Hiii

In retrospect, it is her fault for leaving her phone open to Trinity's chat on the countertop as she cooked (put a frozen pizza in the oven) for both of them. Mel knows Frank was curious by nature —a little bit nosy, some might say. He always wanted to know more about anything and everything. Not about everyone, he wasn’t a gossip. But when it came to her, he might get a little four-year-old-like (what? when? why? why? why?). It was what made him a wonderful doctor and her best friend, after all.

I could fuck you again to decompress, Malfeasance ;)

But now, it was what made him pace back and forth in her small apartment, clearly agitated. 

“Could you please stay still? It just happened once.”

“Why?” 

“I don't know. We were kinda lonely, and it just happened. We didn't even take our clothes off, if it makes you feel better. It was just a lot of… hand action.” 

By the look of distress on his face, it didn't make him feel any better. 

It was true, though. They were both a tiny bit tipsy and riding a high after completing a highly risky procedure that day, and no one else could or wanted to join them that night. They always ended up doing crazy things when they were alone together. Somehow, it had felt natural somehow to do it, just as much as it had felt natural never to do it again (not because it hadn't been good, but it had been fun as a one time thing). Trinity likes to joke about it from time to time anyway.

She knew Langdon and Santos had started off on the wrong foot and they were trying for her sake and every other coworker to get along, or at least keep the dirty looks to a minimum. (It might have taken a chat with HR, too). This might throw all that progress into chaos.

At last, he stood still, but his gaze was intense in a way it had never been before, at least not towards her. His jaw was tense, his teeth grinding, and there was a tension in his posture that made her think that if he didn't do breathing exercises right now, his back pain might flare up. She should probably show him her lava lamp app, or bring the real one from her bedside table. It could probably help. She could also guide him through some meditation, her voice could be soothing sometimes-

“Let me fuck you.”

“I… ummm… W-what?”

“You let her do it and not me,” he almost shouted. 

It was not shouting, though, more like loud whispering; he knew she would not like or tolerate it if he actually raised his voice at her.

“That's childish. I'm not a toy, Langdon.”

“Ok, fuck it. It's not about her,” he replied, almost apologetic, but still looking deranged. “I want to do it. Why don't you let me do it?”

“It's not like that between us.” 

They are best friends. So good together, so in sync. She is so afraid that he was talking about wanting to have sex with her like it was nothing, like it was everything. His body was trembling, and she was sure that if she were anyone else, he would be talking her down with a list of reasons why they should stop all this nonsense and get straight to bed. A very convincing list. 

Instead, he just said:

“Bullshit.”

And the worst part is that he is right. Mel is talking bullshit. 

She couldn't deny the rush of arousal that came over her when she noticed him looking for her at the hospital, because she was desperately wanted . Or how her mind got fuzzy when he couldn't stand still, and did those long stretches and his shirt rode up, exposing a small but tantalizing strip of skin to her hungry eyes. Or that she let him rub his palm against the skin at the nape of her neck and squeeze her trapezius with his long fingers while she moaned just to hear him hum low next to her ear as he asked over and over in that low, raspy voice if that's ok, feels good, you like it like that, sweetheart? 

Mel couldn’t pretend it hadn’t crossed her mind when one movie night, watching Elf for the thousandth time, she sat on his lap only because she’d been horny all day and he was warm and there. Not when she ran her hands through his hair, scratching his scalp, tugging at the hair on the back by the root as she distractedly mumbled in his ear when to laugh so Becca wouldn't feel bad or left out. 

By the middle of the movie, his left hand had snuck under the back of her shirt in search of her skin, and his right was massaging her thigh up and down, higher every minute that passed. Who knew how far they would've gone if Becca hadn’t made her get up to grab her a soda and sit next to her when she came back, after one particularly hard tugging on his hair that made him groan mid fake laugh. 

So yeah, she had thought about it. 

“I want you all the time. You know that,” he said, like it was a fact. Like the sky was blue, water was wet, and Frank Langdon wanted Mel King all the time. It made her a little insane. “I can't stop leaning down when you are in front of me in the ER to get a sniff of you, because even when everyone else smells like antiseptic, your blueberry body wash still lingers on your skin. It is a hardship, and it is distracting. And I'm going out of my mind every time we get together, trying not to push you down on the couch and have my way with you until you can't remember your own name.”

Oh.

She had the instinctive impulse to clutch her pearls like a Southern lady. She wore no pearls, not even a necklace, so she clenched her thighs. Everything he was saying (confessing) had her torn between running away to hide as far away as possible and climbing him like a tree to finally see what was under all those cocky smiles and glimmering eyes.

“We might not fit there,” she tried, using the last shreds of sanity to rationalize it 

“Mel,” he said, moving towards her with deliberate steps. His eyes were hypnotizing, feeding the fire low in belly. “I will eat you out on the dining table, spread open in front of me like you are a dessert, for hours. I don't give a fraction of a fuck about practicality”

God.

What a freak.

She wanted him badly. So badly.

Judging by his body’s response (because she was a doctor who was in desperate need of something to hold on to) and if his words weren’t enough, Mel could conclude that he wanted her just as badly. Just as desperately. His pupils were dilated to their maximum, swallowing the shiny blue of his irises in profound black. The malar blush, symmetrical on both sides of his face, was rapidly spreading down his neck. His carotid pulse jumped with clear signs of tachycardia. 

The diagnosis was clear: arousal, lust, passion. 

“Fine. You can fu- do it,” she allowed. She was, by profession, obligated to find a cure to for distress of the body. She was willing to help as necessary. 

“Say it. I want to hear you,” he pressed.

“You can do me.” She tried to play dumb. Her hands were shaking, so she had to be a little bit of a brat to him for making her feel this way. 

“Say fuck. Say you want me to fuck you just as much as I want you to fuck me. I've been waiting a lifetime for a chance with you, Mel. I can wait until you put down the bratty act and let me hear what I need.”

The tone of his voice, his words, the look on his eyes, all of it together was making a mess of her. She had never felt her arousal soak through her panties without being touched or kissed before. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

“You can fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

If he had been a better man, Frank wouldn't have thrown a fit when the unassuming but quite suggestive text message invaded Mel's phone screen and their peaceful evening.

It was absolutely unexpected. They were having their usual out of work fun, being domestic and soft, moving around slowly instead of rushing from one action to the other, letting their gazes linger in places they couldn't at the hospital for longer than they should as friends. It was his favorite way to spend time, watching Mel rambling in her pajamas, hair down, and relaxed smile as he nodded along like an idiot, amazed by the view.

And then fucking Santos.

And his childish tantrum.

Not even his kids sound as spoiled as Frank did when he learned that his arch nemesis (too much - he was learning to appreciate Santos, but this! The betrayal!) had put her hands on his favorite… his favorite Mel. So he wanted her to understand, to let Mel know that he could be good at pushing back the loneliness too (he could also be good at hand stuff, mouth stuff, whatever kinda stuff she was into).

Ideally, things would've gone differently. He had a plan, you know? He would ask her out on a date, a real one, at a nice restaurant a few blocks from the hospital, a small and quiet place that serves that pasta she really likes. He would give her flowers, paper ones, which he learned how to make because she is allergic but loves tulips. He would make her laugh, romance her, charm her, and at the end of the night, he would drop her at her front door with a tender kiss goodnight that left her swooning.

He was a romantic, sue him.

After their third or fourth date, he would've made love to her. Lay her down in a bed of metaphorical roses. Taken her apart slowly, tenderly, as he whispered in her ear how lovely she was, how much he loved her since the moment he heard her say, “Everyone calls me, Mel,” that first day before she became the most important person in his life.

But plans go to shit. And Frank is resourceful, so he did what he could.

And it turned out well. Excellent, some might say, considering he had Mel sitting on his lap doing the most sinful sounds against his temple as he licked and sucked on her neck, putting special attention to that freckle right under her jaw that drove him to distraction.

He felt drunk on her scent and the sounds of her pleasure. Her hands tugged on his hair, pushing him closer, and he took the opportunity to mark her skin with his teeth in desperate need to leave proof that he had been there, that she was his.

Her hips were dragging in circles against his crotch, hunting for her own pleasure, and he was so glad he had the mental capacity to take off his joggers and her shorts before sitting down so he could feel her more directly.

He would appreciate nothing in between, but they would get there eventually; they had the whole night after all (maybe more if he played his cards right).

With his hands on her hips, he made her stop, pressing her center firmly to his hard dick to regain some control.

“You are so desperate, Melissa,” he teasingly mumbled against her jaw at her whine of protest.

“You begged me. Have to make me come now.”

Her voice.

Jesus Christ.

Frank has never heard her like that, breathy and thick like honey. It made him stop for a second to savour the moment, to take her in. Her eyes were half lidded and dark, cheeks flushed, lips red and swollen because of him. She was the most beautiful woman on earth.

And then he pressed up his hips, the restraint becoming physically painful. She bit her lip hard, holding back a moan.

“Don't,” he said, pressing his thumb on her chin until she let go of her lip, mouth open and slack. “I wanna hear every little sound you make.”

A mischievous glint flashed in her eyes. Unexpectedly, she grabbed his wrist and guided his thumb into the hot wetness on her mouth, sucking on it before begging, " Please, " around it with the most innocent eyes, as if she wasn't reconfiguring his whole nervous system with one flick of her tongue. The groan he left in response made her smirk in victory.

“Take what you need, Mel,” he offered, leaning back on the couch and dropping his hands on her upper thighs, squeezing the soft flesh on instinct.

The couch creaked as she started moving again, picking up the pace impatiently. For a moment, he let himself enjoy the view, letting her set the pace, do as she pleased with him. Her baby hairs stuck to her temples with sweat, and her breathy sounds filled the otherwise quiet apartment.

He dreamed about this infinite number of times.

“You like it like this, sweetheart?” he asked, dragging his hands up and down her skin, going from her knees to her waist, under her shirt, over and over, leaving shivers in his wake.

“Uh-hum,” she replied, nodding with her eyes closed, chest heaving with every inhale and exhale.

“Can I put my fingers on you, pretty girl? Would you let me, Mel?”

The petty side of him wanted to show her how much better than Santos he could be. Let her compare wishing he had picked him. The other side, the one devoted to her, wanted to just give her everything she wished for at all times.

“Your fingers,” she said, already sounding a little out of her mind. “Yes. Your hands, please.”

Mel didn't give him time to react, grabbing his hand again and coating two of his fingers with her saliva in long and precise licks before guiding them down between her legs, moving her underwear to the side.

His brain short-circuited and wondered briefly if she had done the same to Santos before shaking off the thought with a shake of his head and a choked laugh.

Who gave a shit anyway?

Mel was with him now.

Right there on his lap, warm and flushed, looking at him expectantly. Her desire was palpable and matched his own.

He dragged his fingertips slowly from her entrance to her clit one, two, three times, spreading her wetness around.

“You are so wet already.”

The words left his lips without permission, amazed by the feeling of her flinching and clenching her thighs slightly with every pass.

With more restraint than he possessed, he let his fingers push inside her inch by inch, controlled and calm. It was an easy slide considering how aroused she was, and before he knew it, his fingers were moving and her head was falling back with a moan.

“You feel so good like this,” he praised, dropping a kiss on her shoulder tenderly. “Such a good girl, taking my fingers so well.”

She rolled her hips experimentally, searching for the friction of his palm against her clit, her breath catching sharply at the feeling. Frank closed his eyes, letting his forehead drop against her chest, burying his face between her covered breasts.

The need to be as close to her as humanly possible was drowning him, and the only source of air seemed to come from her skin.

“Frank,” she breathed as his lips sucked on one of her covered nipples. He made sure the fabric was as wet as possible before blowing air and moving to the other side. Her body shivered at the temperature contrast.

“Mmm, Frank.”

His name from her mouth sounded like a prayer, quiet and shaky, private. He never liked his name before but he could spend a lifetime chasing how it sounded from her lips, rough but softened around the edges by pleasure. It made his heart jump in his chest in disbelief.

All these years of pent-up longing, yearning hopelessly…

He kept on praising her, mumbling how good she felt, how beautiful she looked, falling apart above him. All of his brain power was focused on how to make her feel good, how to make her even more breathless, reckless, wetter. He never wished to succeed at something more.

He might leave his life behind, dedicate every waking hour to find new, deranged ways to make Mel King bite her lip, moan his name, touch his body with wandering hands like she didn't know where to hold (his hair and bicep seem to be her favorite so far).

The first thing he noticed was the change in her breathing. Just as harsh and loud, but irregular now. Hitching at every curl of his fingers inside, trying to even out in vain as they drag out, choking when he pressed back harder.

Then her hands. Her beautiful, capable, precise hands (he could write sonnets about those hands). One tangled in his hair while the other gripped his forearm harder and harder, leaving crescent indentations from her nails on his skin.

“So-so close, Frank,” she said helplessly. “Please.”

He pressed his lips against her jaw, her chin, the corner of her mouth. Such a tender act in the middle of a frenzy.

“I got you,” he muffled against her cheek. “Let go, sweetheart.”

That seemed to push her over the edge. Every muscle in her body tightened like a wire pulled too tight, and then snapped with a shuddering breath. Mel buried her face in his neck, harsh breath warming up the skin, broken little mewls invading his ears. His fingers kept moving, dragging out the last delicious threads of her orgasm until she pushed his hand away.

“Jesus, Mel. That was-”

There were no words he could conjure up to describe it. Partly because all the blood in his body was still rushing to his honestly uncomfortable erection. But mostly because it was Mel and him. It was surreal and perfect. There were no words good enough.

“Yeah,” she said anyway. Always understanding.

Moving slightly, she rubbed their foreheads together, letting their noses bump playfully.

A giggle bubbled up their chests, shared in the electrified air, when their gazes met. She was in disbelief, too, he realized with delight. He pressed a kiss on her bottom lip, chaste. Her hands held his face tenderly and kissed back just as sweetly.

“Frank,” she said, a cute little smile on her lips. Such a little Mel gesture that his heartbeat fluttered contentedly. “You said something about a table?”

He threw his head back with a groan, and she giggled.

Fuck.

while they had reached out to you willingly, their emergency medicine fellowship was one you’d been eyeing since your time as an r2, and your application submitted soon after applications opened a month ago. hell, you had applied for a residency slot at ptmc, only letting yourself be disappointed in secret when you didn’t match. no sane person accepted into one of the most prestigious emergency medicine programs on the west coast should feel bad about missing out on a struggling hospital in almost-nowhere pennsylvania—that’s what you told yourself at least.

trying to light your cigarette with your dying bic, you hear a voice next to you.

“those things’ll kill you, y’know,” the man says.

cigarette still between your lips, you reply with a sarcastic, “never heard that one before—oh! dr. robinavitch, sorry, i didn’t realize it was you,” quickly pulling the unlit cigarette from you lips and hiding it behind your back when you turn to him.

“relax, kid. i’m just giving you shit,” he chuckles. “but really, quit while you’re young. trying and failing to every three months when you get old isn’t fun,” he says, contradictorily pulling a lighter out of his own pocket. he holds it up behind a large palm and lights, nodding down to your poorly hidden hand.

you bring the cigarette back to your lips, your hand cupping against his as you inhale, mumbling a thanks as you hold the smoke in your chest.

“i’m planning on quitting by end of residency, trying to ween myself off,” you add as you exhale. you hold the cigarette out to him, an offer, “you smoke half and it’ll only kill us half as quick, dr. robinavitch. for our health.”

he smirks but takes it, fingers brushing yours. as he lifts it to his mouth, he says, “robby.”

“what?”

“you can call me robby,” he says on exhale, smoke billowing from his nose.

“your parents named you robby robinavitch? wow, they musta hated you,” you tease dryly.

giving you a look and passing the cigarette back, he answers, “they named me michael. med school pedes rotations and a residency in the deep south named me robby.”

he begins rolling up the sleeves of his green button down, fighting off the humid breeze, revealing his forearms—hairy, thick, the kind you’d like to wear as a necklace.

quickly taking another drag, you shake that thought from you mind.

“so i gotta ask,” robby says, turning to lean one shoulder against the brick of the building, “why the hell did you apply for my fellowship?”

a cough of smoke came from your lungs, “excuse me?!”

robby reaches his hand back out for the cigarette, casual, and shrugs, “i saw your application. your transcripts, the letters of recommendation, it’s impressive. the research you’ve been doing more so. you could land an attending spot anywhere, somewhere that could actually afford to help fund your research. so yeah, why a fellowship in the pitt?”

he had called the emergency department “the pitt” in his presentation the day prior, too—overcrowded, understaffed, located in the basement of the hospital—a member of the admin staff had audibly groaned at that.

he finally took a long inhale of the cigarette before passing it back.

you took one last drag before throwing it to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of your heels.

“when i was in high school, my family took a vacation to lake erie. my dad and i were on a jet ski that got capsized while driving under a bridge, and we ran into a pillar,” you began. it wasn’t your favorite thing to recount, but it was what made you want to be a doctor.

“we got life-flighted to ptmc. my dad was driving and took the brunt of the impact. compound fracture of the ulna and severance of the nerve, broken clavicle, skull and rib fractures. a punctured lung. they had to shock and intubate him in the helicopter.

“when we got in, i was taken one way and dad the other. i don’t remember who treated me, i just had a gnarly broken ankle,” you lift your leg up, showing off the scar adorning the side of your fibula.

“but my dad,” you continue, “he had people all over his room. they spent an hour stabilizing him before he got carted off to surgery. thought he hit an artery the way he was bleeding internally. his doctor, dr. adamson, came in after and sat with me until my mom and brother arrived.” you saw robby shift out the corner of your eye, standing straighter. “i asked him all kinds of questions about what happened and he happily answered. i always kinda wanted to be a doctor, but dr. adamson made me want to be an er one,” you finish with a small smile, turning back to face robby from where your back was leaned against the wall.

you were surprised to find his eyes a little watery, but with a small smiled of his own.

“woah, did i say something wrong? i know i rambled a little there but—“

you were cut off my a shake of his head. “no,” he let out a breath, “i just…didn’t expect to ever hear someone say adamson inspired them again. it’s been a while.” he had a distant look in his eyes, an almost bittersweet smile.

you furrow your brow slightly, “really? i mean i figured he’d be at least semi-retired by now, but still working.”

robby looks back to you, back into the here and now. “he, uh, he passed away back in 2020. covid.”

“oh…oh, i’m so sorry. i didn’t know…” you want to say more, to offer some comfort, to say you understood, but you didn’t, not truly.

you’d only been in your first year of medical school in 2020. never experienced the chaos that haunted the hospital, the specter of death lessening, but never quite disappearing from the shoulders of those who had.

and you could tell robby didn’t want to speak about it, how his demeanor had shifted from curious and playful, to something sorrowful.

after a beat, you decide to redirect, not quite ready to break the conversation, finding yourself enjoying it despite the sudden shift.

“y’know,” you said, leaning over toward him, “i’ve read a lot of your publications. i really liked the op-ed about the treatment of homelessness in the ed from a few years ago. it ruffled quite a few feathers in my hospital. imagine, treating the unhoused like people. the gall!” you end sarcastically, him finally looking back to you with nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah, that wasn’t universally well-received. it did get us some grant money for our street team though, so i—wait, if you’ve read my stuff then you knew my name wasn’t fuckin’ robby robinavitch,” the playful tone returning.

the banter continues, you both not disengaging until the sound of people leaving the restaurant breaks the bubble, fellow residents and ptmc staff filing out.

“oh shit, looks like party’s over,” you say. you hadn’t realized you’d been standing outside with robby for so long, only meaning to have gone out for a smoke. but something in a distant part of your lizard brain liked that you had taken up so much of his attention.

after calling an uber, you take your blazer from your purse, pushing it into robby’s arms with a hold this—that earned you a small chuckle.

digging through your purse, you produced a pen. taking your jacket again, you spun so you were between robby’s arms, right shoulder briefly bumping his chest in the movement, before grabbing his exposed right forearm.

“here,” you say as you begin writing your phone number just above the tattoo on his wrist. “text me sometime—i won’t pick up if you call until i have your number.”

clicking the pen closed, you turn back to him with an impish smile, “about doctoring, of course.”

he pauses, then, “about…doctoring?”

grin growing, “y’know, research and science. or a cat you saw or…whatever.” anything, everything, nothing—just keep talking to me.

your uber chose then to arrive. turning and walking backward, you say, “goodnight, robert!” before climbing into the car.

robby doesn’t get a chance to reply, just shakes his head with a incredulous smile, watching until the car is out of sight.

———

it’s been nearly five weeks since you left pittsburgh. five weeks of balancing senior residency, attending and fellowship interviews, your roommate breaking up with their girlfriend again—five weeks with a schedule filled to the brim. so why was your first thought always on the fact that robby hadn’t reached out?

you thought you had gotten along well, really well. you hadn’t meant giving him your number in a flirtatious way—okay, maybe not only in a flirtatious way. but you had genuinely enjoyed talking with robby that night, him meeting your wit and sarcasm without missing a beat.

you almost gave up hope of ever hearing from him as week six drew near, but then—

unknown number:

saw this article and thought about your research.[link attached]

this is robby by the way.

you:

well hello robert long time no speak

robby robinavitch:

still not my name.

it starts slow, a text here and there. an article from him, an interesting case from you—doctoring. never more than a few moments of time, but you begin to cherish those moments.

texts about clinical work turn into strange patients, funny moments in the chaos of your respective ers. talk of work turn into tidbits from your daily lives, a new fancy restaurant you tried and hated, the cat he walks by every morning on the way to work—he actually sent you a picture of a cat.

you:

roberto look at this pile’o’seals i saw on my hot girl walk [photo attached]

robby robinavitch:

what the hell is a hot girl walk?

as the texts grew more frequent, they became phone calls, easier on his old man eyes and arthritic fingers, you would joke.

“ohhoho you just think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” he asks on the other side of the line.

“the pinnacle of comedy,” you reply. “hey, guess what kind of halloween lawn prop i pulled outta guy today.”

“halloween lawn prop? it’s almost thanksgiving…”

you took to calling each other a few times a week, usually during your commute home, the time difference typically having him home and getting ready for bed by then. every so often if your schedules aligned, you spend your days off talking for hours—about anything, everything, nothing. it quickly becomes something you treasure.

you:

guess who got their interview date for a certain fellowship at a certain hospital?

robby robinavitch:

about time, that was emailed hours ago.

you:

5am pacific time is far too early for emails rupert

robby robinavitch:

are these even actual variations of robert at this point?

effortless, innate, like you’d known the other forever, instead of only three months.

you:

happy holidays, bobbie

robby robinavitch:

happy holidays.

brat.

like maybe it wasn’t all in your head.

———

as the new year comes and goes, pittsburgh welcomes you back with a slap of bitter january air, sweetened with the prospects of your fellowship interview—and maybe a little a lot of seeing robby again.

returning to ptmc, you ascend the elevator to the administrative floor—the ivory tower, robby had called it. isengard, you’d suggested. he called you a nerd with a laugh.

other candidates sat on the benches lining the hall of the 12th floor, waiting for their own interviews in one of the many conference rooms. checking in, you joined them, foot bouncing with nerves—robby had refused to help you practice for your interview, even just as a sounding board offering no real feedback, said it wouldn’t be fair as he’d be on the selection committee, leaving you to rely on your own attendings and colleagues for help. it was fair, smart even, you knew that, but you couldn’t help but crave the feedback, to be told you did good, from someone you’d grown so close to.

the fellowship selection committee consisted of the program director, a couple of administrators, a board member, the current fellow, another senior ed attending, and robby, chief of emergency medicine.

over the next hour, your nerves dissipate, the interview going better than you could have hoped. your cv spoke for itself, but your personality keeps everyone’s attention. you even managed a laugh, quickly disguised as a cough, from the other attending, dr. abbot, when an honest answer seemed to peeve the board member. the current fellow, dr. ellis, was mostly on night shift with him, would stay there for her second fellowship year, leaving the dayshift spot open.

once the interview finished, after shaking everyone’s hands, you quickly got a text.

robby robinavitch:

you were our last interview before lunch. wait for me in the lobby.

you:

aye aye boris 🫡

after ten minutes of waiting in the marbled first floor, robby finally appeares.

“hey, sorry about that,” he says, arms beginning to raise, before he shoves them into the pockets of his fleece—was he about to go in for a hug?—“apparently lunch was code for having a meeting while eating lunch, so i gotta head back up.”

you hadn’t thought he wanted to take his lunch with you, not that you would have minded, figured it was just going to be a informal hello.

“no problem, dr. robinavitch,” you reply.

“back to formal titles, are we? i was starting to think you’d actually forgotten my name,” he smiles back, “so maybe—“

the elevator dings open, dr. abbot stepping halfway out, “robby, gloria requests your presence.” robby turns and gave a quick god, one second, before quickly looking back to you.

“i’m off at 7, meet me at o’donnell’s on middle st. 8:30? we’ll catch up then?” he asks, slowly walking away backward toward the elevator.

was your friend slash possible future attending slash crush asking you for drinks? or drink drinks? only one way to find out. “it’s a date,” you smiled back at him, “just don’t bring saruman.”

that earned you a loud ha!, followed by a very fond, “you fuckin’ nerd.”

“you love it!” you stage whispered as he entered the elevator, you both still smiling, neither noticing dr. abbot’s eyebrows raised practically off his forehead.

———

you arrive at o’donnell’s right at 8:30, stepping into the warmth of the pub, shrugging off your jacket which did little to cut the cold pennsylvania night. while smoothing down your powdery blue blouse—still in the outfit from your interview, you had only packed it and comfy travel clothing, not expecting to be invited out—you look around the bar, no robby yet.

after ordering a drink, you find a square high top table out of the way, taking a sip of the cocktail—a little liquid courage, more of a placebo with as small of a drink you took.

after a few minutes, the pub’s door opens once more, letting in a small burst of chilly air—and robby. looking around, he spots you, and walks to the table smiling, removing his carhatt.

“hey.”

“hello again, reuben,” you reply, smiling with the cocktail straw between your teeth.

“do you just carry a list of these names around?” robby chuckles. you didn’t expect him to rub one hand across your back, shoulder to shoulder, giving the far one a squeeze, before sliding back off the other—not really a hug, but the most physical contact you two ever shared. it makes you dizzier than any alcohol you had drank could.

“sooo,” you start, “how’d the rest of the interviews go?”

moving the other chair from across the table to directly next to you, robby replies, “now you know damn well i can’t answer that.”

you put on a fake pout, “come on! who am i gonna tell?”

he turns to a waiter walking by and orders bottle of beer before looking back to you, miming turning a lock over his lips, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder.

you let out a huff with a roll of your eyes, “fine. but now i’ll just have to recount the thrilling tale of the old woman i sat next to on my flight. so she—“

you two spent the next two and a half hours together, bantering, catching up, much like your long calls, but so much better. hearing robby through the phone was one thing, but sitting next to him, close enough to count his freckles, smell is cologne, notice every curl of his lips, crinkle of his eyes—an easy camaraderie, intrinsic—was intoxicating.

you want him to ask you home, you realize, you unable to blame the alcohol for your thought. you’d spent more time chewing at the cocktail straw than drinking, robby’s own beer just halfway gone.

seemingly reading your thoughts, robby flags down the waiter to pay the bill—my treat he said when you tried to pull out cash—adding that he had to work in the morning.

stepping back out into the night, the air didn’t seem as sharp, a warmth in your chest you couldn’t cite to your cocktail spreading to your belly.

“your hotel far?” he asks, watching as you pull out a cigarette and lighter from your bag.

“nope,” you answer after taking a drag, “just a couple of blocks.” you hold the cigarette out to him, much like the first time, the only time, you had shared one.

“not even a month in and you’re tryna make me break my new year’s resolution,” he mock scolds, taking it in hand. “i’ll walk you back. for safety,” he continues with a nod, signaling you to lead the way.

you roll you eyes, “drunk ciggies don’t count, rochambeau. that’s all i’m smoking nowadays, anyway.”

he huffs out a incredulous rochambeau? as he exhales, before coming to a stop, “wait are you drunk?”

“not even buzzed,” you answer—a half truth, you were buzzing, but not from the alcohol. “you?”

“nope,” he answers.

you walk in silence back to your hotel, breaths coming out in puffs of air from the cold and puffs of smoke from the shared cigarette. after crossing a street, robby maneuvers you to the inside of the sidewalk with a large hand on the small of your back—he leaves it there for the remainder of the walk, feels scalding even through your jacket.

“this is me,” you say as you stop in front of the hotel, rocking back on your heels. robby only nods, looking up at the brick facade and ornate windows, hands in his pockets.

feeling brave, feeling the lingering heat from his palm on your back, the taste of your indirect kiss, you ask, “you…wanna come up?”

he turns back to you and says, “yes.”

———

your back hit the hotel room door with a thud the second it was closed, robby’s large hands on either side of your face, lips crashing into yours. the kiss wasn’t messy, it wasn’t necessarily chaste, but it was deep, full of longing, full of months—god it’s only been months of knowing each other—of unspoken truths, slowly circling around the feelings you both shared.

unzipping his coat, you reach up his stomach to his shoulders, pushing it off, causing his hands to fall from your face. he uses them then to push off your own jacket, reaching back out with one hand around your waist, the other to the side of your neck, to lead you further into the room, lips never parting until you where fully inside.

as you kick off your shoes, you flick on the bedside lamp, filling the room with a soft warm glow. in the dim light, you could see robby’s cheeks glow warm, him struggling to kick off his final boot. cute, you think.

meeting each other’s gaze again, he stood back to full height, stepping closer to you, chest to chest, mouths not touching, but close enough to share air.

he hesitates, hands hovering at the side of your waist. “tell me you want this,” he rumbles, his gaze moving between your eyes and lips.

you inch closer, lips brushing, and whisper, “i want this.”

that’s all it took to make his crash back into you, hands gripping tightly to your waist, rucking your blouse up from out of your slacks, your palms gripping at his solid chest. he begins blindly unbuttoning the top, quickly get frustrated with the delicate buttons.

“don’t rip it, i stole it from my roommate’s girlfriend,” you say against his mouth, replacing his hands to make swift work of the buttons.

“i thought you said they broke up,” he says, now mouthing at your neck. you wondered what his beard would feel like between your thighs.

“they’re in the on-again era,” you say breathily, shrugging off the top, suddenly realizing you’re wearing an old bralette—pink and lacy, but visibly well worn, not doing much more than a sports bra for your tits. robby didn’t seem to mind though, mouth trailing lower to bite at the top of each breast.

pulling his head back up for a kiss, his hands glide up from your waist, finders brushing up under the band of your bralette, one thumb swiping gently at the fullness. he then moves the bralette up, revealing your tits, before pulling it over your head, your raised arms landing on the tops of his wide shoulders.

robby takes half a step back, taking in the view—soft and supple, goosebumps rising where his fingers skim over the swell of one breast, nipples hardening in the exposed air. he bends down again, palming at one boob, mouth latching onto the other, sucking hard at your nipple.

you let out a gasp at his ministrations continue, tongue swirling around the nipple in this mouth, fingers tweaking the other.

“alright, alright,” you let out a breathy laugh, tapping at his arm. “your turn, big guy. tit-for-tat. get this off,” you joke, reaching down at the hem of his shirt, knuckles brushing over the coarse hairs trailing down his belly.

he stands up with amusement in his eyes before pulling the back of his henley up over his head in one smooth movement.

now it was your turn to stare. wide shoulders connect to thick arms and a solid chest, dark hair dusting his pecs, a gold chain with a star of david pendant lays between them. the hair trails further down to his soft stomach, hair thickening under his belly button, leading down into his waistband. you want to eat him alive—so you try. you step forward and bite at the meat of a pec, nails sinking into the softness of his belly, scratching up and down, fingertips just barley dipping into his pants.

“this is what gets you goin’, huh?” he chuckles, the baritone vibrations rattle your teeth.

you release your mouth, laving your tongue over the intentions your teeth left, sealing it with a kiss in the middle. “you have no idea,” you smile back up, your pupils blown wide, shining in the dim light.

robby brings you in for another kiss, this one now messy, desperate, tongue reaching into your mouth to lick every inch. his hands reach for your slacks, undoing the clasps, you helping him shimmy them down your legs. large palms squeeze at the meat of your ass, kneading and pulling hard enough to leave bruises where his fingertips lay.

breaking the kiss to look down at you, he chuckles, “these are cute,” before reaching his index finger into one leg hole and snapping the elastic. you look down—oh god, simple cotton bikini briefs, green with a little ladybug pattern.

“oh my god!” you say half embarrassed, half amused, “they’re comfy, okay! it’s not like i planned on anyone seeing them, otherwise i woulda packed something sexy.”

he brought his hands back down to your ass, sliding below to your thighs, before picking you up. your legs wrap around his waist as you let your a surprised squeal.

walking to the bed he sits at the head, bringing you down with him to straddle his lap. “mmm? these are sexy,” he chuckles, thumbs trailing underneath the leg seams again.

“this what gets you goin’?” you shoot his earlier words back to him.

leaning forward with a smile, he mumbles, “you have no idea,” before capturing your mouth again.

as your tongues meet, you begin grinding your hips down on to his, his hardness evident even though his jeans. you fumble with his belt and button, reaching your hand into his jeans, palming him through his boxers. you stand up suddenly, breaking your kissing, with a take ‘em off. you get an amused yes, ma’am in return.

robby sits fully back down on the bed with his back up against the headboard, reaching a hand out to you, pulling you back on top of him by your hips. a wet spot appears at the top of his cock, where he’s pushing hard against the fabric of his grey briefs.

you continue your ministrations, hands tugging at the hairs at the back of his neck, dry humping like a couple of teenagers, but god it felt too perfect to stop.

pulling out of the kiss, robby moves his mouth down your jaw, sucking and biting at your pulse.

you breath out, “i don’t have any condoms, you?”

robby slows momentarily, before replying, “wasn’t plannin’ on doing anything we’d need protection for,” before reattaching his mouth to your throat. as much as you were enjoying this, you wondered what he meant. yeah, maybe responsible doctors shouldn’t fuck raw on the first date—date? you’d never actually confirmed that’s what this is—but how far was he actually wanting to take this?

“i can hear you thinking,” he say, eyes returning to yours, hands solid on your hips. “i just wanna make you feel good, yeah?” he reaches up to one of your hands at his shoulder, lacing your fingers together, pressing a kiss to your palm.

you nod, taken a little aback by the sweet and intimate gesture.

he smiles then, “turn over, back against me,” he punctuates with a painless smack to your butt.

you shoot him a warning look, less threatening with the smile accompanying it, but oblige. he pulls your ass flush against his cock, one palm moves to your chest to get you to lean fully into him. as he kisses at the back of your neck, the hand not groping your breast trails down your stomach, fingertips ghosting over your skin. when he reaches your panties, he cups your cunt with large his hand.

“je-esus,” he groans into your ear, giving the shell a bite. “already soaked through. you’re drownin’ the poor ladybugs,” he adds with a teasing tone.

you slap a hairy thigh bracketing your own, ready to bite back, but are stopped with his fingers press down, hard, against your clit. your back arches and legs try closing tighter, letting out a small moan, but robby gives a quick uh-uh in your ear. he tugs at the waist of your panties, pushing them down as far as he could from behind you, you kicking them off the rest of the way.

leaning back you can feel the wetness on his underwear pressing against your ass, giving it small grind. pulling you back into his chest, robby throws his left leg over yours, pulling in back, exposing more of your dripping cunt to the air. the opposite leg bends away, his hand on your inner thigh, guiding it to rest along side his.

hand trailing down, he finally touches were you need him, fingers gliding against you slit, collecting the wetness. you try arching up again, but robby’s left forearm moves and locks around your waist, pinning you to him.

“be good and hold still, sweetheart. i’ll make you feel good, i promise,” he whispers in your ear.

sliding his wet fingers back up, he teases circles around your clit, brushes against the slides of the nub with a feather light touch, never making full contact.

a whine escapes you, nails of your left hand digging into the meat of the forearm around you. “please,” you breath, “i’ll be good, just touch me, please.”

“well when you ask so nice,” biting at the side of your neck, he obliges you. fingers finally making contact with your clit. he rubs steady circles around the nub, his thumb reaching up to your mound to pull up the hood, fully exposing it.

“ah—“ you give a shout, his fingers swiping across your exposed clit sending shocks through you. you could feel yourself grow close already. no one’s ever been to get you there that quickly, a testament to his skill or your feelings for him making you desperate, you didn’t care right now, not with the feeling of your slick running down your ass to the bedspread below.

“please, just like that i’m so close,” you pant, head thrown back against his left shoulder, moans escaping between breaths.

leaving an sloppy kiss to you jaw, robby speeds his fingers, adding pressure, grunting praise into your ear—y’sound so pretty, so beautiful, c’mon, come f’r me, such a good girl.

“oooh, michael—“ you come with a moan, toes curling, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing.

robby continues his pace, his left arm coming off your waist to shuffle your head on his right shoulder. his left hand squeezes around your cheeks, forcing you to meet his gaze, eyes bouncing back and forth between your two. his pupils blown wide, he tells you, “say it again, say my name.”

you give the best smile you could with his hands gripping your cheeks, “michael.”

that’s all it took for his to crash his mouth into yours, all tongue and spit and groans and beard burn.

the hand between your legs moves from your overstimulated clit to your slit, plunging two thick fingers into you without resistance, the aftershocks of orgasm still making you flutter. you moan into his mouth as he curls his fingers up, hitting the spongy spot inside you.

releasing you from the messy kiss, he groans into your mouth, “y’hear that? hear how wet you are f’r me? s’good.” he emphasizes by driving his hand harder against your cunt, squelches becoming louder. the heel of his palm presses down against your sensitive clit, his fingers rubbing at your g-spot.

you pant out, “michael—fuck, please, ah, i need more, add another one.”

he leans away from your face a little, locking eyes, seeing nothing but blown pupils and sweaty baby hairs, brows raised in the middle, mouth open trying to chase his—fucking perfect.

you move your own hand down between your legs to rest over his, pressing against the knuckle of his index finger, urging him to add it along side his middle and ring fingers. the stretch rips a moan out of your chest, open mouthed against robby’s bearded cheek, the fullness tugging at something else beyond your orgasm.

your hand moves atop his, bracing against the bend of his wrist. you use the flat of your fingers to angle his hand how you want, making the heel of his palm press firmer on to your clit. with added pressure, you begin grinding your cunt against his palm, his fingers curling up inside you simultaneously. robby can only look down at you with wide eyes, the movements of your grinding adding an extra pressure to his clothed cocked between you—he was fully going to come in his pants if you kept this up.

focusing his attention back to you, he sat up slightly, setting a brutal pace against your walls, more pressure from his palm.

“c’mon, you got one more, don’tcha? need you t’come for me, baby,” robby breathes into your ear, hot pants joined by hot tongue.

your second orgasm quickly approaching, you feel another pressure rush ahead. “mi—mmmichael, wait i’m gonna—“

“do it, let go,” he cuts you off.

you feel hot liquid gush out of you, around his fingers, down your thighs and ass, your orgasm rushing quickly behind. you see stars behind your eyelids, hearing only the blood rushing through your ears, the unbelievable release of pressure from your belly.

you come to with robby slowly pulling his fingers from your used cunt, the other hand smoothing softly down the side of your head.

“i think you vagled there for a sec,” robby chuckles when your eyes open to meet his. you lean up and give him a soft kiss, sweet, chaste in every way compared to what just happened. he hums in to the kiss, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek.

after a few moments, he pulls away. “c’mon, you need a shower,” he says softly.

having regained the ability to speak and sit up, you turn to face him. “but you’re still hard,” you say, palm sliding up his inner thigh.

his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you before you even reach the leg of his briefs.

“this isn’t about me,” he says. “i wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

you meet his eyes with a small pout, “you did. i do. but i also really wanna make you feel good.” you shift closer, fingers gently curled into the fabric on this thigh. “please?”

he looks up to the ceiling, blowing a long breath out of his mouth. he starts, “i just…i don’t want you to think…” you gently reach at his bearded jaw, moving his head so he’s looking into your eyes again, waiting for him to continue. “i don’t want you to think i’m some dirty old man pressuring you into getting him off so he’ll give the the fellowship,” he lets out in a breath, eyes glancing away self consciously.

you take a beat—you don’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.

“hey,” you lean your head to chase his gaze. “michael,” that gets his attention—until tonight you had never called him that, you barely called him robby—his eyes rejoining yours.

“is this about whether or not i get the fellowship?” you ask bluntly.

he hurriedly sits up more, “no! no, of course not! that’s what—“ he’s cut off by a peck on his lips.

“i know. it’s not about that for me either,” you reassure him, fingers scratching through his beard. “i like you, really like you. so if that’s your only reservation, then i’d really like to get you off,” you end with a playful smirk.

robby huffs out a laugh, but looks back at you with a soft fondness, “yeah? okay then.”

you bring him back in for a kiss, you both palming at his underwear to pull them down and off his legs. now, finally, completely bare, you look to take him in. he’s flushed red down his chest, body hair curled and matted down with sweat all the way down, down to his leaking cock. long and thick like the rest of him, flushed as red as his face under your focus, tip a painful shade of maroon, pool of precum beading at the tip—your mouth waters. balls lay heavy beneath his cock, hairy and full. you start to bend forward to take him into your mouth, but robby stops you.

“if you even breath on me right now i am going to come,” he says.

you smile impishly, “mmm? that so? well—“ you move to straddle one of his thighs, “i won’t breath on ya, then.” lifting yourself slightly, you run the length of your hand through the slick mess between your thighs, gathering your wetness. you bring your glossy hand to robby’s cock, slowly gliding your slick up and down his aching length, mixing with the beads of precum previously fallen.

“jesus fucking christ, you’re gonna kill me,” he chokes out, eyes locked on your movements.

“but whatta way to go,” you smile, sitting back down against his thigh, the coarse hairs rubbing against your overstimulated cunt, leaving him covered in slick.

you incrementally increase the pressure of your fist, the speed of your wrist. watching his chest rise and fall, his brows furrow up, eyes close in pleasure.

panting now, robby pulls you in by the back of your neck, mouths once again meeting, kisses interrupted by his moans.

“thought you’d come if i breathed on ya,” you tease.

“close,” is all he manages to reply.

kissing the corner of his mouth, you reach your other hand down to fondle his balls, feeling them tighten up in his impending orgasm. “michael, baby, then come for me,” you speak into his mouth. and he does. ropes of cum spray up his stomach and chest, down your fist still working him through it. once his orgasm subsides, you two stay there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, sharing air.

“now we both need a shower,” he breaks the moment with.

you giggle, opening your eyes to meet his, already looking softly at you, “and a new comforter.”

looking over your shoulder, he flushes that the sight of the wet material.

you give him a peck, “you start the shower, i’ll call down to the front desk about that bedspread.”

you two make quick work in the shower—“no funny business,” he said, “i am not going to the er with a skull fracture from shower sex.”

the hotel clerk delivers the new comforter—“so sorry! i spilled pop all over mine,” you lie lyingly like a liar, “i’ll pay for the cleaning!”— just after you both are dried off, you into your baggy pj shirt, robby with a towel hanging low on his hips.

robby helps you strip the soiled bedding and remake the bed, before reaching down for his jeans.

“stay,” you say quickly, afraid he’s about to get dressed and leave. “i know you have to be up in a few hours, but…stay, please.”

he walks to you and drops a kiss to your forehead, “i was just grabbing my phone to set an earlier alarm. i’m staying.”

laying in bed—head on robby’s chest, hand playing with his chest hair and chain, legs tangled together, sleep pulling at your eyes—you ask, “you promise this really won’t affect my application, good or bad?”

he exhales a mmm from his chest, “no. i don’t get final say anyway and the program director doesn’t listen t’me,” he pulls you in closer sleepily. “besides, the interview was just a formality. you had the slot before applications were even closed.”

“what!?”

———

you didn’t receive your formal offer letter from ptmc until the beginning of march. you had received other offers prior to its arrival, attending and fellowship slots alike, from some of the best facilities in the country.

robby couldn’t understand why you’d still be considering his dumb fellowship—his words—with what you were being offered.

your normal—and now flirty, occasionally explicit—texts and calls turning more into debates and arguments

“the research grants they can provide, i mean, christ! you could publish before you’ve even been there a year! fast track to a lasker award,” he argued to you one night during your phone call.

“yeah, it’d be great on the research side, but it’d only be research! i want to practice medicine! i want to help people, materially, not just in some hypothetical future innovation way!” you argued back. and after a beat, added softly, “besides, you’re not there.”

“honey, please,” he said, a soft desperation in his voice, “you cannot base your future on me. i can’t let you hold yourself back just to be near me, i wouldn’t forgive myself. adamson was the reason ptmc is even on your radar, but he’s gone.”

you blinked back tears, suddenly glad you were on the other side of the county, not looking into his eyes. “and he left the best parts of himself within you,” you said hanging up the call.

you and robby didn’t speak for two weeks, the longest you’d gone since the first time he texted you.

deep down you knew the point he was making was right, but you also knew what you wanted, what kind of doctor you wanted to be—not sitting in a lab for the rest of your career; not buying your third vacation home and spending your afternoons golfing, willfully ignorant to the plights of the sick; but the kind that sits and explains procedures to terrified but curious teenagers; the kind that treats unhoused patients willingly, fully, and tells the whole medical world they should too.

you tell robby as much when he calls you at the end of those two silent weeks, an abnormal facetime call coming through. he looks miserable, says he feels just as well, his therapist having himself kicking his own ass up and down the street. what he didn’t tell you, though, was about the session that truly shook him—him, ranting at his therapist, “i mean, yeah i’d love for her to be here, not only as a doctor, but…here, with me! but i can’t! if you love something, let it go—“ yeah, he realized then, slapped with the obviousness of it, i love her.

things got better then, slowly, you both realizing in the other’s absence that it really does make the heart grow fonder.

in mid april, you accept the fellowship position at ptmc; robby understanding now that it was truly the place you wished to be—and having some old man eye candy was just a bonus, you joked.

you:

robinette guess what i’m doing to celebrate my acceptance?

robby robinavitch:

bungee jumping.

what are actually you doing?

you:

enjoying my empty apartment

just me

and my ladybug panties

and some goodies from my bedside drawer

[photo attached]

suddenly, an incoming call from robby robinavitch comes through—contact photo the selfie he sent you back in february, all awkward angled and big grinned, with the beautiful view from his cabin behind him; you loved it.

“miiichael,” you answer, coy and falsely nonchalant, hands already trailing down your torso.

“sweetheart,” he warns, exhaling.

that night you two had another abnormal facetime call, one that ended in sticky sheets and heaving chests and a quiet i wish you were here.

———

ending your residency at the end of may and starting your fellowship on july 1st, you had decided to dedicate the month of june to your move to pittsburgh. time enough to pack and drive the thousands of miles across the county to your new home—miles and miles and miles through desert and mountains and so many cornfields—

robby robinavitch:

please just let me hire movers and buy you a plane ticket, sweetheart.

i don’t like the idea of you driving cross county alone in a u-haul.

you:

i’ve done it before rasputin

three times!!!

the ominous hell is real signs thrill me

robby robinavitch:

that one’s just not even fair.

send me pictures.

“there’s no robert at your new hospital, not in the er at least,” your roommate said, making you look up from your phone.

you step into your closet where they were supposed to be helping to box up your clothes, instead finding them on the floor, on your laptop, scrolling the ptmc staff page.

“i wanna see the boyfriend. it’s only fair, you’re leaving me for him,” they say peering up with an exaggerated pout.

“he’s not—“ my boyfriend, you start. you knew you were ass over elbow in love with robby, but you two had never actually labeled anything, never used the l-word—it’s on the move-in checklist: number 7, the what are we? talk. “he’s not a robert,” you say instead, “i’ve told you it’s a joke. his last name is robinavitch.”

as you step back into your bedroom, you hear them shout, “dr. daddy boba eyes over here? okay, girl. and gasp! chief of emergency medicine, you dirty minx!”

———

knocking at the front door interrupts your unpacking with a start. glancing at the clock on the stove, you were tempted to grab your cast iron skillet as a weapon, but made your way toward the door empty handed. robby had told you this was a good apartment in a safe neighborhood when he helped you house hunt, but who the hell would be knocking at your door at 9:57 at night if not an ax murderer?

slowly peering through the peephole, you see who—robby, one hand on the strap of his backpack, the other holding a plastic takeout bag, rocking back and forth on his heels.

you fling the door open. “sorry sir, i’ve already witnessed jehovah and he got a restraining order,” you deadpan.

“so sorry, ma’am. i’ll just take this food and be on my way,” he jests back, turning to leave. before he makes it a full step, you grab him by the front of his shirt and yank him into you for a bruising kiss. he quickly drops the bags to the ground, wrapping his arms around your middle, lifting you off your feet.

“hi,” he says once you break the kiss for air, smiling.

“hi,” you reply as he sets you back down and kicks the door shut, a small smile joining his. six months with only phone calls and facetimes and texts, you didn’t realize you missed him this much, not until he was standing in front of you, despite you talking nearly every day.

feeling tears sting in your eyes, you bury your face in his chest—still solid, still warm—wrapping your arms tightly around his middle—still soft, still biteable. he wraps his arms around you then, cheek resting atop your head.

“i missed you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“i missed you, too. i brought food,” he says, neither of you moving from your position.

“thought you were an ax murderer,” you add.

he chuckles—still rumbles deep in his chest where your head lays, “why the hell would an ax murderer knock and politely wait for you to answer the door?”

you pinch at his love handle, earning you a laugh. “for the element of surprise,” you step back to look at him again, “who the hell doesn’t text before showing up to a lady’s house in the middle of the night?”

he chuckles at the scowl on your face, reaching up to smooth the furrow between your brows with his thumb. “it’s 10,” he starts, hands moving to rest on your jaw, thumbing at the apples of your cheek. “and a guy whose shift ran over, showered at the hospital, sped to the restaurant to pick up food before they closed, and forgot to text because he was so embarrassingly excited to see his beautiful girlfriend who he hasn’t gotten to touch in six months, that’s who.”

you felt your cheeks heat—girlfriend. “that’s not playing fair, michael,” you whine, grabbing each of his wrists in your hands, tearing your gaze from his.

“ohhoho, you callin’ me michael before we’ve eaten dinner? that’s not playing fair, sweetheart,” he teases, head tilting to meet your eyes again.

when he does, you confess, “you called me your girlfriend. i didn’t—you’ve never done that.”

“is that…not what we’ve been doing? is that not what you want?” you feel his hands start to retreat.

“no!” you say, keeping his hands on your cheeks with your grip on his wrist. “i mean, yes! yes, that’s what i want. we just never talked about it and i didn’t want to assume but i also figured—“ you cut your own rambling.

robby’s eyes soften, pulling your forehead to his. “i will never understand modern dating etiquette,” he chuckles.

“times have changed since the paleolithic era, old man, get used to it,” you tease, finally releasing your grip on this wrists.

“i think you’re gonna have to get used to it,” he says, hands moving to your waist, kissing your forehead, “because you’re mine,” your eyelid, “i’m yours,” your cheek, “we’re together,” your jaw, “so you’re stuck with me,” ending on your mouth, just a soft press of his lips to yours.

———

a trail discarded of clothing leads from the front door, down the hall, and into your bedroom—the only thing set up being your bed, still pulling clean clothes from boxes in the corner. the moonlight streaming in from the large windows is the only source of light as you lead robby backward to the bed.

the backs of his knees hitting the side, robby sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you into his lap, mouths never parting. you hold him by his shoulders, lips trailing down his beard to his neck, licking and biting in their wake. you slide off his lap, nipping at his collarbone, his nipple, his lower belly, before landing on your knees on the floor below him. your mouth moves to his thick thighs, peppering slippery kisses as you move from knee to groin, biting at the flesh at his inner thigh, soothing the sting with your tongue after his flinches.

looking up at robby, you ask, “can i use my mouth?”

robby, ruddy-cheeked even in the pale light, gives a quick nod accompanied by a shaky exhale.

hand wrapping the base of his cock—still long and thick, still flushing hot in your hand—you gather saliva in our mouth. not breaking eye contact, you let the glob of spit fall from your lips, landing at the tip of robby’s cock, hand working his length to coat it. a grunted fucking hell escaping robby’s lips.

coated to your satisfaction, you lean in to kitten lick the tip, swirling your tongue slowly around his head before pushing it into his slit. bringing robby into your mouth, suckling the head, you look back up at him with wide eyes, his mouth pressed tightly shut as to not let any noise escape.

pulling off his cock, you say, “don’t be quiet. please, let me hear you.” not a demand, but not a request either. robby thinks this may be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—you, wide-eyed with spit-slicked lips, bathed in silvery moonlight, sweet voice like a melody in his ears.

sinking back down around him, you take robby as far into your mouth as you can, hand wrapping around what you can’t. hollowing your cheeks, you slowly, tortuously slow, pull up his length, the vacuum heat of your mouth causing robby to finally let out a chesty groan. repeating the ministration a few more times, you feel robby’s hand on your head. but instead of guiding your head down around his cock, he grabs your hair and pulls you up and off of him.

“i was doin’ somethin’ here,” you say.

you get a filthy kiss in return, hand still knotted in your hair. “wanna taste you,” robby grunts. his hands move under your armpits to guide you to stand, spinning you to lay further up the bed.

settling on his stomach, he begins kissing up your thighs—beard burning just as deliciously as you’d imagined. looking up at you with a mischievous look in his eye, he takes the fat of your inner thigh and sucks a biting bruise into it—fair, you think as you yelp.

throwing one of your thighs over his shoulder, finally, finally, his focus turns to you aching cunt, hot and wet and dripping for his attention. closing his eyes, robby puts his nose against your slit, inhaling your scent—it was filthy and only make you slicker.

the flat of his tongue runs slow from your hole to your clit, swirling his tongue around the nub once he reaches it.

“michael, please,” you gasp, hips grinding into his mouth.

he splays one large hand over your lower belly, steadying you, the other against the inner thigh of the leg not around his neck, holding you open.

robby eats you like a man possessed, like he’s drinking the nectar of the gods, like he could do this forever and never tire of it. he alternates steady licks with powerful sucks to your clit, nose rubbing the at nub when he dips to fuck your hole with his tongue.

eventually you feel your belly grow tight, unabashed moans escaping your mouth. you reach to intertwine your fingers with robby’s on your belly. “clo-close,” is all you manage to pant out. looking down at him, you can see his hips moving, grinding down into the mattress—hot, you think.

looking up at you, he lets out a mmm that vibrates through you. he speeds the licking at your clit, pulling you impossibly closer. holding your gaze, he sucks hard at you, sending your orgasm crashing though your body. you’re unable to hold his gaze as your back arches off the mattress, head thrown back with a shout.

robby’s licking never stops, only slows, working you through your orgasm and the aftershocks. the heat of his tongue and scratch of his beard boarder on painful in your overstimulation.

sitting up slightly you reach your hand into his hair and tug, him pulling his mouth off you. he looks up at you, beard soaked with your slick, pussy-drunk smile on his face. you can’t help but smile back. he leans down to reattach his lips to your cunt, but you pull his hair again, harder, keeping him from where he wants to go.

“‘m not finished,” he grunts, if not pouts.

you blow out a shaky laugh. “well you interrupted me earlier. let me suck you off, michael,” shoot back.

he concedes, placing a kiss to your hip, “well since you asked so nicely.” he moves up to hover his body over yours, leaning in for a sloppy kiss, all tongue and his spit and your slick. he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes and says, “but only if you sit on my face while you do it.”

blood instantly rushes to your face at his words, at how casually he said them. you were no blushing virgin, but him wanting that made you dizzy.

sensing your hesitation, he spoke softly, “hey, you don’t have to—“

you cut him off with a fierce shake of your head, eyes starting up into his. “nope, my soul just left my body for a minute, i’m all good now.”

he chuckles with a shake of his head and rolls over, laying flat on his back, head on your pillow. following his movements, you turn, looking back as you swing one leg over his head, caging him in. you hesitate to do more than hover over him, but robby pulls you down onto him with two large hands gripped into the meat of your ass. you let out a gasp, catching yourself with a hand braces against robby’s stomach as you jerk forward.

robby keeps his grip on you tight as he begins devouring you once more, sloppy and filthy, grunting into your cunt.

as you bend down to take his cock in your hand, you nuzzle against his pubes, rubbing your cheek against the coarse hair like a cat. trailing open mouthed kisses up his length, wetting him once more, you gently suckle at his cock. the moans he pulls from you while licking into your slit cause vibrations to wrap around him in your mouth, precum and drool leaking from the corner. you increase your suction, hand jerking steadily at what you haven’t swallowed.

you feel robby pull his mouth from your cunt. “baby,” he pants, hand sliding as far as it could up your hip from his position to get your attention, “if you want me to fuck you, you’re gonna have to stop that.”

pulling off him with a pop, you place a final peck to his tip before turning around to face him.

smiling down at him, you tease, “gettin’ tired, old man?” it comes out sweeter than planned, the softness in your eyes matching robby’s own.

sitting up against the headboard, he reaches to grip your hips, pulling you in to straddle him once more. “don’t wanna come until i’m inside your pussy,” he answers, expression too fond for words so vulgar.

you smile again, kissing him passionately, trying to say what little was left unsaid between you two.

reaching down between you, you grab robby’s cock, swiping the head through your slick folds, and begin to line him up with your cunt. robby interrupts the kiss, “wait, baby, condom,” holding you by your hips to keep you from moving.

opening and closing your mouth once, you ask, “you’re clean, right?” he nods. “i’m clean. i’ve got an iud. i want…i just want to feel as close to you as i can. i want to feel all of you, michael.” i want to crawl into your skin and live there, you think.

robby reaches one hand to your face, brushing a rouge hair from your forehead. “i want to feel all of you, too,” he punctuates with a kiss below your eye. “just didn’t wanna be presumptuous,” he adds, teasing.

“you callin’ me presumptuous, you dirty old man?” you shoot back. “wantin’ to fill me up, fuck me raw on the second date?” you add, lining robby up to you once more.

he barks out a laugh that turns into a moan as you sink down onto him. the stretch, eased by your previous orgasm and robby’s tongue, still burned, splitting you open and reshaping you perfect for just him.

fully seated, you and robby pant into each other’s mouths, eyes pinched shut, foreheads touching. finally, you began to move, rolling your hips against his, feeling his fullness suffocate you.

speeding, you felt robby’s hands return to your hips, fingertips leaving bruises in your flesh, assisting the movement of your hips. opening your eyes, you saw him already looking at you, cheeks flushed, sweat beading down his temple. you leaned forward and lick it, kissing his cheekbone, under his eye, across his nose.

robby pants your name like it was holy, one hand moving down your body, thumb finding your clit, making you cry out.

neither of you were going to last, both close to the edge before even starting, desperate to feel the other completely.

hand gripping tightly to your hip, thumb working fast at your clit, robby grunts out, “where do you want it?”

“inside michael, shit— inside, please please, inside,” you whine, orgasm closing in.

robby chokes out a fuck, before moving the hand from you hip to the bed, using it as leverage to fuck up into you from below. “fuck, baby, i’m close, shit! god, i lo—“ robby shuts his lips tight, breathes coming heavier from his nose. did he just— was he about to—

you reach both hands to his beard, tugging so you can lock your gaze with his. “what were you going to say? please, say it,” you keen, so close now.

he releases the seal on his mouth with a heavy exhale, “i love you. i—fuck, shit— i love you so fucking much.”

that’s enough to send you over the finish line, cunt clamping down hard on robby’s length, thighs trembling from exertion and ecstasy. one hand falling down to robby’s still playing with your clit, nails biting into his wrist—to keep him going or to stop him, you didn’t know, brain foggy with overstimulation and oxytocin.

the hand still in his beard tugs at the short hairs, eyes opening again to meet his. “i love you too, michael. so fucking much, i love you,” crashing your lips back into his.

a few more thrusts and he’s coming, hot ropes of cum filling every inch of you, marking you as his, his rumbling moan spilling down your throat.

you two bask in the afterglow, trading breathless laughter and panting i love yous as the moon drifted further into the sky. kissing forming bruises and soothing over lingering scratches. drifting to sleep in a tangle of sheets and sweat and limbs, content now having the other in arm’s reach.

———

as june came to a close, filled with unpacking, exploring, and making up for six months of distance, july 1st quickly arrives, time for your fellowship to begin.

arriving at ptmc, you make your way to the ed—the pitt—arriving half an hour early, determined to both settle into your locker and settle your nerves before shift change at 7. you manage to find the staff area without being stopped, everyone seemingly too tired to notice the unfamiliar face in familiar black scrubs.

exiting the break room, a gruff voice comes from the north nurse’s station. “you’re here early,” the voice says.

“oh! hi dr. abbott,” you say once you turn. never listen to jack, robby had joked. “just didn’t wanna be late on my first day, y’know. how are you?”

ignoring your question, dr. abbot asks his own, “robby here, too?”

keeping your best poker face—it’s bad—you reply, “what? oh! uh, i don’t—i wouldn’t—“

dr. abbot continues his staring, unimpressed or unbelieving, you couldn’t deduce.

“i, uh, haven’t seen him! but i’ll let him know you’re looking for him if i do!” you end with a fake cheer.

face unchanged, dr. abbot huffs out his nose, “got me excited, thought i was gonna get outta here before 8 today.” he looks up with a smirk, “next time just come in together, save me the heartbreak.”

never listen to jack. always listen to dr. abbot, but never jack.

laughing nervously, you gave a small gotta go do something before walking away. not a complete lie.

you had briefly seen the memorial wall during your tour all those months ago, photos of ptmc staff who had passed. it was the second place you wanted to to visit before the start of your first day. looking up at dr. adamson’s photo, you smile as if he was actually here, seeing the curious teen now grown into a real doctor.

making your way toward the main nurses station, you see an excited doctor talking animatedly with her hands—something about an amazing! case the evening before—to a prettyboy doctor, who had a smitten look on his face, seeming to be hanging on her every word.

two more doctors walk in from the ambulance bay then. the woman one smirks at the pretty boy and says getta room! with a teasing tone. prettyboy just flips her off, attention never straying from excited girl. the victorian orphan looking boy just pushes sarcastic girl further into the pitt as she cackles.

leaning against the counter, you hear footsteps stop next to you. “doctor,” the voice—robby—says in faux seriousness.

“doctor,” you echo.

as senior doctors gather at the nurses station, introductions are made by robby—you can’t remember another time he’d ever called you by your title and full name.

“you remember dr. abbot and dr. ellis from your interview,” dr. ellis gives a up-nod, dr. abbot an all-knowing half-smile. robby introduces two senior residents, one being sarcastic girl—dr. santos. “and our junior attending, dr. langdon, who isn’t scheduled til noon, yet is already here,” robby ends, turning his attention to dr. langdon—prettyboy.

he shrugs, “had to switch out cars, figured i’d stay. i’ll survive.”

“say that to shen in 18 hours,” dr. abbot smirks.

the day proceeds quickly. a thorough tour, more introductions, a few traumas. it was overwhelming and exciting and real—didn’t hurt that your tour guide was your piece of old man eye candy.

midafternoon, the announcement of an incoming multi-car, multi-trauma pileup rang through the intercom.

“from downtown,” the charge nurse, dana, added off-speaker.

“okay, y’all, how many furries?” one of the med assistants asked loudly. post-it notes and cash flew his way between staff setting up for protocol.

“furries?” you ask putting on your trauma gown.

“furries,” dr. whitaker—victorian orphan—confirms. “there’s a convention every fourth of july weekend and we always end up with at least a dozen of ‘em. some bet on how many, what reason, how wild,” he ends up a shrug.

you just nod, a little confused but hey, every hospital has their thing—the pitt’s seemed to be betting on anything.

you worked the trauma event with efficiency and precision, leading some cases with junior residents, working other cases along side robby or dr. langdon. the cases with robby were something else; a choreographed dance neither of you knew you had learned, an easy rhythm uninterrupted by the urgency of the situation, the other right where they were needed when they were needed.

as the final patient was stabilized and wheeled off to surgery, you pushed your disheveled hair out of your face, giving an amazed laugh to robby from across the trauma bay. he returned the smile with a soft good job, closer now, audible only to anyone actively trying to listen in.

(there were 11 furries in a 15-passenger van. one threatened to sue as his fur suit was cut off. a nurse named jesse won the pool.)

as the shift drew to a close, you sat at central finishing your charting. from the corner of your eye, you saw two nurses—princess and perlah—turned toward you, talking openly in tagalog? you’re pretty sure? smiling nervously as you turn to look at them, they smile back, giving small waves.

“they’re talking about you, you know?” dr. santos says as she leans across from you, elbows on the counter, hands clasped together loosely.

looking from the nurses, you joke, “only scandalous things, i hope.”

dr. santos smirks, “they’re plotting to start a betting pool. how long before you and robby start fucking and or dating each other?” you let out an incredulous breath before she continues, “my bet is that you already are. am i close? i need a win, i lost a lotta money today.”

if it were about anything else—anybody else—you would have laughed it up with dr. santos. instead, you felt your hands grow sweaty and face hot, fumbling out, “i don’t know what—i mean—nooo…robby? noooo.”

“‘noooo robby,’ what?” the man asks himself, walking up to return a tablet. dr. santos excuses herself with a light oh, nothing.

robby turns to you with raised brows.

“your staff is betting on when we’ll get together, michael,” you answer. the hr papers were already turned in. technically it was out there. just needed the right question to be asked to the right admin staffer by the right person.

robby leans on the counter, mirroring dr. santos’ previous stance. “well then, would you like to go to dinner sometime?”

you smile rolling your eyes.

“are you free next week?”

———

and then princess and perlah my chismosa queens overheard and rigged the bet and won so much money amen

How he’d tilt his head when Tommy said something, the rough scrape of his palm across his jaw as he wiped at the sweat there. Little things. Ordinary things. But to you, they landed sharp and heavy, gathering in your stomach like storm clouds.

It wasn’t new. You’d been dating Joel for months, falling into something you both refused to name. Boyfriend felt too simple, too sweet. What you had with Joel wasn’t delicate. It was quiet, careful, and lately, it was growing teeth.

You’d started noticing how often he stood just a little too close. His fingers would brush the line of your jaw when you kissed him quickly and breathlessly before pulling away, and his gaze would linger as you walked off.

It built in small moments, like the weight of a hand resting just above your knee or the rough timbre of his voice dropping when no one else was around. You hadn’t slept with him yet. Not because you didn’t want to. Hell, you thought about it more than you cared to admit, but because nervousness was curling inside you. Shy wasn’t quite the right word either. It was more… the sharp ache of wanting something you weren’t sure you deserved.

And now, watching him, his back muscles flexing beneath that worn shirt, the heat of the afternoon clinging to his skin, it was getting harder to push it aside. The ache settled low like an insistent pull. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, as if it might hold something back.

Joel turned then, catching your gaze across the yard. His brow quirked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he could feel how you were looking at him. Like he’d known for days.

Heat bloomed beneath your skin, crawling up your neck as you tore your gaze away, fixing your eyes on Nathan, though his words barely registered. Something about fence repairs, or the weather turning — you couldn’t hold onto it.

Still, your eyes betrayed you, flickering back toward him before you could stop yourself. He was bent to his work again, hauling another bale onto his shoulder. It shouldn’t have felt like a punch to the ribs, but it did.

You swallowed hard, your pulse tapping insistently against the hollow of your throat. The world's edges seemed to dull, the chatter of the others, the scrape of boots against dirt. All of it fading beneath the weight of your restless thoughts.

Was this what he wanted?

For you to unravel like this, so wound up with want that it pressed heavily between your legs, that you could barely think straight when he was near? Or was he oblivious to what he was doing to you and how every careless brush of his hand and lingering glance set something alight under your skin?

It gnawed at you, the not-knowing. 

And yet, the truth you didn’t want to name was this — he wasn’t going to make the move. Not unless you did. Joel was a man of long silences, sidelong glances, and letting things come when they came. He wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask.

Which meant it had to be you.

You’d have to find the nerve to tell him what you wanted. To ask for what kept your body restless in the dark, your fingers brushing over your skin, and pretending they were his.

“Hey. You alright, darlin’?”

Joel’s voice startled you, and you jumped like he’d caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to. Your gaze snapped up, and he stood closer than you’d realized, brow knit, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his temple.

Your throat worked around a swallow, words catching somewhere between your chest and your tongue. He watched you, eyes narrowing just a little, like he could see straight through whatever half-assed answer you might give.

“I—” you started, but then he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up to wipe the sweat from his temple.

And you looked. God help you, you looked.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, catching on the flash of tanned skin, the curve of his stomach, and the faint trail of dark hair beneath his waistband. It was a brief, careless motion on his part, but it landed like a spark in a dry field.

Heat flooded your face so fast that it made you dizzy. You could feel your pulse thudding hard behind your ears, your skin prickling beneath his shadow.

You shouldn’t be staring, but your eyes clung to the sight a second too long, hunger stirring low and sharp in your belly before you wrenched your gaze away, pretending to focus on the ground, the fence, anything else.

Joel’s voice came again, softer this time, a little amused. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, a weak, mortified thing, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Mhm. Fine,” you mumbled, though your voice sounded thin and unconvincing even to your ears.

Joel let out a quiet hum, the corner of his mouth ticking up in the faintest ghost of a smirk. He didn’t call you on it. Didn’t tease. Just stood there a beat longer than necessary, letting the moment's weight hang between you.

“Was gonna head to the mess hall,” Joel said, his voice a low rumble as he looked down at you. “You hungry?”

You almost choked on the answer you wanted to give — yeah, hungry for you — but managed to bite it back at the last possible second. A wild, half-panicked thought crossed your mind: Jesus, did I say that out loud?

Your stomach twisted, your face heating under the weight of his gaze. God, you probably looked like a wide-eyed, needy, half-feral stray cat someone left out in the rain.

“Sure,” you murmured, the word barely scraping past your throat.

You turned quickly, eager to put a little space between you and your humiliating thoughts, when his hand caught your wrist. 

“Hold on a second,” Joel said.

You swallowed hard, your eyes darting up to his, searching for a hint of his thoughts. The sun caught in the flecks of green in his irises, and something about how he looked at you made your knees go loose.

His hand slid from your wrist, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear. It was a simple thing. Innocent, probably. But it made your heart race. Your skin flushed hot, a shiver chasing down your spine. Every inch of you prickled, hypersensitive to the warmth of his fingertips and the low hum of his nearness.

“Joel?” you managed, breath catching with confusion.

He smiled, small and easy, like none of this meant anything to him. Like he didn’t know what it was doing to you.

“Had a ladybug in your hair,” he murmured, holding his palm to show you.

A tiny red dot crawled along the callused skin of his hand. He glanced at it, then back at you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You let out a breathless laugh, though it came a little shaky, your heart still hammering in your chest. “Oh,” you said weakly, cursing yourself for sounding like you’d forgotten how to speak.

Then, as casually as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a touch, he flicked the ladybug off his hand and nodded toward the mess hall. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

You followed, your skin still tingling, the ache between your legs a quiet, insistent thing you pretended wasn’t there.

The mess hall was half-full when you and Joel walked in, the scent of something savory and sweet hanging in the air. Conversation buzzed low around you, the scrape of utensils against plates, the distant clatter of a pan in the kitchen. You trailed behind him, still feeling the ghost of his touch at your wrist, the warmth of his hand brushing your hair, as if your skin hadn’t quite recovered.

Joel snagged a tray for you both, and you followed him down the line, not trusting your voice enough to speak. He didn’t say much either, just handed you a cup, grabbed two bowls of stew, and steered you both toward an empty table near the window.

He slid into the bench seat, and you sat across from him, putting what you thought was a safe amount of space between you. But the benches were narrow, the table not much broader, and you felt a jolt of awareness at how close his knee was to yours beneath the wood.

You kept your gaze fixed on your bowl, shoving a spoonful of broth into your mouth without tasting it.

The conversation started easily. Something about the weather turning colder, and a fence that needed fixing on the east side: his voice was low and easy, and you found yourself relaxing in it, sinking into the warmth of his presence like slipping into a hot bath.

And then it happened.

A brush. The softest, accidental sweep of his leg against yours under the table. A spark of contact. Barely there, but enough.

Your breath stuttered. You glanced up sharply, but Joel was looking down at his stew, like nothing had happened. No flicker of acknowledgment on his face.

So maybe it really was nothing. Except it happened again—a shift in his seat, the press of his knee to yours, lingering this time.

You swallowed hard, your pulse skipping. Your hand tightened around the spoon, and you hated how flustered you felt over a small, easily brushed off touch.

Joel’s gaze finally lifted to yours, and the corners of his mouth tugged up, just enough to make your stomach swoop.

“You sure you’re alright, darlin’?” he asked softly, voice dipping below the steady hum of the room.

“I’m fine,” you managed, though the words scraped out a little rough, your throat drier than it had any right to be. “Just hot today. Stew isn’t helping.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your tray as you said it, gaze flickering anywhere but his face: the window, the bowl, the half-empty room. But you could still feel the heat of his knee against yours.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice low, a little rough. “Hot as hell today.”.

Your pulse kicked up, a flush creeping higher along your neck, prickling at the back of your scalp. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to pull it together, to stop reading into every damn thing he said, every glance, every touch.

But then his boot nudged against yours.

You glanced up, and there it was — that look. The one that made your stomach dip, like stepping off a ledge. His eyes were steady on yours, his mouth soft at the edges, like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything but wasn’t about to stop, either.

Your breath caught, words dying on your tongue.

Joel’s gaze lingered another beat before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and went back to his stew like nothing had happened.

Leaving you burning alive in a room full of people, your skin too tight, the air too thick, and the taste of something dangerous hanging heavy on your tongue.

By the time you both stepped out of the mess hall, the sun had slipped low, painting the sky in streaks of pink and amber. The air had cooled, but your skin still felt too hot, prickling beneath your shirt like it hadn’t quite forgotten the way Joel’s knee had pressed against yours.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, trying not to fidget as you fell into step beside him.

Joel didn’t say much, and you weren’t surprised. He never did during these walks. Just let the quiet stretch long and easy between you, the steady crunch of boots on gravel the only sound for a while.

The streets of Jackson were mainly empty now, with folks settling in for the night. Porch lights glowed warm in the dusk, and the faint hum of voices and the distant bark of a dog carried on the cool evening air.

Your heart tripped a little when Joel’s hand brushed against yours.

It was light, barely a touch, just the back of his knuckles grazing yours as he shifted something in his pocket. You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move closer either. Just let your hand linger where it was, close enough for that accidental contact to happen again. And it did. Once, twice, each time a little longer, like the space between you had started to shrink on its own.

Your pulse tapped steadily at your throat, words thick behind your teeth. You wanted to say something about the stars coming out, the stupid ladybug earlier, and how you weren’t just hot from the weather.

“Y’been quiet,” he said, his voice soft. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

You swallowed hard, your gaze flicking to him in the dim light. How he looked at you — steady, unhurried, like he had all the time to wait for you to speak — made your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” you lied, a half-smile tugging at your lips, though your voice felt thin.

He didn’t push; he just let his hand brush yours again, slower this time, his fingers grazing along the side of your pinky before drifting away.

When you reached your front porch, the ache between your ribs felt sharp enough to cut.

“Thanks for walkin’ me home,” you managed, turning toward him, fingers itching at your side to reach for him, to hold him there a little longer.

Joel gave a small nod. “Always, sweetheart.”

He lingered a beat, like he might say something else. Might lean in. Might close that inch between you, but then he tipped his head, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, and turned away, heading back down the path.

You gasped, the sound catching sharp in your throat as Joel turned away, his broad shoulders fading into the dark. He always kissed you goodnight. A soft, lingering thing that left your stomach flipping and your skin buzzing for hours after. But not tonight.

He was leaving you like this — strung out, aching, every nerve stretched thin.

A flicker of heat shot through your chest, chased by something sharp and restless. This had all been some way to rile you up. Hadn’t it? The way his hand brushed yours, the weight of his knee against yours, those long, quiet looks that said everything without saying a damn word.

Your head spun, heart racing so hard you could hear it pounding in your ears.

Before your mind could catch up to your body, your feet were already moving, gravel crunching under your boots as you crossed the space between you in a few quick steps. Your hand shot out, fingers curling around the firm line of his bicep.

“Don’t you dare,” you blurted breathlessly, voice rougher than you meant it to be.

Joel froze. He turned slowly, his brow ticking up, and the look on his face made your stomach dip, like maybe this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“Don’t I dare what?” His voice was soft with a gravelly edge. Your fingers tightened on his arm, and your skin buzzed against his warm skin.

“Leave me like that,” you blurted, your voice sharp, a rough edge of breathlessness clinging to the words. “You did all this on purpose because you’re too scared to ask for more.”

It came out in a rush, heat flushing your skin, your chest rising and falling like you’d just sprinted a mile. You scoffed, glaring up at him, though your hand still hadn’t let go of his arm.

Joel’s face changed. The steady calm he wore like armor cracked, his brow furrowing, mouth parting like he was searching for something to say.

“No,” he said, voice low and uneven. “It—it ain’t like that.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs, throat tight. “Then what’s it like, huh?” you fired back, your words tumbling over each other. “You flexing those stupid muscles in the sun, pulling that thing with the ladybug, then the—the knee thing—”

Your voice faltered, heat creeping higher up your neck.

And then you saw it.

The way Joel’s expression shifted — not guilt, not smugness, but realization. His eyes widened, something dawning behind them that made your stomach drop. The kind of look that made you realize he hadn’t been playing a game at all.

At least, not on purpose.

His hand came up, rough fingers scratching at the back of his neck, eyes dropping for a beat before finding yours again.

“I thought…” he started, voice soft now, a little raw around the edges. “I thought you were bein’ quiet ‘cause you didn’t want more. I figured… maybe you weren’t ready. Or maybe you didn’t see me that way. Hell, I’ve been holdin’ back, darlin’. Tryin’ not to scare you off.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, looking down, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Turns out you scare me more by not doing anything.”

Joel let out a breath, his hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face up so you’d look at him. “Didn’t mean to leave you hangin’,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Was just waitin’ on you.”

You exhaled, chest tight, your eyes searching Joel’s face like you might find courage there. The night pressed in around you, thick and heavy, and your throat felt too tight to swallow.

“Go on,” Joel coaxed, his voice low with the faintest rasp. “Tell me what you want.”

The words made your stomach clench, your pulse skipping. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out immediately—just a stammer, a shaky breath that made your cheeks flush hot.

“I— I want…” you stumbled, the words catching like burrs in your throat. It felt impossible to say it out loud, though every inch of you screamed for it.

Joel’s thumb brushed along your cheekbone again, his touch making your skin prickle. His hand tilted your face, his eyes steady, soft but dark around the edges.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t no need to get shy on me now, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flickering to his mouth for half a second before dropping back to his eyes, heart hammering so hard you swore he could hear it.

“I want you,” you whispered, trembling but sure. Your hand found the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in your fingers. “All of you, Joel.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and he nodded, leaning down to press his lips to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

“Atta girl,” he said, and the sound of it, low and thick, made your stomach swoop. “We can do that soon. I promise.” When he started to pull back, you shook your head, catching his shirt tighter in your grip.

“No—no, Joel,” you breathed, the words slipping out without permission, a boldness breaking loose from the tight coil in your chest. “I don’t wanna wait. I want you now.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, all raw want and aching honesty.

Joel stilled, his thumb retracing your cheek, his other hand resting against your waist. The air between you felt electric, every inch of space charged with what you’d both been too careful to say.

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable for a long, heavy second. Then he clicked his tongue softly, head tilting just a little.

“You sure about this?”

You nodded, probably too fast, heat blooming under your skin. Your hand slid down from his bicep, lingering over the steady rise and fall of his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the worn fabric.

“I’m sure, Joel,” you said, softer this time, but with a steadiness that surprised even you.

His jaw flexed, something unreadable passing over his face, and you took the chance to grab his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones as you tugged him toward your house.

The walk felt unreal, like the air had thickened, every step a little heavier. Time stretched and slowed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. When you reached your front door, your stomach was full of nerves and anticipation, your skin tingling.

Inside, the house felt too quiet. You took your boots off without looking at him, suddenly hyperaware of every movement. The air between you crackled with so much unspoken want that it made your hands shake.

Joel stood just inside the doorway, his fingers grazing the back of his neck as he glanced around, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“We… uh… we should get comfortable,” he said, voice low and rough.

You laughed, breathy and nervous, the sound spilling out before you could stop. “Like… on the bed?”

It wasn’t that you hadn’t done this before. You had, but never with him; somehow, it felt different. 

Joel’s gaze flicked back to you, and that tiny, crooked grin you’d grown addicted to tugged at his mouth. “Yeah,” he replied, like he knew exactly what you felt. “Like on the bed.”

Your stomach swooped, heat curling low in your belly as your fingers found his hand again, threading through the rough warmth of his calloused palm. You tugged him gently down the hall, your pulse thudding hard in your throat.

You half-expected Joel to stop you, to push you against the wall, to kiss you stupid before you even made it to your room, but he didn’t. He followed, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against the back of your hand.

No rushed kisses. No frantic tugging of clothes. Just the sound of your breath, shallow and quick, and his heavy footsteps at your back.

The air felt thick inside your room, and the only light came from the lamp on your nightstand. You turned, half breathless, your heart pounding so hard it made your fingertips tremble.

And still, Joel didn’t make a move.

“Uh… Joel?” you asked, voice soft, your brows pinching together. “Do… you not want me?”

His face changed instantly. Whatever restraint he’d been holding flickered into something raw and painfully tender. He stepped closer, his hands cradling your face like you were something breakable, his thumbs brushing beneath your cheekbones.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Of course, I want you. Been wantin’ you for a while now.”

“I just… I can tell you’re nervous,” he went on, one thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “And I don’t ever wanna do somethin’ you ain’t ready for. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

A rush of warmth spread through your chest, relief crashing into something hotter beneath your skin. “Oh,” you whispered, a little breathless now, your voice unsteady for a different reason entirely.

Joel’s gaze searched yours, and then, finally, his mouth brushed yours—a slow, careful kiss.

You sighed into it, your fingers sliding up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, the heat of his body seeping into yours. His lips moved against yours, coaxing, unhurried, and you melted into the steadiness of him.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his smile grazing your skin.

“Let’s get comfortable,” he murmured, voice warm.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and after awkward shuffling and nervous laughter, you both stripped down to your underwear. Joel’s broad, tanned chest made your stomach flip — the thick lines of muscle, the smattering of hair, the faint scar along his stomach you hadn’t seen before.

You bit your lip, your eyes tracing over him as you memorized every inch.

Joel sat back against the headboard, reaching a hand out toward you. “C’mere.”

And without thinking, you settled in his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips. The feel of his hands on your thighs, his thumbs stroking along your skin, made your breath hitch.

You just sat there, hearts pounding, eyes searching as your hands explored tentative, lingering touches like it was the first time you’d ever been allowed to want someone like this.

Joel’s gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as his fingers traced a deliberate path up your sides, the rough drag of his calloused thumbs brushing the soft swell of your ribs. His touch made your skin prickle, a hot shiver rolling down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered. 

You leaned in, catching his mouth with yours in newfound hunger. The kiss was deeper, your tongue slipping against his, tasting him, pulling a deep, guttural groan from his chest. It vibrated against you, making your thighs clench.

His hands tightened at your waist, and when you shifted — chasing the ache building between your legs — the heat of your clothed pussy dragging against the firm muscle of his thigh made you gasp. Your hips stuttered, a soft, needy whimper spilling into his mouth.

Joel pulled back just enough to watch you, a brow arching, his lips slick and parted, his expression downright sinful.

“Hm?” he rumbled, one corner of his mouth curling. “You like that?”

You bit your lip, your face hot but too far gone to pretend otherwise. Another tiny roll of your hips, and your breath hitched again, the friction sending sparks through you.

Joel let out a low, rough chuckle. “Go on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice molten in the dark. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as he positioned you just right over one of his thick thighs. “Take what you need.”

You braced your hands against his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle flex beneath your palms as you rocked your hips, the pressure sharp and perfect. The soft fabric of his boxers against your soaked underwear made you gasp, your head tipping back.

“Good girl,” Joel murmured, a dark edge curling around the words as his hands guided your hips. “Look how fuckin’ pretty you look, all needy for me.”

The rough praise hit you low in your belly, a sharp jolt of heat rushing through your veins. You pressed down harder against his thigh, chasing that friction, your hips finding a desperate rhythm as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Joel,” you whined, the sound slipping out raw and breathless.

“Atta girl,” he rumbled, his hands tightening at your waist before one slid up, fingers teasing over your breast through the thin fabric of your bra. The contact made your breath hitch, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. “Just like that,” he coaxed, his thumb brushing over your nipple, making it pebble beneath the lace.

Then his hand cupped you fully, kneading, squeezing, and his mouth brushed your ear, the scrape of his stubble making you shiver.

“I wanna see you,” he murmured, voice filthy sweet. “Can I, darlin’?”

You nodded frantically, your eyes flickering open to meet his. The hunger in his gaze made your pulse stutter.

“Yeah,” you breathed, already arching into his touch.

Joel wasted no time, his fingers working the clasp at your back with practiced ease. The straps slid down your arms, and then your bra was gone, leaving you bare before him.

For a split second, your hands twitched, like instinct wanted to cover yourself — nerves mingling with the ache inside you. But Joel caught your wrists and shook his head, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he rasped, his thumbs brushing slowly over your skin. “Let me see you.” How he said it with want, like you were the only thing he’d ever cared to look at, made your heart flutter. 

You let your arms fall to your sides, your pulse thundering, and Joel let out a low, appreciative groan, his gaze dragging down to your bare chest.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he whispered, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

A broken moan tore from your throat as your hips rocked harder against his thigh, the steady pressure sending sharp, electric heat through your core. Every nerve in your body felt stretched thin, your skin flushed and tight, slick with sweat. The rough drag of your soaked panties against the thick muscle of his leg had you trembling, chasing the edge without shame now.

“Oh—Joel…” you gasped, your voice cracking as you buried your face against his neck, breath hot against his skin. “I’m so close. Didn’t—didn’t think I could… come like this.”

Your words sounded wrecked, desperate, and it only made Joel groan, his thigh flexing beneath you, giving you something firmer to grind down on.

“You can, darlin’,” he rasped against your ear. “You will. Look at you—makin’ a mess on me, fuckin’ beautiful.”

His hands were everywhere, broad palms skating up your back, cradling the nape of your neck, guiding the roll of your hips, holding you together even as you started to come apart.

You felt it crest fast and hot, a sharp, aching coil deep in your belly snapping loose as a strangled, broken whimper slipped from your lips. Your entire body went tight, thighs quivering as you pressed down hard against his thigh, riding the wave as it crashed through you.

Your orgasm hit in pulses, slick soaking through your underwear and onto the soft fabric of his boxers, and you clung to him, gasping his name like a prayer.

Joel’s mouth was at your ear, murmuring through it, his voice low and steady as your body trembled. “That’s it, sweetheart… atta girl…perfect.”

When you finally sagged against him, breath ragged, your face buried against his shoulder, Joel’s hand stroked soothingly up and down your back, one arm tight around your waist.

“Damn,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Been wantin’ to see you like that for so long.”

You exhaled, a breathless, dizzy smile pulling at your lips as you looked at him. Your cheeks were flushed, skin still buzzing. “Never done something like that before,” you admitted, your voice shy, words soft around the edges.

Joel’s hand cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing tenderly along your jaw. “Me either,” he whispered.

Your gaze dropped, and there it was — the thick, straining outline of his cock pressing hard against his boxers. Your pulse skipped, heat flooding low in your belly as your hand instinctively reached down, fingertips brushing over the bulge, eager to touch him.

But Joel caught your wrist, his grip firm but gentle.

“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes dark, pupils blown. “I know you can take it, but I wanna make sure you’re good and ready for me first.”

You blinked up at him, your breath hitching, and your body was already throbbing and aching to be filled. Confusion flickered across your face, but before you could speak, Joel moved, guiding you off his lap with a firm hand at your waist.

You barely had time to process before he was behind you, broad chest against your back, his legs bracketing yours on either side. 

Joel’s mouth brushed the shell of your ear, his voice a dark, sin-soaked murmur. “I want you to touch yourself for me.”

Your stomach flipped, breath catching sharply in your throat. “W-what?” you gasped, turning your head to glance at him over your shoulder.

He smirked, his eyes gleaming in the low light, and leaned in to graze his stubble along your jaw. “Like you do when you’re alone,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Wanna watch you fall apart for me, sweetheart.”

“But, Joel—”

“Be a good girl,” he murmured, one hand slipping down to rest between your thighs, cupping the heat of you through the soaked fabric of your underwear. “Show me.”

Your protest died on your tongue, replaced by a soft, broken moan as your hips rolled into his palm.

Your hands moved on instinct, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, tugging the drenched fabric down your trembling thighs. Joel helped, his hands spreading your legs open over his, leaving you bare and exposed against him.

“Goddamn,” he growled, his lips trailing down your neck as he dragged one hand up to knead your breast, the other stroking slow, possessive lines along your thigh. “Go on, pretty girl… show me how you touch that sweet little pussy.”

The room felt too hot, the air thick with the scent of sweat and skin. Your hand dipped between your legs, and Joel’s voice was right there, rough and ragged in your ear.

“That’s it, good girl. Just like that.”

When your fingers brushed your slick folds, a soft, wrecked whimper tumbled from your lips, your body already so strung tight that the edges of your vision went hazy. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, the ache sharp and insistent.

“Joel… please,” you gasped, your fingers circling your clit in tight, desperate little motions. “Want your fingers, need you—”

“Not yet,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear, the words sinking into your skin like warm honey.

A needy, broken sound escaped you as your hips rolled into your touch, your body arching against the hard line of his chest. Your eyes squeezed shut, your thighs starting to press together, chasing friction.

“Uh-uh,” Joel’s voice came rough, command thick in his tone. “Keep ‘em open for me, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down, thumbs skimming up the sensitive, trembling skin of your inner thighs, coaxing them apart. The cool air against your soaked skin made you shudder.

“Let me see how fuckin’ wet you are for me,” he whispered, and the sound of it, low and filthy, made your pulse stutter.

Your fingers worked faster, slick sounds filling the space between your ragged breaths, your head falling back against Joel’s shoulder.

His hand reached down, closing around your wrist. You whimpered at the loss of contact, your body protesting the sudden emptiness. Before you could beg again, Joel brought your fingers to his mouth, those dark eyes holding yours. His lips closed around them, tongue curling, sucking your slick-coated fingers into his mouth with a groan.

“Christ,” he rasped, releasing them with a soft, wet pop. “Taste so goddamn sweet.”

The heat between your legs pulsed harder, your thighs trembling.

“Can I have you now?” you whispered, voice trembling with need, your whole body aching for him.

Joel’s teeth grazed your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Yeah,” he growled. “You’ve been such a good girl for me, darlin’.”

Joel’s hand released your wrist, his fingers trailing down your thigh in a possessive glide that left a shiver in their wake. Your skin prickled, heat rolling through you in waves as his touch dipped lower, teasing over the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh.

Then, finally, one thick finger slid between your slick folds, gathering your wetness in a lazy, unhurried stroke. The contact was almost too much, your hips jerking against his hand, a soft gasp slipping from your lips.

“Fuck…” Joel groaned, his voice a dark, reverent thing against your neck. His lips pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, stubble scraping deliciously over your flushed skin. “You’re drippin’ for me. Look at this,” he rasped, his finger teasing at your entrance, circling but not pressing in.

Your whole body arched, chasing him without thinking, a whimper clawing up from your chest.

“Please,” you breathed, your head lolling back against his shoulder, legs falling open wider.

Joel chuckled softly, his free hand tightening around your thigh to keep you spread for him.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, his finger finally slipping inside you, the thick stretch making you moan. “Knew you’d feel this perfect.”

Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and desperate, and he groaned again, his teeth grazing the curve of your jaw.

“You’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch of me. But not yet,” he warned, teasing you with the slow thrust of his finger. 

“Oh, please, Joel,” you moaned, the words breaking apart on a gasp, your hips rolling down into his hand, greedy for more.

“You sound so pretty like this,” he rasped, his voice thick with hunger. 

His single finger pumped into you, the slick slide of it making your skin burn, every drag against your walls sending sparks through your core. The way he worked, you open with patience like he was savoring every twitch and whimper, made you dizzy.

Your hands clutched at his thighs, your head tipping back against his shoulder, a broken whine slipping from you as the ache inside sharpened.

“More,” you breathed.

He groaned and, without pulling back, slid a second thick finger inside you. The stretch made your breath catch, your thighs trembling as your walls fluttered around him.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” Joel growled against your throat, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Squeezin’ my fingers like that.”

His fingers moved in a steady rhythm, scissoring slightly, working you open, coaxing moans from your lips. Your hips couldn’t stay still, grinding down against his hand, chasing every stroke, every curl of his fingers as your body tightened around him.

“You feel that?” he said, his voice a slow, dangerous drawl against your ear. “How good you’re takin’ my fingers?”

You whimpered, your body so close to unraveling, you could barely form words.

“Joel… I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he coaxed, his other hand cupping your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple. “Gonna fall apart on my hand first… then I’ll fill you up like you fuckin’ need.”

Your hips moved of their own accord now, grinding down against Joel’s hand, every thrust of his fingers making you moan, your whole body drawn tight like a bowstring. The heat building low in your belly threatened to snap, sharp, hot, and overwhelming.

Joel’s mouth stayed at your ear, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “That’s it, darlin’… just like that,” he murmured, his fingers curling deep, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out. “I can feel you clenchin’ around me. You’re close, ain’t you?”

A broken, breathless whimper was all you could manage, your head tipping back against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as the tension in your body coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel’s free hand gripped your thigh, keeping you spread wide for him as his fingers worked you open, the wet sounds of his hand moving between your thighs mingling with your ragged breathing.

“Gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasped, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my fingers. C’mon, sweetheart, be good and give it to me.”

Your body shuddered around him, a sharp, blinding pleasure tearing through you as your orgasm crashed down. A cry ripped from your throat, your hips bucking helplessly against his hand. The wave of it pulsed through you in hard, aching bursts, wetness spilling over his fingers as you came, trembling and wrecked in his arms.

Joel groaned against your skin, his hand slowing just enough to drag it out, milking every last shudder from your overstimulated body.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growled, kissing the curve of your neck, savoring the way you fell limp against him, breathless and shaking.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your head lolled to the side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.

Joel’s hand left you, and you whimpered at the loss, already missing how his fingers filled you. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a soft, satisfied groan. “Sweetest goddamn thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. 

You exhaled a shaky breath, your body still humming with aftershocks. Your eyes fluttered shut as you pressed a weak, lingering kiss to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing over the rough stubble and salt-slick skin.

Joel sighed softly and leaned down to kiss your temple. “Need a minute, darlin’?” he murmured against your skin.

You gave a slight nod, the last of your strength pooling in the simple motion. Your body felt boneless, and your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths.

Joel shifted behind you, pulling you close until you were tucked against him, your back to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you there.

“S’okay,” he murmured, his hand tracing lazy, soothing patterns along the bare skin of your back. “You did so good.”

The praise made your heart flutter, emotion catching you off guard in the quiet. You turned your head slightly, your cheek resting against his bicep.

“But… what about—” you started, voice small, the words snagging as guilt and tenderness tangled in your chest.

Joel’s fingers stroked through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Nah,” he rumbled, brushing another kiss to your hairline. “Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. Tonight was all about you.”

And it wasn’t just the words, but how he said them, like nothing mattered more than seeing you like this, wrecked, held, and cared for.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, your hand finding his and lacing your fingers over your stomach. “I like it when you take care of me,” you admitted quietly, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

Joel’s chest rumbled behind you, a low, rough sound somewhere between a chuckle and a pleased groan. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

“Yeah?” he murmured, the warmth in his voice like a slow drag of heat along your skin. “Well… why don’t we get cleaned up—”

“No,” you blurted, cutting him off so quickly it made him pause. “Joel, I want you.”

His breath caught, the shift in your voice — the ache there — pulling his gaze down to you.

“I meant it,” you whispered, your fingers tightening around his, a boldness rising beneath your skin, fueled by how he touched you. “And besides… you didn’t even get off.”

Joel let out a rough sigh, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. “Told you, baby… tonight was about you.”

You pulled away just enough to turn toward him, your thigh sliding over his. The air seemed to thicken around you again, the ache sparking right back to life beneath your skin.

“Joel,” you said, firmer this time, your hand finding the back of his neck, your fingers threading through the damp hair. You met his gaze, heart pounding, a raw, desperate honesty in your voice. “Please. I need you. Need to feel you.”

He cursed under his breath, his jaw flexing tight, the last of his restraint hanging by a thread. His hand was already sliding down your side, his fingers rough and warm against your overheated skin.

“You sure about this?” Joel rasped, though his voice was low, strained, like he already knew your answer. “Ain’t lookin’ to overdo it. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You brushed your lips against the sharp line of his jaw, your breath hot against his stubble, and how his chest rumbled beneath you made your stomach clench.

“I need you,” you whispered, soft but sure, the ache in your voice pulling a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat.

Joel surged forward, catching your mouth in a rough, hungry kiss that left no room for hesitation. His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers finding your slick heat, teasing the sensitive, swollen flesh there. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand, the heat between you reigniting like a match to dry kindling.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours as his fingers circled your clit, his voice frayed and thick. 

Your breathing stuttered as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing along his beard-rough cheek.

“How do you want me?” he rasped, voice rough against your lips, the question loaded and reverent all at once.

You bit your bottom lip, a breathless grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Wanna ride you,” you panted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Don’t want your back hurting you.”

Joel huffed a soft, wrecked chuckle, its fondness unmistakable even through the thick heat of the moment. “Look at you,” he murmured, leaning back against the headboard. “Always thinkin’ about me.”

You smirked, sliding down his body, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. His cock strained against the fabric, thick and flushed, and your pulse skipped at the sight of him.

“Been wanting this all night,” you admitted, your voice rough with want.

Joel’s gaze stayed fixed on your face, like he didn’t wanna miss a second of how you looked touching him for the first time. You pushed his boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against his stomach.

You took him in your hand, relishing the heat, the weight of him. Joel hissed a sharp breath through his teeth, his hips lifting slightly into your touch.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his hand tangling in your hair. “Look so good with your hand on me.”

Your thumb dragged over the bead of precum at his tip, and his jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there as he fought to stay still.

“You keep doing that,” he warned, voice a wrecked rasp, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

A wave of heady confidence surged through you, the kind that came from how Joel looked at you. Without overthinking it, you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands immediately settled on your waist, squeezing, his thumbs stroking over your skin. 

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock. Joel groaned, his head tipping back against the headboard as you guided his tip to your entrance, teasing yourself with the slick, aching slide of him against your folds.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You bit your lip, shivering at the feel of his blunt head nudging against your clit, dragging slick over your pussy.

“Been thinkin’ about this all night,” you whispered, watching his face as you shifted your hips, letting just the tip slip inside. The stretch made your breath hitch, your body clenching down instinctively.

Joel’s hands shot up to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs teasing your nipples as a guttural groan broke from his chest. “Fuck—look at you,” he murmured. “So goddamn perfect.”

You whimpered his name, a shaky, desperate sound, and slowly started to sink, inch by inch, the thick stretch of him making your thighs tremble. Every time you took a little more, Joel’s hands gripped tighter — one sliding down to your hip, the other still toying with your breast, his thumb circling your nipple as he cursed under his breath.

“Good girl… that’s it,” he praised. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

Your head tipped back, a moan spilling from your lips as you finally bottomed out, the fullness of him stealing your breath.

“God, Joel,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath your palms. “So big—feels so good.”

He groaned, his mouth catching yours in a messy, desperate kiss, teeth scraping your bottom lip as he held you there, his hips giving the slightest, needy thrust up into you.

“Move for me, baby,” he rasped against your lips. “Show me how you ride me.”

You nodded, lips parted, a breathless moan slipping free as you started to move — slow at first, lifting your hips and then sinking back down, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls. Every thick vein, every stretch of him filling you so deep it made your vision blur.

It was better than you’d imagined in those restless nights, than the fevered dreams that left you aching. Nothing compared to the heat of him inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Oh, Joel,” you panted, your fingernails digging into the hard line of his shoulders as you rode him, your pace quickening with every wet, desperate slap of skin against skin.

A ragged groan tore from his chest, his head dropping back against the headboard as his eyes squeezed shut.

“I ain’t gonna last,” Joel growled, his voice frayed, the muscles in his arms flexing as he fought to keep his hands steady on you, to let you have this.

“Me either,” you gasped, your head tipping back, hair sticking to your damp skin, every roll of your hips sending sharp, perfect sparks of pleasure through you.

Joel’s hand slipped up your back, threading into your hair, tugging gently to pull your mouth back to his. His kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and greedy, swallowing your cries as your pace stuttered, chasing that edge neither of you could hold off much longer.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he groaned against your lips, his hips starting to thrust up into you, matching your rhythm, rough and deep. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

You were so close, teetering on the edge, every nerve in your body strung tight and ready to snap.

“Joel, I—”

“Yeah, I got you,” he said, his voice breaking as his control unraveled with you.

Your body tightened, a sharp, desperate clench around Joel’s cock that made your entire frame tremble. The pleasure hit suddenly and blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in hard, pulsing waves. A broken, wrecked whimper slipped from your lips as you buried your face against his neck, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, clinging to him.

Joel groaned, deep and raw, his grip on your hips tightening as your body spasmed around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Such a good girl. Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

His control slipped as you came, his hips thrusting up into you as he chased the tight, wet grip of you clenching around him. The slick sound of it, the heat of your release coating him, only made his breathing rougher, his jaw clenched tight.

You felt him tense beneath you, his body shuddering, and then he was pulling out, a ragged groan tearing from his chest.

“Fuck, darlin’,” Joel panted, one hand wrapping tight around his cock, the other steadying you against his chest.

You slid off his lap, legs weak and trembling, sinking beside him on the bed. Your eyes locked on the sight of him, fist working over his thick, slick length, his stomach tight, sweat-slick skin flushed. The way he looked at you—wrecked, desperate, the last of his restraint burning away—made heat pool low in your belly all over again.

“Wanna see you,” you whispered, your voice rough and needy, watching how his hand moved over his cock.

Joel’s eyes darkened, a low curse falling from his lips as he stroked faster. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’,” he growled, his voice breaking, “and I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

With a deep, guttural moan, his hips jerked, thick ropes of heat spilling into his hand, across his stomach. His head fell back, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths as he worked himself through it.

You watched every second of it, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips as you reached out, your fingers brushing his thigh.

“Give me a second,” Joel muttered, his voice rough and wrecked, a breathless, half-laugh slipping out as he glanced at you. “I’ll get you cleaned up in a minute,” he added, dragging a hand down his face, his lips quirking in a crooked, spent grin.

You smiled, your pulse still unsteady, and scooted closer, closing the last bit of space between you. Without a word, you curled into his side, your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand splayed over his chest's steady rise and fall. His skin was still hot, his heartbeat thudding under your palm.

Joel let out a low, contented sound and slipped his arm around you, pulling you in tighter. His hand rubbed slow, absent circles along your bare back.

You smiled against his chest, pressing a small, lingering kiss to his skin before your fingers brushed along the line of a faint scar on his stomach, tracing it without thinking.

Joel’s hand stilled briefly, then resumed its gentle path along your back. He tilted his head, kissing the top of your hair.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, a grin in his voice now. “But I like it.”

A quiet laugh slipped from you as you snuggled closer, your limbs heavy, the ache between your legs a pleasant, distant throb.

Eventually, Joel kissed your temple again, his voice a soft promise against your hair. “Still gonna clean you up… just need a minute, sweetheart. Might not ever wanna let you go.”

You smiled because right then, neither did you.