first bit isn’t anything we haven’t done before. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.”

He gently started to rub against the soaked seat of her panties. She relaxed into his touch, sinking back against his chest with a sigh. Her thighs fell open for him, allowing Tucker to slip his fingers inside, curling them gently.

Her breath hitched, a moan escaping as her lips curved into a smile, fingers tangling in his hair. Even though they had done this so many times before, something about this time made it feel so much more intimate. Bigger.

“There’s my girl.” Tucker beamed, kissing up her neck. “Breathe with me. Let yourself feel good.”

Every curl of his fingers sent shockwaves through her body. She moaned harshly, her grip tightening in his hair. As her fingernails grazed his scalp, he practically purred, nuzzling into her neck. She giggled, a bright smile on her face before his free hand came back to one of her breasts.

“I love your fucking laugh. Drives me absolutely insane.” He rasped, curling his fingers faster.

“Tuck, shit, right there.” She breathed, shaking under his touch. His thumb came down on her clit, rubbing gentle circles. She felt like her body was on fire, her chest filled with love.

“Atta girl. Let go for me.” He breathed in her ear, his free hand lacing with hers. She dug her nails into the back of his hand, moaning harshly as she clenched around his fingers. “I’ve got you.”

Her grip on his hand loosened as she came down, breathing heavily in his arms, cradled against his strong chest as he peppered gentle kisses along her cheek, jaw and neck, gently removing his fingers.

“You did so good, baby.” Tucker beamed. “So perfect.”

She smiled lazily, leaning back to look at him. “It’s so not fair that I’m basically undressed and you’re still wearing that dumbass robe.”

Tucker laughed heartily, tightening his arm around her waist as she turned around to kiss him softly yet deeply.

He helped her to her feet, smiling cheekily as she stood in shaky legs, allowing him to help her step out of the dress and panties. Her chest swelled as she watched him reverently hang the delicate dress over his desk chair before taking off his own clothes. His hands were soft and warm, guiding her towards the bed and under the warm layers of blankets. Tucker settled on top of her, reaching for the box of condoms on the nightstand.

“Tonight has been perfect.” Tucker exhaled, running a hand up her thigh. “I feel so close to you, it’s unreal.”

She smiled up at him, fighting the inexplicable urge to cover up. This was Tucker. He’d already made her fall apart on his fingers for fucks sake. Why the hell was she still so nervous?

There was a brief pause in the music, and then the beginning of a deafening grunge riff. She recognized it instantly, bursting out into uncontrollable laughter.

“Fucking Smart Shuffle!” Tucker cried.

“Is this Alice in Chains?” She laughed. “Why are we listening to Man in The Box?”

Despite himself, Tucker laughed with her, weakly draping his body over hers. “I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to be in the playlist. I swear, it was all soft rock and adult alternative.”

“Don’t apologize.” She giggled, softly kissing his cheek. “It’s very us, don’t you think?” Just hours earlier when Tucker had picked her up from her parents house, they had cruised towards the theatre building at Briar while singing Econoline Crush’s You Don’t Know What It’s Like at the top of their lungs.

“At least there’s no Nickelback.” He smiled, burying his head in her neck.

“You know how many aura points I’d have gotten for losing my virginity to Animals?”

“How many do you get for Man In The Box?”

She smiled, kissing him softly, carding her fingers in his hair. “Not telling.”

He took one of her hands in his, gently drawing circles on her palm with his thumb. Layne Staley continued to croon about the man in the box behind them, but all he could see was her. His heavy cock rested against her thigh, and he could see her cheeks start to blush faintly. Almost as if she hadn’t stopped blushing the entire time.

“Still with me, pretty girl?” He asked softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Still with you.” She confirmed. “Just go slowly.”

Tucker smiled. “I’ve got you, pretty girl. I’m not going anywhere.”

He started to slowly push in, feeling her nails dig into his shoulder blade. He hissed in pleasure, trying desperately to keep all of his focus on her, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. She fought the urge to hide her face in his chest, overwhelmed at the feeling of his cock inside her.

“Doing so well, baby. Almost there.” Tuck encouraged, gently pushing in the rest of the way, pausing to let her get comfortable.

she opened her eyes, which she had previously closed in something akin to pleasure. “Okay. So, you’re bigger than I expected.”

Tucker bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh. “Don’t inflate my ego, darlin’”

“Shut up and start moving.” She laughed, drawing a deep moan from Tucker when her walls tightened around his throbbing dick.

His thrusts were gentle yet deep, and she could tell he was holding back with her comfort and safety in mind. Her toes curled with each thrust, nails leaving angry red marks on his shoulder.

“Oh, shit.” She moaned. “You feel so good, Tucker.”

“This is all for you, baby.” His voice was gravelly as he said it, dropping his head down to kiss her neck. “You drive me insane. In all the best ways.”

She locked her legs around him, connecting her ankles over his back, moaning uncontrollably as his thrusts got deeper. Tucker knew she was t going to last long, especially on her second orgasm of the night, but he had hoped that he would have more composure. But alas, he could feel his own thrusts faltering as she tightened around him.

“Feel so warm and tight, baby, I think you’re going to make me come prematurely.”

She giggled. Well, it was a half giggle half moan, and when she clamped down on Tucker once more, he was a goner. His eyes rolled back, arms buckling where he was holding himself over her. He cursed loudly and repeatedly as he spilled into the condom, hips jerking like they had a mind of their own.

Despite the exhaustion that had crept into his bones, he kept thrusting, messy and shallow, in an attempt to get her closer to her own edge. His free thumb started to draw messy circles on her clit, and her high-pitched, needy moans were enough to get him half-hard again.

“Come on baby, do it for me.”

“Fuck, Tucker, I don’t know if I can.”

“Yes you can.” He encouraged. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to keep making you feel good.”

She shrieked as she clamped down again, harder and tighter this time, both of her arms coming to wrap tightly around his neck and shoulders. She buried her face in his shoulder while she came, looking for any kind of comfort and security she could find. Tuck’s thrusts slowed down, gently easing her through the high as she spilled around him.

“That’s my perfect girl. So good, sugar.” He breathed, pressing kisses to the top of her head. “So, so good.”

He pulled out, discarding the condom and offering her one of his Texas Longhorns shirts before he disappeared momentarily, coming back with a wet cloth, gently running it over her skin to clean her up. He pulled the blankets over them, disrupting the confetti and the chocolates, which were now squished and half melted.

She didn’t care, picking up on if the chocolates and popping it in her mouth before she kissed John softly.

“How do you feel?”

“Exhausted. A little sore. But emotionally, I feel fantastic.” She could feel her eyes getting misty. “I never thought I’d ever feel this comfortable and this safe with another person. Thank you for making me feel safe.”

“Baby, you don’t need to thank me.” Tucker breathed, tucking her body into his side. “I’m always going to be here to make you feel safe.”

And that was when she knew.

His body was hard against yours, your clothed chest pressing against his in a way that made you wish you weren’t wearing anything. Yet, it was best to be clothed in a house full of guys because you never know when they might walk—

“Hello lovers!” Dean announced as he entered the front door, Allie in tow.

Garrett groaned with annoyance as he stopped kissing you and resorted to burrowing his way back into the crook of your neck.

“Hi Dean.” You answered for both you and Garrett.

“Looking very cosy.” Dean said, hopping over the couch and landing his ass on top of Garrett’s - causing you both to wince at the added pressure.

“Dean!” Allie tutted.

“Fucking prick.” Garrett mumbled, holding you tighter to protect you from his wild best friend.

The comfort of Garrett’s arms around you was second to none. You loved feeling coddled and safe, like the world was not as scary when you were wrapped up in him.

“Dean you’re too heavy. Get off.” You whined.

“I literally weight less than Garrett.”

“And yet I have you both on top of me.”

“Well tell Garrett to get off instead.”

“No fucking way.” Garrett’s head revealed itself from your neck, showing Dean the annoyance he was feeling. “Get off.” He swatted Dean.

“Boys will be boys.” Allie laughed, sitting on the other side of the couch.

Dean shortly left you two alone and over to his girlfriend.

You and Garrett remained laid down, even though you were aware you took up an entire length of the L-shaped sofa. Your boyfriend was too happy cuddled up against you and you didn’t really have any reason to move.

Garrett’s head remained on your chest this time, giving up on trying to kiss you or bury himself deep into your neck - his safe space.

One of your hands run through his curls - something you knew he loved the feeling of. He couldn’t help the fact he was a man whose love language was physical touch.

“Did you use my shampoo this morning?” You asked quietly, as Dean was preoccupied bickering with Allie.

“Mm.”

“I can smell it.”

“At least it smells good.” He gave a slight chuckle.

“It does.”

“Reminds me of you.”

You kissed the top of his head, inhaling the smell of almond butter and something fruity.

The front door opened again and Hannah, Logan, Grace and Tucker came in. Everyone greeted each other, and fortunately no one was rude enough to jump on top of you this time.

“So what time is everyone getting ready?” Tucker asked, sitting down on the edge of the couch next to Allie with a bowl of crisps.

“Ready for what?” Grace asked, curled up besides Logan.

“Party tonight. Here.” Dean answered for her.

“Another one?” Allie threw her head back with a sigh.

“It’s fun, Allie Cat.”

“Bite me.”

You could feel the sexual tension dripping off them both from a mile away, let alone sat just across the room from them.

Instead of giving Dean the opportunity to make some gross joke, Logan chimed in. “I’m only going to take a quick shower. So… In, like, an hour Tuck?”

“Quick shower that turns into an hour long makeout session with your girlfriend.” Dean rolled his eyes and laughed when Logan threw a pillow at him.

“He does have a point.” Garrett’s voice vibrated against your chest as he spoke.

“Says you, G.” Logan scoffed.

You chuckled through a blush, noting Garrett’s own smug smirk.

“Well us girls are getting ready together. You guys are on your own.” Allie announced, making Logan pout and Dean dramatically cry out.

Garrett protests by tightening his hold on you, keeping you in his strong hold beneath him.

“Coming, Y/N?” Hannah asked.

She held her hand out to you, ready to help you escape your boyfriend.

You gripped her hand and she tugged with as much force as she could, but it barely made you move an inch. No thanks to your - as established by Dean - boyfriends heavy weight.

“Save me!” You joked.

“Noooo.” Garrett grumbled.

“I’ll get him, you get Y/N.” Dean walked along the sofa and hovered over Garrett’s body, ready to physically remove him from you.

The rest of the room were either laughing-on or filming. Allie came to stand beside Hannah, holding out her other hand for you to take.

“Ready?” Hannah laughed, “3, 2, 1…”

“Heave!” Dean shouted.

Your body moved from underneath Garrett’s more easily as Dean lifted him up. Garrett was trying to bite back a smile, but ultimately he was pissed that you were being dragged away from him - literally.

Your body slid over the side of the sofa. Your top half was on the floor, whilst your top half was still on the sofa.

“Piss off.” Garrett said, trying to struggle against Dean.

“Boys?”

Dean called the other guys over and the helped raise Garrett off you completely.

After you were cleared of Garrett - feeling surprisingly cold without him near - you hugged your girls hello. It had been a long week and you were happy to get to hang with them now. Even if your boyfriend hated the distance.

Garrett (8:08PM): I miss you.

Garrett (8:08PM): Like a lot.

“God, you two are so disgusting.” Hannah laughed as she read the notifications on your phone. She was helping you with your makeup as the messages from Garrett came through.

“Hey… rude.”

“I mean, you’re also stupidly cute together.” She shrugged her shoulders, applying more highlighter to your cheekbones.

“How are things going with Justin?” You asked her, leaving Garrett on delivered (so needy).

“Okay, yeah. We’re taking it slow.” She smiled.

“Slow’s okay.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure he agrees though.”

“Well that’s shitty of him. You deserve happiness on your own timeline.”

Hannah smiled at you with her kind eyes. She gave you a hug at that comment and you squeezed her tight.

“Love you.” She said.

“Love you too.”

Allie and Grace walked into Garrett’s room then, which you had all taken over to get ready together. Garrett had been allowed to grab some clothes and cologne, but after that he had been banished.

They walked in with two drinks each.

“What are we cuddling for?” Allie asked, placing one drink on Garrett’s desk for you - Grace doing the same for Hannah.

“Love.” Hannah smiled.

“Oh I can get in on that.” Grace laughed, pulling herself around you and Hannah. Allie joined next.

“Ugh okay. Let’s get drunk!” Hannah escaped the hug, forcing you all to disperse.

“Hell yeah!”

“Aye!”

The next half an hour was spent doing finishing touches on makeup, hair and outfits.

Allie had borrowed clothes from Hannah’s closet. Grace had borrowed Allie’s makeup. You stole some of Hannah’s jewellery.

This was what girlhood was about.

You were wearing your own high waisted, black, pin-stripe trousers along with a ridiculously flattering burgundy corset top from Hannah’s wardrobe. Your shoes were your platform Doc Martens.

After you’d taken a fair amount of pictures with each other, as well as some solo-shots, you decided that you were finally ready to join the party.

Technically the party had started at 7PM and it was now almost 9PM, but no one ever turned up this early.

The girls left Garrett’s room and you told them you’d be there in one moment, because you almost forgot to put back on the necklace that your boyfriend had bought for you. You’d had to take it off whilst getting ready, at risk of it getting damaged.

You were stood by your overnight bag, watching out of Garrett’s window as party-comers arrived, and fiddled with the clasp of your necklace to secure it.

When Garrett’s arms melted around your waist you didn’t panic, because you knew it was him.

His lips kissed your neck, causing you to automatically lean away for him to have better access.

“Stop.” You laughed.

“Stop?”

“Yes, I’m trying to put my necklace back on.”

“But,” He kissed your neck again, “You’re,” Kiss, “So,” Kiss, “Beautiful.” Kiss.

“You’re intolerable.”

“Maybe.” He kissed you one last time, before taking his arms from around your waist and bringing them up to help you clasp your necklace together. “Or maybe I just love you.”

With your necklace secured, you turned around to face him.

His eyes were darkened as he looked down at you - genuinely, probably, undressing you with his eyes.

From this distance you could smell his cologne and it was so delectable. You subtly breathed him in and tried to keep calm over how feral it made you.

He was wearing a forest green sweater, with a white t-shirt peeking from underneath and his classic gold chain on show.

“What?” You smiled, blushing.

Garrett didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

His hands came to cup your cheeks and tilt your face to an angle where he could kiss you better.

You melted like butter as he kissed you.

It was only a safe peck, but one that you could get lost in for a moment. You could tell he knew that you’d be mad if he messed up your makeup at this point in the night.

He pulled back an inch, with a smirk, only to lean back in and kiss you again because he really couldn’t get enough of you.

“You taste like cherry liqueur.” He said.

“Allie made us do shots.”

“Sounds about right.”

Garrett’s hands dropped from your cheeks down to the waistband of your trousers, looping his finger into the belt holds.

Your own hands slid up his chest, scrunching the material there.

Both of you stared at each other for a few moments. A silent conversation passing between you both with nothing but sparkling eyes and breathing tempos to go off.

“Ready to go downstairs?” You asked.

“I mean… We could just stay in here..”

“That’s not an option.”

“So there is an alternative to going downstairs?” He raised an eyebrow.

You shook your head, “I promise I’ll be in your bed at the end of the night, Graham. Just not yet.”

You leaned up to kiss him one more time, but before he could get too into it and completely make you ignore what you’d just promised you broke away from him and walked over to his open bedroom door.

“C’mon.” You held out your hand for him.

He made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, before pretending to be reluctant in joining his hand with yours and head downstairs.

There are surprisingly more people downstairs than you thought there would be.

Dean and Allie are already on the makeshift dance floor. Tucker and Logan are doing shots. Hannah and Grace are chatting to some new people.

Garrett holds your hand as he leads you down the stairs, looking back every so often to get a glimpse of you. He's always had a hard time keeping his eyes off you for more than five minutes at a time.

"Want a drink?" He asked.

You both walked into the kitchen area. "Not yet." The drinks you'd had upstairs with the girls kind of felt like your limit already.

"Okay." He kissed your forehead and let you go so he could grab himself a beer from the fridge.

You looked around the room as Garrett took a long drink.

There were some people here that you knew, through friends, hockey or another reason, but there were also so many people that you didn't know. Like the crowd of girls that were sat on the sofa and shamelessly ogling your boyfriend.

“Garrett Graham, holy shit.” You could hear them from over here.

You looked down at yourself then, tugging at the bottom of your top to cover the slither of skin that had started to appear on your waistline.

Garrett's hand slunk around your waist moments later, pulling you close to his side.

Your gaze lifted to his, smiling when you realised he was already smiling down at you.

"G! What's up?" A guy shouted as he entered the kitchen area.

Garrett smiled, his hand leaving the comfort of your body to give the guy a bro-hug. "Hey, man. You know Y/N, right?”

"Yeah of course." The guy nodded at you, before moving onto the next guy to greet.

Garrett's hand came back home to land on the small of your back, watching carefully to make sure no one bumped into you whilst they were greeting one another.

You watched on as Garrett keep greeting new people, but always keeping you close.

He would kindly introduce you to everyone you didn't know, even if most of them never stuck around long enough to actually learn anything about you. There were only a few things guys at parties ever really wanted to talk about; hockey, sex, and girls. Since Garrett no longer participated in conversations about two of those things, people tended to drift away pretty quickly - especially when they realised his girlfriend was standing right beside him.

As Dean came over and started talking about some inside joke, you noticed that Garrett was hanging on to every word his best friend was saying.

This was a good moment for you to let him have his fun with the guys.

“I’m gonna go find the girls for a bit.” You said.

"Okay baby.” He smiled and kissed your forehead.

You walked out of the kitchen area feeling weird.

Like the second you stepped downstairs, the party had stopped feeling like Garrett’s home and started feeling like everyone else’s territory instead.

You smiled politely at someone who walked past you, rubbing your arm subconsciously as you weaved through the growing crowds of people to your girls.

As you spotted the girls jumping up and down, whilst simultaneously grinding on each other, you overheard a couple of girls voices on the sofa in front of you - the same ones that had been ogling Garrett before.

"Wait, that's his girlfriend?"

One girl had her phone open on Garrett's Instagram, looking at a photo from a charity hockey ball of the two of you. She clicked on the photo, bringing up your tag and clicked on it to bring her to your page.

"Y/N." The other girl said, "Doesn't she work at Malone's?"

"Yeah."

"Got Garrett Graham as a boyfriend and yet still has to work a side-job? Yikes."

Your gaze focused back on your friends having a great time with each other, but you couldn't find it in your heart to go and join them now.

You were becoming so aware of yourself in that moment. Your clothes suddenly feeling wrong and you don't know where to stand.

Before you could overthink it, your feet were already carrying you back toward the stairs.

Back to Garrett’s room.

Back to somewhere that felt familiar.

"Ready for another round of shots?" Dean asked, causing a chorus of cheers from the surrounding guys in the kitchen area.

Garrett laughed to himself, sipping on his first and last beer.

He looked towards the makeshift dance floor, looking for you but his eyes could only pick out Allie, Hannah and Grace from the crowd.

Garrett's eyebrows furrowed as he pushed off the counter he was leaning on to get a better view. His hand reached for the phone in his trouser pocket, checking to see if you had messaged but there was nothing.

Perhaps you had gone to the toilet.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered to Dean before moving through the crowd toward the girls.

A hand on his sweater tugged him away from the direction he was going and he turned around instantly, thinking it would be you, but his gaze only darkened when he realised it was a random girl he had hooked up with years ago.

"Hey Garrett."

“Hey,” he answered politely, already trying to step around her.

"Do you want to, maybe..."

"No." Garrett interrupted before she could even finish asking. Garrett sighed, not unkindly, just distracted.

"But..."

"I have a girlfriend."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Garrett stared at her for a second like she’d said something genuinely confusing. “Yeah, not really how this works.” He walked away from her before she could even reply.

The girls cheered when they spotted him approaching, but Garrett barely reacted.

He felt as though he wasn't completely right without you standing next to him.

His hand felt lost without having a place to hold against you. He shoved his beer-less hand into his trouser pocket for something to replace the feeling of yours.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asked immediately.

"I... don't know." Allie's expression visibly softened when she realised that Garrett was concerned.

"I haven't seen her since she came downstairs." Hannah said. "Why?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll catch you in a bit." He nodded at them in thanks.

As Garrett migrated his way through the house, he tried checking every corner of the room. People were constantly greeting him, but he was only focused on finding you.

After he had done a couple laps of downstairs and outside and still hadn't found you, his eyes drifted towards the stairs.

Garrett handed his half-finished beer to some random person before ascending the stairs.

You were laying on Garrett's bed when he came in.

"There you are."

You watched Garrett's eyes soften when he saw you. He closed his door behind him, locking it too, but not once taking his gaze off you - at risk of you disappearing again.

"Hey." You smiled.

"Hey."

He climbed on his bed, laying down next to you but slightly angling his body towards yours. One of his hands picked up one of yours to hold, his other softly brushing some hair off your forehead.

“Been looking for you.”

To anyone else, having Garrett Graham hovering just above you and focusing on nothing but you might be really intimidating, but to you there was no place you felt safer... or seen.

"Sorry. Just needed a minute."

You can tell your struggling to convince Garrett that you're okay, no thanks to the avoidance of eye contact and the fact you'd started rubbing your thumb against Garrett's hand anxiously. He didn't make any move to stop you though.

There was no way that you could hide how you were feeling for too long.

Garrett knew you too well.

There was no doubt that he could see the tension in your body and the way your smile hadn't fully reached your eyes.

"Talk to me, baby."

Garrett waited patiently beside you, thumb still brushing slowly over your knuckles. You focused on the movement, otherwise you were going to fall apart sooner than you wanted to.

“I don’t know.” You admitted quietly.

“You don’t know?”

“I just…” You huffed softly through your nose, staring somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him. “I suddenly felt weird downstairs. Like everybody else just… fit there better than I did.”

Garrett moved a little, rolling his neck slight, "“Did somebody say something to you?”

“Not really.”

"Baby... Help me understand." You focused on him then, and you could see his heart break when he noticed the pools of tears in your eyes. "Hey..."

"I'm sorry." Your lower lip wobbled. “It’s so stupid.”

"No, no. Don't do that. If you're upset, it's not stupid." He furrowed his eyebrows, desperately trying to understand you.

"I'm sorry I'm ruining your night."

"You're not, baby. At some point Dean is going to do a shot out of Beau's belly button and that will ruin the night."

You laughed at that, your chest raising up and down that let Garrett know it was a real life. He smiled at the sight, relieved to see the sparkle in your eyes come back to light.

“There she is.”

Once you stopped giggling over his Dean comment you felt ready and comfortable to let him in.

"I just didn't feel like I fit in down there. And it’s nothing you did. Or the girls. Or the guys. I don’t know. I sound insane trying to explain it."

Garrett shook his head softly.

"Sounds pretty human to me." He said.

"Garrett..." You scoffed.

"Y/N..." He returned the sentiment.

"I just zoomed out and felt uncomfortable being there. Just wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe."

"And you chose my room?" Garrett made the moment sound so sweet.

"Of course." You nodded and Garrett’s expression softened so completely it almost made your chest ache.

“Baby…” he murmured. He stopped holding your hand, so he could cup your cheek gently, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Your throat tightened immediately. “I don’t want you feeling alone in a room I’m standing in."

"And I don’t… I didn’t feel alone. I think I just got in my head. It's probably that time of the month." You brushed it all off, feeling silly now.

"Not for another 13 days."

You gave Garrett the side eye with a knowing smirk, "13 days huh?"

"Precisely." He smiled, "So whatever you felt tonight was still okay to feel."

Garrett leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead before pulling you against his chest. You melted into him easily this time, the tight feeling in your chest finally beginning to loosen.

Downstairs, the bass still rattled through the floorboards and Dean’s voice echoed loudly through the house - no doubt doing that belly shot.