faye

A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"

Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.

After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?

Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.

Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.

Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.

She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."

"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"

Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"

"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"

"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."

"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"

"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."

You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."

Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.

"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."

You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."

You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."

"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."

As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.

You sighed, "shit."

As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.

But that wouldn't stop you from trying.

"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"

"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"

She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.

You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Yes."

You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.

"That's it?"

You shrugged, "Yes."

He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."

"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."

"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"

You sighed, "Yes."

He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."

"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."

"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"

You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."

"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.

"I won't," you called back.

Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"

Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."

He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"

"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."

He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."

Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."

Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.

"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.

"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."

Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.

"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"

"You got it."

***

You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.

Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.

"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"

"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."

"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"

Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."

It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.

"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.

You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"

"You're too good for triage?"

"I know you're doing it to punish me—"

"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"

"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"

He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."

You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.

But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.

Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.

"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."

"Not now, later."

You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."

"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."

His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"

"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."

You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."

He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.

"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."

You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."

You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."

You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.

You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.

How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.

He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.

In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.

And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.

"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."

You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."

"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."

You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."

At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."

You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"

You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."

He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"

He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.

"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."

His grin widened, "Atta girl."

And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.

***

The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.

After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."

Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."

He frowned, "What was that?"

"What?"

"Did you just apologize to me?"

The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."

"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."

The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"

You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"

"Your sister's wedding."

You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."

His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"

You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."

Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.

"If you don't go, they win."

You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."

He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."

"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"

You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"

He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."

Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"

Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."

You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"

He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."

You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"

He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."

You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."

"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"

You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."

After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.

"I left my car at the hospital."

He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."

As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"

Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."

His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"

You snorted, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."

Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."

"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.

You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.

But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.

Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.

You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"

"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."

"Mom—"

"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"

"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."

"He seemed nice. Handsome."

You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."

Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."

Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.

Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.

You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.

***

You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.

When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"

You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"

"You think I didn't already think of all this?"

He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.

You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"

He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."

You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.

He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.

You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"

"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.

"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."

He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"

You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."

The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."

You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."

He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."

You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.

***

As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.

You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.

"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."

It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.

"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.

"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."

Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.

But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.

Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.

You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.

When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"

You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."

"Yes you can and yes you are."

"Abbot—"

"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."

You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.

He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"

You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."

He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"

Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."

You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"

You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.

"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."

***

As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—

"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.

He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"

You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."

After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"

You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."

He frowned, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."

His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"

You nodded, "Yep."

"And they're… Fine with that?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."

Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"

"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."

He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."

You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."

After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."

You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?

So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.

***

A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.

You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.

What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.

He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.

And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.

He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."

You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"

"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."

He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."

Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.

He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."

"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."

"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.

He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.

"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.

"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?

"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.

"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."

He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.

But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."

Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.

"Mom, you remember Jack."

He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.

"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."

"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."

You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.

"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."

You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"

"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."

You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"

Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."

"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."

Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.

"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"

"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."

The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."

You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.

Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—

"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"

You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"

"Your cane or crutches or something—"

He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."

"But—"

"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"

You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.

Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.

He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."

"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."

Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."

"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.

"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."

"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"

Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"

You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"

"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."

You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"

Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."

You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."

Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."

You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."

He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.

"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

***

Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.

A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.

No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.

Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.

There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.

So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.

Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.

So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.

That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.

You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.

You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?

You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.

***

"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.

"Do you need to sit down?"

You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.

Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.

"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."

You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."

"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"

"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."

Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"

Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.

Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"

Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."

"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"

You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.

"Could you kiss me, you think?"

Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"

Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.

Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.

It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.

"What do you think? Did it work?"

You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."

Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"

You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"

Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."

You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."

Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.

Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.

But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.

Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.

And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.

"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."

You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.

Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."

You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."

Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"

"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"

He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.

But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.

It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.

***

"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"

Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.

You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.

The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.

You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.

Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.

And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.

"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."

She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.

"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."

Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."

You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."

She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."

Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"

"You're lying!"

"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."

Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"

"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."

There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"

"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."

You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.

Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."

The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.

"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."

Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.

But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.

"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"

Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.

So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.

"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."

Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."

You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.

"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.

"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."

When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"

"That's not true—"

"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."

The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.

"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.

In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.

"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."

You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"

"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."

His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"

He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."

Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."

His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"

You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."

With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.

***

"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."

Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.

"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.

You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."

Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."

You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.

"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."

For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.

"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.

"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"

You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.

But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.

You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.

***

Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.

But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.

"So, when're you gonna tell her?"

Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Sorry?"

"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"

Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."

Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."

Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."

"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."

He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."

Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."

Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.

He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.

He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.

You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.

***

After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.

You bit your lip, "Can I help?"

He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Please."

He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.

You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.

He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"

"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"

He nodded, "Much."

You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.

You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."

He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."

You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."

"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."

You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.

"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."

"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."

He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"

He nodded slowly, "'Course."

As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.

When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.

He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.

***

Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.

When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.

"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.

Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.

You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.

In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.

As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.

The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.

You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.

"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.

"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."

He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.

"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."

He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."

You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"

He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."

"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."

As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.

"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."

For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.

You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.

"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"

You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."

That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."

You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.

***

Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.

But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.

He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.

You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.

But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.

When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.

You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.

He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."

David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."

Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."

For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."

When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.

"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.

"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.

You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."

"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"

He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"

Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."

He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."

You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.

"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"

Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.

"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."

You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."

Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.

"I don't need you picking me apart as well."

He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."

You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"

Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."

There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.

Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."

His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."

He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."

It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.

Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.

But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?

Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"

Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.

You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."

***

Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.

His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.

It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.

He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.

The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.

But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.

When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.

You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.

Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.

When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.

Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"

You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.

Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.

There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.

But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.

And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.

He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.

"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—

"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"

Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.

Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.

"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"

"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."

He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.

This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.

At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.

Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?

But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.

After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"

When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.

"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.

"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"

He sighed, "That was out of line—"

You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."

Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."

When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.

He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.

You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.

"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…Could you hold me?"

Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.

He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.

When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."

He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.

***

Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.

As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.

Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.

You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.

"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.

"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"

He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"

You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."

He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"

You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."

You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."

Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"

You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."

He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."

You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.

"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.

Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."

Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.

"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.

Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"

"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."

You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.

And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.

His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."

***

The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.

The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.

Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.

"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"

"Jack—"

"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"

Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"

You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"

He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"

You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."

He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."

You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"

You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.

After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.

Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."

You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"

His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.

As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.

"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."

Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?

***

You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.

"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.

You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."

And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.

You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.

"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.

You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."

Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."

You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."

You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.

"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."

You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.

Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.

She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."

You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"

"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"

"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"

You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"

"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"

"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"

"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"

It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.

"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.

Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.

"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.

"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.

"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.

"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.

Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"

"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.

David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"

You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.

"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"

"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."

David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"

Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"

"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"

"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."

"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"

Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."

"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.

You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.

And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.

You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.

You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.

"You can talk to me right here."

Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"

"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"

"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"

You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.

Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."

You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.

You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.

It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.

Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—

"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."

Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.

"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."

Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"

You frowned, "But I—"

"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."

You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."

***

Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.

When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."

David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"

Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."

Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."

With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.

There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.

"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"

She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."

Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"

God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."

Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."

She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."

Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."

***

You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.

You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.

It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.

It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.

And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.

So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.

For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"

"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."

You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.

It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.

"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.

"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"

He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"

You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."

His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"

"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"

"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."

Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"

"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."

You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.

"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"

You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"

He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"

"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."

His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"

He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.

"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.

Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.

"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.

You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.

The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.

Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.

So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.

***

Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.

On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.

"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."

Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"

"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."

Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."

Jack frowned, "I don't follow."

Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."

She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.

He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.

Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.

The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The third night, he snapped.

"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"

"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."

He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.

As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.

He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.

When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.

You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.

"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"

Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.

You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm sick."

Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."

You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."

He tilted his head, "You don't?"

Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"

"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"

"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"

"Scared of what, honey?"

Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."

Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.

"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."

You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"

He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."

You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."

He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.

With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"

You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."

He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."

You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."

Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.

He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.

"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.

He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.

He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.

Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.

"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.

"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."

"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"

You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"

"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"

He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."

***

It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.

You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.

Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.

"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.

His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"

You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."

His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.

Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.

When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.

His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.

"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."

Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.

"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"

"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."

There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."

As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."

"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"

Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"

"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."

You nodded, "Me too."

He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."

Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."

He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."

Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.

"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.

When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.

He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.

Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"

Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.

After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.

He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."

Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.

With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.

You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."

You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.

"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.

You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."

His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.

With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."

Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.

He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"

"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."

He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.

As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.

The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"

You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"

"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."

For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.

Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."

***

With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.

"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"

You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."

He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."

"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."

He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."

As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.

With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.

Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.

Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."

Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."

Like he’s been waiting all afternoon for someone to dare him to move.

He’s in that familiar, tell-tale Royals shirt again, the one that’s been through three summers and way, way too many Fourth of Julys and baseball games. It's been washed to a soft blue, collar a little chewed out by the Kents' dryer, sleeves stretched out around the kind of arms you pretend not to notice unless you’re looking directly at 'em. There’s a glass bottle of cream soda tucked in the crook of his elbow, the kind that sweats through the label and leaves a sticky ring on tables.

You coast up smooth and slow beside him, gravel crunching under your tires, your bike squealing a little as you brake. Then, out of instinct, out of just wanting to see him do something, you nudge your front tire against his.

“Hey. You just gonna stand there brooding all summer or you gonna come help me steal peaches off the Jacobs’ tree?”

He blinks, once. Doesn’t look over yet. Just shifts the bottle between his hands like it’s giving him something to do.

“You know that’s not our tree,” he says.

“Didn’t stop you last week when it was the Johnsons’,” you point out. You raise your brows, bite back a grin. “Come on. I know you’ve got the hops, Kent.”

“I didn’t jump the fence,” he says finally, looking at you now. You catch your own reflection in his glasses for half a second before he looks down again. “You climbed it. I supervised.”

“You hovered,” you say.

“I did not hover.”

“You hovered.”

Clark exhales like the word physically pains him. 

He tilts his head up, squints at the sky like it might offer him a way out of this conversation, or maybe just a distraction. 

But you keep going, not to be mean, but just because it’s so damn easy. The kind of easy that only happens when someone’s been in your life since kindergarten. Since he spilled apple juice on your backpack and you kicked him in the shin with glitter shoes and he was the only one who sat next to you on the bench during school pick-up time.

“I just—” He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink already. “I wasn’t showing off.”

“Who said you were?”

He flinches a little, and you know, that’s the thing with Clark. He’s fast, strong, bulletproof on paper, but he’s never really quite figured out how to armor up around you.

You smirk, sweet and cruel, and take off.

“Race you to the river,” you shout behind you, already halfway into the corn.

“You know you're terrible at racing,” he calls after you.

You don’t look back. “Guess you’ll have to chase me, Kent!”

And he does. You can hear him coming—his tires slicing over the path, his breath catching in time with yours, his laughter carrying on the wind like something weightless and golden.

Swerving left, then right, darting through the cornrows until the field finally breaks into open air. The river’s just beyond, and when he catches you, it’s all momentum—his hand at your waist, both bikes skidding sideways into the soft grass, limbs tangled, gravel in your shoes, everything spinning.

You land in a heap. Your elbow in his stomach. His cheek in the crook of your shoulder. You’re both laughing so hard it’s hard to breathe.

“That was cheating,” you say, once you can talk again.

“You said to chase you,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear, voice warm like dusk. “Didn’t say I had to lose.”

You stay like that for a second too long. Sun sinking somewhere behind the barn. Your body curves into his like you’d practiced it, like you’d been preparing for this moment since you were fourteen and your mom made you sit next to him in youth group because “Clark Kent is a very polite young man.”

Then, his voice again—quieter, tentative.“You know I like you, right?” 

You don’t let the silence hang.

“I hoped,” he adds quickly, and it’s so Clark that it almost knocks the wind out of you.

You roll over to face him, chin dutifully in your palm. He’s looking anywhere but at you. His lashes—they're so dark that they cast shadows on his cheek. You watch the way his mouth pulls into that same nervous line he always gets when he’s trying not to hope too hard.

“I mean, you’re not exactly subtle,” you say, casually.

“Hey—”

“You bring me my favorite drink every Sunday. You volunteered to be my lab partner after you saw what I did to the last one’s eyebrows. You walked three miles home from the county fair because I forgot my sweater and didn’t want to sit in your truck.”

He ducks his head. There’s a crooked, bashful smile starting to curl at his mouth. “Well, when you put it like that—”

“I like you too, Kent,” you say.

And there it is—his eyes snap back to yours, startled, soft. You let the moment settle. Let him feel it. Let yourself feel it too—the bigness of it, the sweetness, the way it wraps around your ribs like something you might never, ever outgrow.

“Been liking you since you loaned me your gloves that one time I fell off my bike and tried to pretend I wasn’t crying.”

“That was fifth grade.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice light but honest. “You’ve been soft n' sweet since fifth grade.”

That’s when he laughs again, full-body, chin tilted up toward the clouds. “And what are you gonna do about that?”

You shrug, teasing. “Guess I’m gonna keep making fun of you until you kiss me.”

And then, he does.

It starts tentative, more of a breath of a question. Like his hand slides up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it like he still can’t quite believe he's got you. You tilt your face into him, into the softness of it, the want seeping through every brush of his lips.

His lips meet yours, soft and clumsy and maybe even a little surprised. But you smile into it, and that… that breaks the dam. 

He goes back in again for seconds, but it doesn't land as gracefully as you two hope. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours. One of your hands fists in the front of his shirt to pull him closer, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear. His tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, shy at first, then braver when you open up for him.

When you finally pull apart, it’s just for the barest of inches.

His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathless and grinning like fucking idiots. “You good?” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he’s not done with you just yet.

You nod, dizzy in the best way. “Yeah. Better than good.”

And maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the wildness of being seventeen and certain. 

But you think—if kisses could keep, you’d bottle this one and carry it in your pocket for the rest of your life.

.

for you i should be helping you read the map. i know that, i know that. but you’re laughing so hard right now and it’s doing something to my memory. like—i want to remember the exact shape of your mouth when you do that. not just the smile part, but how it starts out small and then gets bigger when you look away, like you’re trying to stop it but just can’t. how your whole face lifts with it. how you crinkle your nose a little like you think it’s unfair to laugh too hard at me, even when i probably do deserve it. (also, for the record, i did pack the tickets. they’re just under the jumper cables. not lost. you give me way too much crap for that.) we’re about thirty-five minutes from the state fair, by the look of the road signs. you’ve already declared that you’re getting a funnel cake and one of those weird lemonades in the giant plastic boot, and i'll absolutely be pretending i don’t want any until you offer me some. i’ve made peace with this. but anyway. the real reason i’m writing this is because you keep looking at me like i’m already yours, and i don’t think i’ve ever had anything in my life that felt that simple. i love you so much it feels like i’ve been loving you my whole life — long before i knew that’s what it was. i think i loved you when you beat me at checkers in second grade and then offered me the last orange popsicle even though it was your favorite. i think i loved you when you walked your bike next to mine the whole way home after i wiped out, even though we were already running late for dinner. all i can think about is how much i want to give you good things. little ones. always. like this day. like this letter. like the better half of my funnel cake, even if you insist you don’t want it. yours, clark p.s. if i win you a goldfish again, we are not naming it after another days of our lives character.

.

You’re eighteen and you're sitting on the porch steps with your knees drawn up and your hands tucked into the sleeves of your hoodie, watching the road. His truck’s already here, parked under the elm. He’s been standing at the foot of the porch for a few minutes now, like stepping up would make everything real.

You haven’t really said anything yet. You’re scared that if you open your mouth, it’ll all spill out. Every what if, every I don’t want you to go, every please stay, just don’t make me say it first.

Never really learned how to be brave like that. Not when it comes to him.

Clark shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The porch light flickers overhead. A dying bulb, one Jonathan’s meant to change for weeks. You wonder if anyone else is going to sit on these steps after tonight and think about this moment—if that bulb will still be broken in the morning. Or if it’ll just be you, alone, in a house that still smells like childhood.

“You gonna say something?” he finally asks, quiet. His voice is careful. Not impatient. Just uncertain. And God, when did he become the one with uncertainty?

You look at him. Really look at him. His shirt’s wrinkled, that Metropolis U logo cracked a little at the corners. His bag’s already packed in the passenger seat. There’s a tightness in his shoulders that doesn’t go away even when he exhales.

And all at once, you feel like you’re watching someone walk backwards out of your life.

You love him. You know that. It’s not a crush or a phase or something you’ll forget by Thanksgiving break. It’s in your ribs now. In the soft, constant ache you’ve had every time he talked about the city like a future with a door he was already walking through. 

Because deep down, you’ve always known you weren’t going. That you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. 

That part of you belonged to this place—not in some romantic, sweeping way, but in the way you belong to gravity, to habit. To people who need you here. People you can’t walk away from. And you’d resented that, sometimes. Hated it. But it’s also shaped you. It’s the reason you notice the sound the screen door makes when it closes. The reason you know how to fix the water heater without being asked to.

He’s going to learn other things. Bigger things. To save people you’ll never meet, in cities you’ve never been to. You’re not angry at him for that. Never could.

But there’s something about the inevitability of it that… that just hurts so badly.

“You look tired,” you say.

He huffs a laugh. “So do you.”

You want to say I am. Want to say you’re the only one who makes it better. But that’s dangerous territory so instead, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

He nods. Doesn’t move.

You gesture vaguely at the truck. “You pack everything?”

“Mostly. Just gotta grab the charger from the kitchen. Ma says I’ll forget my head if it’s not bolted on.”

You try to smile. It doesn’t really come together. It just gets lost somewhere on your face, between your eyebrows and your mouth. “I don’t want this to be the end.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I’ll call. I’ll come back on weekends. I can fly back in, literally. I’ll be faster than the Greyhound, I promise.”

You look at him, and for a second, it’s like being kids again. Him with that wide-eyed, insistent hope. Like if he says it the right way, it’ll come true. Like the world will just do it, just bend to his good intentions.

Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done. Turns things into plans. Into problems to solve. Like love is just logistics. Like heartbreak’s just a scheduling conflict.

You rest your chin on your knees, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. “You can’t fly your way through this one, Kent.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his hand to the porch railing, fingers curling over the wood like he needs something to hold onto. His voice, when it comes, is soft and urgent and a little bit wrecked.

“I can do this,” he says. “I want to do this. I can make this work. I’ve carried tractors. I’ve held buildings together with my hands. If I can do that—if I can lift all that—I can carry us too. I can do that. Please—just please, let me do that."

You look at him then. Really look. And it breaks your heart, because you believe that he believes it.

But you also know: he’s not just trying to carry you. He’s trying to carry the whole world. And the world’s got a stronger grip than you do.

“You can’t keep both arms around me forever,” you say. “Not if the world keeps pulling you away.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue. Then closes. And then—

“I’ll do it for you,” he says, almost breathless. “Even if it’s hard. I’ll make time. I’ll—I’ll tear the sky open if I have to.”

But you shake your head. “That’s the problem, Clark. I don’t… I don't wanna be a responsibility.”

“You’re not,” he says, stepping closer now, standing on the lowest step so you’re nearly eye-level. “You’re not. You’re—sweetheart, you’re the thing that keeps me grounded. You’re the reason I come back.”

“Then why does it still feel like you’re already gone?”

His face twists—like it hurts to hear. Like it confirms something he’s been trying very hard not to name.

You swallow hard. “Every time you leave, a little more of you stays gone. And I wait for the text, and I wait for the call, and I tell myself, ‘he’s trying, he’s doing his best,’ but Clark—your best has to be out there. Helping people. Saving cities. Being who you’re supposed to be.”

His jaw tightens. “So what? I don’t get to have anything else? I don’t get to be someone’s?”

You stand. Step down to meet him.

“You do. Just not mine. Not if it means I have to keep you from being you.”

There’s a beat. One breath. Two. Then, softly: “You think it’s selfish.”

“I think it’d be selfish to keep asking you to come home to me when the whole world needs you more.”

Clark looks down, eyes blinking fast, like if he stares hard enough at the porch wood he won’t have to cry. Like the weight of everything—his powers, his love, his heart—is finally too much. You reach out, take his hand. He lets you. His palm is warm, callused from working the farm all summer, steady like it always is.

You squeeze it. Squeeze it tighter. Then let it go.

“Be good out there,” you whisper. “Be careful. Don’t forget where you came from.”

He lifts his eyes to you, and there’s so much in them. Fear. Grief. Love, massive and uncontainable. And that awful, awful understanding.

“Will you still think of me?” he asks, voice cracking.

You nod. “'Course, dweeb. I’ll think of you every time the wind changes.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.

And then you step back. Let him walk to the truck. Let the door close behind him. Let the engine rumble on, headlights catching your porch steps for one aching second before he pulls away.

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone.

.

Subject: checking in hey there, i hope this isn’t weird. i wasn’t sure if i should send something, but ma says it’s always better to write when you’re thinking of someone, and i guess i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. not in a heavy way. just… in that way where something small reminds you of someone and then they just kind of stay in your head all day after. finals are over (thank goodness) and i didn’t fail anything, though my rhetoric professor said i “overexplained” my last paper. which feels just a bit rude, considering i was trying really hard to underexplain it. turns out i’m just really not very good at pretending i don’t care about things. ma sent me a shoebox full of christmas cookies even though it’s not even thanksgiving yet. most of them crumbled in the mail, but i’ve been eating the pieces with a spoon like cereal. she says she saw your cousin at the hardware store—apparently they’re fixing the porch steps. ma says the wood’s soft now, “just like everything else on this side of town.” the city’s… a lot. i’m getting used to it, kind of. there’s this bakery on 12th that sells cinnamon rolls the size of hubcaps, and the lady behind the counter always gives me the biggest one, even when i’m last in line. she calls me “darlin’,” which feels a little funny out here, but nice too. sometimes, on sunday mornings, i bike down to the river and just sit. don’t do much, just watch the water move and try not to check my phone. it’s not the same as the spot back home, no skipping stones, no cattails, no frogs trying to race each other—but it’s something. you crossed my mind the other day because someone in class said they’d never been on a dirt road before. i thought that was wild. i told them how my girlfriend my friend you used to ride your bike with no hands all the way down the lane by old man ridge’s cornfield, and they looked at me like i made it up. i didn’t tell them how you’d stick your legs out like wings when you did it. that part’s mine. anyway. i hope school’s going alright. and work. and everything else. i hope the leaves are turning slow this year, and that you’re getting time outside before the cold sets in. write back if you want. no pressure. i’ll be home for christmas, if you’re around. best, clark

.

It’s been ten years.

Not in the clean way you imagined it would be. Not in semesters or seasons or chapters.

Just a long, slow forgetting that never quite takes. You went to college eventually—state school, close enough to come home on weekends but far enough that you could pretend you weren’t waiting for him to text. You studied too hard, dated people who never asked about Smallville, never asked about the way your voice always changed when you said Clark.You kept your head down and your world small. 

(Safe.)

You stopped counting anniversaries, but some part of you always remembered. It’s like he left fingerprints in your brain—certain songs, certain skies, certain kinds of kindness that you couldn’t unlearn even if you tried.

And then, in November, you see him again.

It’s nothing. A stupid errand. 

You’re home for a few days, in between classes and the apartment you share with two roommates who always forget to do their dishes. You’re walking out of the grocery store, headphones in, balancing a paper bag on your hip, keys in your teeth, when he rounds the corner of the parking lot, and everything—everything—stops.

He’s taller. Or maybe just steadier. His gait, his posture—there’s this quiet confidence now, like the world no longer fights back when he walks through it.

You stop. Bag still on your hip, eggs still in jeopardy, and for a second you can’t breathe.

He’s on the phone, head tilted, brow furrowed in a way that’s still so Clark you could cry. A little more muscle in his arms. A different weight in his step. Like gravity’s learned to bend around him instead of the other way around. Still in a flannel shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows like muscle memory, and that same beat-up Royals t-shirt underneath. His hair’s longer. His arms are broader. 

His voice—when it reaches you, after he sees you and fumbles off the call—is just slightly deeper. A little hoarser. Like he’s had to say a lot of hard things lately.

“Hey,” he says, blinking. “You’re home.”

You nod. “Just for the week. My mom needed help with the attic.”

“Right,” he says, shifting his weight. “That old attic.”

You both laugh, quietly. It’s awkward, but not really cruel.

“How’s school?” he asks. “You’re almost done, yeah?”

“One semester left,” you say. “Then maybe grad school. If I survive biochem.”

He smiles then—really smiles—and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they used to. And it’s awful, because you remember the last time he smiled at you like that. Awful, awful, awful.

“You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”

You want to ask what he’s been up to, but you know. Everyone does. Superman sightings. City rescues. A train derailment in Metropolis last fall—he was on it. Someone tweeted a blurry photo of him with soot on his cheek and a woman’s baby in his arms.

You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either.

Instead, you both stand in the parking lot like it’s still summer and you’re eighteen again, swatting mosquitoes and talking about where you’ll end up. Back when the answer still sounded like “together.”

There’s a silence. The kind that feels like a room you both used to live in.

“You look good,” he says, finally. And it’s so soft you almost miss it.

You study his face. His jaw’s sharper now. But his eyes—the way they look at you—it’s still the same. Gentle and wary all at once. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks too long.

“So do you,” you reply. “I saw your article. The one on post-quake reconstruction.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised. “You read that?”

“I read all of them,” You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because you mean it. Maybe because it’s the only way you still get to feel close.

“I kept your voicemails,” he says, voice low. “From high school. Even the one about the raccoon that broke into your guys' pantry.”

You smile, but your throat stings. It feels like hearing the song you used to fall asleep to, back when things were quieter. 

Clark steps forward. Just a little.

“Do you ever think about—” he starts. Then stops.

His hand lifts halfway like he might reach for you. But he instead doesn't. Instead, he just lets it drop again, fingers curling into his palm like he’s holding something back.

A gllance down at your shoes. The laces are still uneven. Some things haven’t changed.

You know what he was going to ask. And you know there isn’t time, will never be enough time, to answer it.

“I should go,” you say, and your voice is gentle, like setting something down. “My mom’s waiting.”

Clark nods, once. But his eyes—God, his eyes—don’t move. Like he’s still trying to memorize you right before the moment ends.

You shoulder your bag. Grip it tight. “Bye, Clark,” you murmur.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “See you.”

He doesn't say when. He doesn't promise soon.

.

VOICEMAIL (UNSENT DRAFT) Timestamp: Tuesday, November 1st, 7:43 PM Location: Hy-vee – Parking Lot Duration: 2 minutes, 31 seconds [BEGIN RECORDING] Hey. Um... hey. It’s me. Clark. (short pause) Obviously. I don’t really know why I’m calling. I guess—I guess I saw your car. At Hy-vee. Same spot you always used to grab, third from the cart return. Still got that dent by the taillight. I was gonna go in, but… I don’t know. I couldn’t. You looked happy. Not like laughing happy, just... normal happy. Pushing your cart with that one wheel that always squeaks. list in your hand, headphones in, like any other Tuesday. and I stood outside my truck like a fool for probably five whole minutes before backing out of the space. I wasn’t avoiding you. I just—I think part of me hoped I’d run into you again someday. Like really run into you. Same aisle, same time, some kind of weird cosmic timing thing. Not like this though. Not when i’m still figuring out how to hold all this. I miss you. I’m not supposed to say that, right? I know that. But I hope whatever you were picking up tonight—milk, cereal, whatever—I hope it’s what you needed. I’ll let you go. Uh—not that you’re listening. Not that I'm gonna send this. Okay. (quit inhale) Night. [END OF RECORDING] Saved to: Voice Memos > Drafts > Not Sent Last opened: 9:12 PM Playback: 2x speed available Option to Delete: [yes] [no]

.

Your car gives out somewhere past the grain elevator. 

No bang, no dramatic hiss of steam—just a weird and nerve-inducing mechanical sigh. A flicker on the dash. A sudden silence as the engine stutters and gives up. Then nothing but wind.

It’s the kind of stillness that feels just a smidge personal. Punishing, even.

You sit there in the cold, breath misting against the inside of your windshield, watching it bead and vanish in ghostly little ovals. There’s a chill creeping in through the seams of the door. Your fingers are stiff where they clutch the steering wheel, like letting go will make it real.

Try the key again. Just to say you did. The engine clicks, whines, and dies all over again. Dead.

Shit.

Your fingers are quickly turning numb. You try to stretch them as best as you can in your lap, crack the knuckles like that’ll warm them. 

The loneliness out here—just flat fields and old fence posts and the faint suggestion of grain silos in the distance—presses against the windows like a fog. You check your phone. One bar. Maybe half a bar. No service, not really. But it doesn’t matter.

You already know who you’re going to call.

And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid. 

You promised yourself two years ago, lost at your first college party, a mosquito bite blooming on your ankle, arms crossed so tight across your chest you thought your ribs might cave in—

Don’t call him. No matter what. You don’t get to want him and let him go.

But here you are.

Still, somehow, his name’s still in your phone. Not under anything cutesy, just—Clark. And when you press it, your thumb trembles.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” Clark says, voice low and immediate. 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

“My car—” you start, but your throat catches. Embarrassing. You force it down. “It’s dead. I’m dead. I mean, the car’s dead.”

“Where are you?” he cuts in, already moving.

“Highway 5,” you say. “Just past the turnoff. Maybe a mile out of town. I think I passed the old gas station.”

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Right now. Don’t get out. Just stay warm.”

The call ends. You don’t look at the clock. You don’t need to.

The wind outside picks up. It whistles against the passenger-side mirror, loud and thin like something almost alive. You draw your coat tighter around you, but it’s not much. Just denim and threadbare fleece and a few years too old.

You don’t even hear him land. The air shifts—just barely—and then he’s there, knocking on your window with the gentlest knuckle.

You turn and it’s Clark.

Clark Kent, standing out in the field of dead corn, boots crunching over frostbitten stalks, his hoodie shoved under his red jacket like he got dressed in a rush. Red in the cheeks from the air. 

But his eyes—God, his eyes. When he sees you, really sees you—they soften, then crumple. Like you’re the only thing he’s been worried about since the moment the call came through. Like he’s checking for bruises.

He opens your door without a word.

“Can I—?” he starts, already unzipping his jacket.

You nod, and he wraps it around your shoulders. It’s still warm. Heavy with him. You breathe it in—his smell, somehow exactly the same. That stupid clean laundry scent mixed with cold air and something underneath it. Something like home.

“I didn’t know if you’d still—” you begin, but he shakes his head.

“I came,” he says, and his voice is raw with it. “That’s what matters.”

He crouches down to your level. Looks you over like he’s trying to assess damage he can’t name.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time. The worry’s right there in the way his brow draws in. You always loved that about him—how he couldn’t hide it. How being soft was never a performance.

You nod, even if it’s not entirely true. “Just cold.”

His mouth presses into a line. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you warm.”

He takes your hand—careful, like you’re glass—and lifts you out of the car like you weigh nothing. You don’t protest. You just go.

The wind hits harder once you’re out, and he doesn’t let go, just pulls you close against him and rises—rises—like it’s instinct. The field drops away beneath you. The car. The frostbitten road. Everything but the tight circle of warmth where your body presses against his chest.

You glance up at him. His jaw’s tight. There’s a little muscle that ticks when he’s tense, and it’s doing that now. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you tighter as the wind rushes past.

“I was already home,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Back in Smallville. Was gonna call tomorrow. I just—didn’t know if I was allowed.”

“You are,” you say, too fast. “You always are.”

His eyes flick down to yours then, and they don’t look tired anymore. They look wrecked. Not just from the cold or the flight. From you.

You don’t say anything else for a long time. Just let him carry you toward the distant lights of your house—still glowing warm through the trees, still there. Your breath fogs up in front of you and with something else too—something old, familiar. Grip his shoulders without really thinking about it.

The first time he flew you like this, it was more of a dare than a thing that was done on purpose.

Summer night right before he went off to college. You’d just finished watching some grainy old movie on the Kent’s living room TV, something with a kiss in the rain and too many dramatic violins. You’d sat too close on the couch, your knee resting against his.

When the credits rolled, you teased him—half-laughing, half-not. Told him he should try that sometime. Real romance. 

He grinned at you in that crooked way he did back then, the lamp light shining softly across his face. "You think I’m not romantic?” he said. Feigned offense. Tried to play it off. But his ears were red. 

They always went red when he got nervous.

And then, quieter, more serious: “I could show you something, if you want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, like magic?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of.”

Didn’t really understand what he meant—at least at the time. But you said yeah, whispered it, almost, like you were giving him something. And he took it gently, like he knew.

Then he scooped you up—like it was nothing—and lifted off the ground.

Straight into the dark.

You couldn’t stop laughing at first—this wild, exhilarated kind of laughter that bubbled out of you before you could think. You tucked your face into his neck and whispered, “I didn’t know it would feel like this,” and he just held you tighter and said, “Me neither.”

The snow’s coming down harder by the time he sets you down on your porch. The light above the door buzzes faintly, flickering like it can’t decide whether to stay on. But Clark doesn’t move right away. He just stands there with you, jacket still wrapped over your shoulders, his breath clouding in the space between.

It would be so easy to say nothing. To thank him, unlock the door, step inside and let the silence swallow it all. 

But that's never been yours and Clark's style.

“I never stopped loving you,” he says.

You breathe in, chest tight. Because of course he hasn’t. That’s the cruel thing—how easily you believe him. How you’ve always known.

“I know,” you say. And you do.

Clark shifts closer. “I’ve tried to put it away. Thought maybe I had. But seeing you again—” He stops, shakes his head, almost laughs. “It’s like no time passed. Like it’s all still right here.”

You close your eyes, hating how much you want to believe it could be that simple. That he could just love you and it wouldn’t undo you. “You don’t make it easy."

“What?”

“Letting you go.” Your voice shakes. “It feels like I’ve been trying for six years, and you just… you show up, and it’s all still here. Like none of it ever left.”

Clark swallows hard. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe some things—you just don’t get rid of them. They stay.”

You let out a breath that feels almost like a laugh. Almost. “You always think that’s enough. That if you believe hard enough, it’ll hold.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, and you can see it—the faith in him. Always the immovable object in the unstoppable force that is your life.

And you reach for him before you can think any better of it. Arms circling around his waist, and he comes into you like he’s been waiting—no hesitation, no question. He bends just enough to press his chin into your hair, the slope of his chest firm against your cheek. His breath catches there, ragged, hot in the cold night air.

Snow gathers on your shoulders, melts into his collar. Neither of you moves.

After a long silence, you whisper against his chest, “I really, really don’t know what to do with you.”

He huffs a laugh, small, almost bitter. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me love you. That’s all.”

And your heart breaks, because it’s so simple when he says it. Because part of you wants to believe it could be enough.

You pull back, just enough to look at him. His face is so close. His eyes are wrecked with it.

“Clark,” you say quietly, like saying his name might hold you both in place. "I can't give you an answer right now."

"I know."

.

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.

It takes you three days.

Three days of pretending you're okay. 

Of going through the motions—helping your mom unload groceries, fixing the leaky faucet in the laundry room, scrolling endlessly through your phone without seeing a thing. Three days of rerunning that scene like it's stitched into your brain. You replay it over and over and over.

His voice in the cold, cracked with it: I never stopped loving you. The way he said it like it was already true, no matter what you did next.

You didn’t know it could hurt to be loved that much. Not when it’s Clark. But it does, because there’s something about the way he loves that feels both weightless and heavy—like floating and falling at once. Like being known down to the bone. But now you know.

The house is still when you wake up. Your breath ghosts in the kitchen window when you press your face close, watching the frost sparkle on the road outside. You don’t even think about it—you just move.

Throw on a hoodie, tug on your gloves, grab your bike from the shed where it’s sat all winter. Tires soft. Chain a little rusted.

Doesn’t matter.

You start pedaling.

It’s cold enough to bite your cheeks, sting your lungs. The wind rushes past, that familiar roar in your ears. But your heart—God, your heart’s even louder if you could believe it. It beats with every push of the pedals, every mile marker, every turn in the road you know by heart. 

You pass the cornfields. The old train tracks. The sign welcoming you to Smallville like it never meant anything but him. And by the time the Kent farm crests into view, your legs are shaking. Your lungs feel scraped raw. But you don’t stop.

You see him before he sees you—Clark, in the driveway, half-bent as he loads something into the bed of Pa Kent’s old truck. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. There’s a thermos of coffee on the hood, a set of gloves stuffed into his back pocket. He looks—normal. Like your Clark.

The bike skids in the gravel and you all but launch yourself off it,  hitting the brakes too fast and just about let it crash to the ground behind you.

“Clark!”

He straightens, confused at first. Squints toward the road. Sees you.

And then—stillness.

You breathe hard, chest heaving. He doesn’t move. Just watches you like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he blinks too long.

“I’m in,” you say, voice cracking on it. “Okay? I’m in.”

He steps around the truck slowly, hesitant. Careful, like you’re a skittish deer that might bolt.

“What—what are you saying?” he asks, and it’s not disbelief in his voice exactly, it’s hope. Hope pressed down so tightly he can’t quite trust it. “You don’t have to—if you’re just saying it because you feel bad or because you miss how it was—”

“I’m not,” you say, already stepping closer. “Clark, I’m not.”

You open your mouth—then laugh, not because it’s funny but because the whole thing is ridiculous. You’re standing in the driveway where you used to sneak him kisses behind the barn. You’re breathless and cold and your fingers are still trembling and somehow it still feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I don’t know,” you say, honestly. “No? Yes? I mean—I think so. I’ve been thinking about it for three days straight and it hasn’t stopped feeling like the right kind of terrifying.”

He blinks. You keep going.

“I mean, it’s not like I have it all figured out. I don’t know how to make it work. I still don’t know if I can live with the idea that someone else might need you more than I do—but I do know that I’m tired of pretending like this isn’t the only thing I want. You. Us. All of it.”

You ramble on, voice unsteady. “And—and I’ve been looking at grad schools, you know? There're some programs in Metropolis. Good ones. And maybe I don’t get in, or maybe I do and I hate it, and maybe we still mess this up, but I think—” You pause, press your hand to your chest like it’ll help hold your ribs in place. “I think I’d regret not trying more than I’d regret failing.”

A beat.

You meet his eyes. “But you’re it for me, Kent.”

He stares at you. And then shakes his head, like he can’t help it, like he needs to push the disbelief out of his system or it’ll get stuck somewhere permanent.

“You mean it?” he says, voice hoarse.

“Yes, god, Yes,” you say, stepping in close now, hands reaching for the hem of his shirt, curling in the cotton like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Can't stand another day without you.”

His eyes flutter shut.

“And what,” he whispers, like the memory of a grin, “are you gonna do about that?”

You shake your head, but your hands are already finding their way to the hem of his shirt, curling in the cotton like a reflex. Like maybe if you hold tight enough, you won’t lose him this time. “Guess I’m gonna keep giving you hell until you kiss me.”

Then you kiss him.

Your back hits the side of the truck, hard enough to rattle the frame. He follows you into it, crowding you against the metal, and it’s all instinct after that—his hand tilting your chin up, your fingers fisting in his hair, your mouths moving like you’re trying to make up for lost time in a single breath.

And you gasp when he presses in closer, his hips pinning you to the truck door, the ridges of old metal biting into the backs of your legs. 

His body's still impossibly strong. Broad. Familiar in a way that guts you. This is the same boy who used to lift hay bales with one arm, who kissed you for the first time on that field and shook with nerves while doing it.

He still feels like home. Still that boy who looked at you like the sun rose just for you.

“You haven’t changed,” you say, lips brushing his jaw, tasting sweat and salt and something you don’t have a name for.

“I have,” he breathes. “But not where it matters.”

You’re half laughing against his mouth when he finally tears himself back just enough to breathe, to look at you properly, his forehead resting against yours. His chest rises hard against yours, fast and uneven.

Then, suddenly—he bends, scooping you up into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your back leaves the truck door, legs instinctively winding around his waist before you can think any better of it.

“Clark—” You jolt, clutching at his shoulders. His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheekbone, the soft corner beneath your eye. Kisses everywhere, everywhere he spots exposed skin. You can’t help the breathless little laugh that slips out, breathless. “Wait—what about your parents?”

“They’re not here,” he mumbles against your skin, pressing another kiss to your temple, to the corner of your mouth. He sounds desperate. “Ma and Pa are at the Coopers’, fixing the tractor. They’ll be gone for hours.”

“Clark,” you say again, but your voice falters when his lips drag along the edge of your throat, when he kisses the hollow just below your ear.

He doesn’t put you down. 

Just starts walking, boots crunching against the gravel drive, carrying you up the porch steps like he’s done it a thousand times in his head. Every few steps, another kiss—your hairline, your nose, the corner of your mouth, as though he can’t stop, as though making up for lost years could happen just one inch of skin at a time.

The door creaks when he shoulders it open, and you’re half terrified, half thrilled, whispering, “We shouldn’t—God, this is insane—” but you’re still kissing him anyway.

He moves through it without looking, carrying you past the kitchen where the scent of coffee still lingers, past the living room where you once sat watching movies until you both fell asleep. It’s dizzying, disorienting—being in this house again, but like this.

“Baby,” you whisper once more, fingers tightening at the back of his neck. Your voice cracks on it. “I missed you.”

His steps falter for half a beat, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t set you down. His grip on you only tightens. “I missed you so much it hurt,” he says, the words muffled against your shoulder, almost a groan. “Every damn day.”

You shut your eyes, because it’s too much, because it’s everything, and let him carry you the rest of the way—to his room.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Clark sets you down on the edge of his bed, but he doesn’t let go—his hands linger at your waist, thumbs pressing into your hoodie like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His eyes dart over your face, hungry but hesitant, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away.

You think of making a joke, an aside, but one glance down at the bulge on his jeans, and suddenly, you don't really feel like being coy anymore. "Clothes off, Kent."

His laugh bursts out—low, startled, almost disbelieving. His forehead drops briefly against your shoulder, like he needs a second to catch up. “You can’t just—” he starts, voice muffled.

You tip his chin up with your hand. “I can. I did.”

God, he makes you so damn happy. It has to be lethal, the way he looks at you right then—his shirt comes off with one smooth movement, all muscle and soft skin and freckles and sweetness. You're scrambling to take your own clothes off, and then the moment, the moment they're all gone, you're tackling him back on the bed.

Clark smiles, lopsided and silly. "You're so pretty."

You kiss him for that, kiss his cheeks, his stubbled jaw, his collarbone. Cunt ghosting over his eager cock, rolling your hips experimentally just to hear him groan and go all putty in your hands again.

"Oh, fuck."

"Okay, okay, I'm—" Fuck. Of course, it's a stretch. You're wetter than you've ever been in your life, but it still always feels like this daunting task, getting him inside of you. Clark, ever the optimist, encourages you. "You can do it, sweetheart. I know you can take it."

"So full," you mumble between breaths of air, shifting slightly just to try to fit even more of him. Just to see him fall apart a little bit more. "So full, baby."

He pulls you down to kiss you, tongue licking its way inside your mouth, wants to taste every inch of you, everything he's missed out on the past few years.

There's something so damn intoxicating in seeing Clark crumble like this underneath you, . Trying so damn hard to keep his eyes on you, but eventually, those eyes roll to the back of his head, grip turning tighter on your hips before he even realizes it.

He's getting closer—you can feel it, his hands come up to palm your breasts in those big, calloused hands, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you keen out a sigh. 

"Such a good girl, working so hard for me. Come on, you can do it—just a little faster now, angel—"

You moan, hips trying to cant down harder with every stroke. Using him, riding him for dear life, until you come with a silent scream.

And that's when he lifts you, airborne just for a second as he rolls the two of you over until you're practically folded in half, legs slung over his shoulders. Fuck, him being strong has never been so fucking attractive. You're completely at his mercy.

The first roll of his hips is rough—aching in a way you know will hurt the next morning. The head of his cock dragging into you, just barely managing to get a little over halfway. It doesn't even feel like he's wrenched an orgasm out of you, always takes a little bit more effort than you think is reasonable with him, but god. 

God, you'll take it. You'll take all of him.

Clark slowly, slowly bottoms out and then his eyes dart across your face, one stray hand going to cup your cheek. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes," You're going to absolutely cringe over your tone later, breathless and nodding and babbling, and there might even be tears in your eyes, but you need it. You need more. "Don't you dare stop for a second."

"I won't," He rocks forward, then back, wrenching a gasp from your lips as you squirm. "I won't, I swear."

His pace turns into this agonizing, brutal grind, his cock throbbing inside of you. You're getting absolutely fucked down into the mattress, the springs creaking and the sheets sticking hot against you skin.

You look down, and he's a sight to behold. Abs formed from years of farmwork, flexing as he carves his way inside of you, arms, large and veiny, holding you in place as you cling to him helplessly.

"Wanna feel you, baby," Clark begs, his breath against your collarbone. "Need you to come at the same time, okay? Be a good girl for me."

And that's when he rams deep inside of you, thrusts turning unsteady and erratic. Your body jerks, your hands getting tangled in his hair and toes curling, and for one perfect, perfect moment, you're filled with warmth. 

After a moment, both of you go still, chests heaving, eyes locked on each other. Satiated.

Graciously, you unhook your legs from behind his back as he pulls out and slumps right there next to you on the bed. He immediately turns over on his side to look at you, really look at you, one hand tracing across your hip.

“That was—” he stops, laughs, shakes his head like words aren’t big enough. “That was… unreal. You okay?”

You laugh, brushing your nose against his. “I’m fine. Better than fine.”

“Good,” he says quickly, earnest as ever. “I just… I didn’t want to mess it up. I kept thinking, don’t rush, don’t—”

“Clark.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… I really want to go again.”

You groan, dropping your head against his chest. “Slow down, cowboy. Some of us need a minute to, you know, breathe.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer, his hand drawing absent-minded shapes on your back. “Fair. I can wait. I’ll wait however long you want. Just… don’t kick me out, okay?”

You tilt your chin up at him. “Kent, I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”

His smile spreads wide. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me, then.”

.

Five hours later, you’re lying in his bed again, finally, finally spent for real this time. Clark's half-asleep, mumbling something about chores he forgot to do for the farm. You tell him he’s ridiculous, that you’ll help him feed the cows in the morning if he promises to stop worrying right now. 

He just smiles, eyes still closed, and says, “Deal.” 

.

She truly didn’t mean to get so worked up. But maybe she should have known better than to navigate over to her boyfriend’s Instagram profile and swipe to his tagged posts. Maybe she should have known better than to let the sight of him, gloriously tanned in a navy blue polo, stir up the butterflies in her stomach. There were videos of his golf swing, his back facing the camera, muscles flexing with each hit of the ball. His veins twisting down his arms like a road map to heaven. She should have known better than to watch that video of him smiling wide, dimple peaking through, some polite phrase leaving his parted lips.

Trying to resume studying after her deep dive was entirely pointless. She would find herself reading, rereading, and rereading the same sentence over and over again without comprehension. The only thing she could think of was the way Justin’s shirt clung to his broad shoulders in the pictures, the way his pants—pressed by her just before his flight that morning—hugged his thighs, and the way his eyes looked so vivid, bright, so full of excitement even through the screen.

Waiting to board. I’ll let you know when I’m on the flight.

His text came through, breaking through the haze of her thoughts.

Her response was simple: a selfie in the mirror, wearing a zip-up hoodie of his. The black zip-up was half undone, one side falling off her shoulder to expose a lacy, white bra underneath. It was as close to naked as she dared to be in a picture. There was no accompanying message, just her shoulder exposed, coils pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and the hoodie zipped low enough to reveal a bit of her chest.

Fly safe, I love you.

If she was aching, Justin was suffering. He had opened the text thread casually, his attention split between responding to messages and paying attention to his chartered plane's boarding announcements. He nearly dropped his phone when the image appeared on his screen. He turned his phone off, swallowing hard, and took a deep breath.

He turned his phone back on, lowering his brightness to avoid any unwelcome glances from nearby passengers. He inhaled harshly through his nose, keenly aware of how insane it was that he could get this worked up over a shoulder and a bit of lace. But it was her shoulder and her bra and just: her. He hadn’t seen her in hours, which was beginning to feel like days.

His index finger tapped against the side of his phone, contemplating a response. Knowing her, she was probably sitting as far away from her phone as possible, too anxious to watch for his reaction. But he had to say something, had to let her know that she had him hooked: line and sinker.

Hope that’s my hoodie.

He typed out quickly, hitting send just as he was called to board.

Boarding. Can’t wait to get home to you.

He shoved his phone into one of his front pockets and followed the flight attendant, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

The flight home was agonizingly slow. Every second dragged on, filled with images of her in his mind, her pretty eyes glittering with lust, her body silently begging for his touch. Justin could feel his heart beating in his chest, the anticipation of seeing her again making him restless. The moment the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, he was up, eager to escape the confines of the aircraft and get back to her.

He pulled into the garage, grabbing his bag and making a beeline for the door. The house was quiet, but the evidence that she was there, she was still home, was everywhere. The smell of something sweet wafted from the kitchen, the faint sound of footsteps coming from his room upstairs. Just as he set his bag down by the door, the sound of paws hitting the floor announced Nova’s arrival. She wove around his legs, purring loudly, seemingly happy to see him for the time being.

“Hey, girl, where’s your momma?” He picked her up, scratching behind the feline's ears, then taking a moment to set his Callaway golf cap on the hook by the door.

She was still in that zip-up hoodie when he finally caught sight of her descending the stairs. However, now with the full view of her body, he could see the black boy shorts that matched the color of the hoodie. Her legs were bare, and her feet were tucked into a pair of fuzzy socks that matched the black and white theme of the ensemble. In one hand, she had her phone, and in the other, she clutched a mason jar of sweet iced tea. Presumably, one of the two she left behind in his cupboards and never felt the need to bring back to her rental home. She looked so innocent, so sweet, so utterly unaware of the chaos she had wrought upon him.

“There she is,” he narrated to Nova, his voice softening as he watched her approach.

She set her phone and the mason jar down on the entryway table just as Nova leapt out of Justin’s arms, landing gracefully on the floor. He reached for her, his hands sliding under the fabric of the hoodie to rest on her waist. Her arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer, her eyes immediately drawn to his lips.

“Missed you,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly. It was slow, the kiss, a gentle reintroduction after a day apart. Justin’s hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer until she was flush against him. He could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of her perfume that had somehow permeated the fabric of his hoodie.

“I missed you more,” he hummed, pressing forward again to kiss her harder, deeper. Her arms dropped from his neck, her hands moving instead to feel the fabric of his polo. “Did you manage to get some studying done?” he asked, pulling away from the kiss, unable to hide his smile when she chased his lips.

“Some,” she replied, reaching out to play with his fingers, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth again.

He tugged her along with him, his steps slow and deliberate, leading her into the kitchen where that smell of sweetness was more concentrated. “Some?” he echoed, more so wondering aloud, pulling the oven mitts off the hook and opening the oven door.

“Some, but not as much as I should have,” she admitted shyly. Justin pulled out the sheet and placed it on the stovetop to begin the cooling process. She was trying to be subtle, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, his neck, the expanse of his back. She knew he noticed; he could read her like a book. He hadn’t missed the way her eyes had glazed over when she met him at the door a few moments prior.

“How much is 'some'?” He removed the oven mitts and set them down on the kitchen counter, turning to face her fully, leaning against the counter.

She shrugged, resuming her fiddling with his fingers. “Maybe fifty percent? I got distracted.”

Justin released a short, breathy laugh. “By what?” Laughing once again when she chose not to respond. He knew full well by what—his own damn pictures. He couldn’t blame her; he’d had his fair share of distractions today too. But he’d be damned if he didn’t get to revel in her embarrassment a little bit. “Were you thinking about something?” He whispered, the hand in her grasp moving to find the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek.

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, the corners of her mouth tipping up slightly. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?” Justin prodded, his voice dropping an octave, his gaze darkening as he took in the way her breathing slowed and her eyes grew heavy-lidded. He knew that look. “Words, baby. Give me words.”

“Justin…” she groaned, her head dropping forward to press against his chest. She didn’t know how to avoid the embarrassment of telling him that she’d been thinking about him all day, about his arms, his hands, his smile.

He chuckled, his chest rumbling against her cheek. “Come on, tell me. Sent me a picture earlier, you can tell me now.” His hand remained on the back of her neck, gently guiding her to look up at him.

“I… I just… I was thinking about you,” she murmured, the honey-coating in her voice just barely audible. Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the fabric of his polo. “Thinking about how much I miss you when you’re gone, and how much I want you when you’re here…”

Justin’s smile grew, directing her gaze back up to him. He leaned down, his nose brushing against hers. “Is that all?” Seafoam green eyes searched hers, his voice a low rumble in the quiet kitchen. She could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. With every passing second, she found more difficult to maintain eye contact. He was always so intense in these moments, so demanding of her honesty.

Their mouths parted again, identical breaths leaving them both in a silent pant. Justin’s hand on her neck tightened slightly, his lips brushing against hers, and he whispered, “Should I fuck you? Does that sound like something you need?”

She nodded, her voice a squeak. “Please.”

He kissed her again, hard and demanding, his hand moving from her neck to cradle the back of her head, tilting it so he could deepen the kiss. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as she let out a soft whine. He broke the kiss, his eyes somehow even more intense as he whispered, “Good girl.”

Both of his hands moved to cup her face. Justin’s thumbs traced the outline of her cheekbones, his fingertips brushing against her ears as his tongue swept into her mouth. He could feel her body melting into his, her curves fitting against his angles like they were made for this, made to be together. His hands slid down to the zipper of the hoodie, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate motion. She could feel the goosebumps rise on her skin as the fabric parted, exposing the lacy white bra that had been taunting him for the last few hours. He groaned, his mouth moving to her neck, kissing and nibbling the soft skin there.

Her hands roamed up his chest, her nails digging into the fabric of his polo shirt. She pulled at the hem, trying to get her hands on the bare skin she hadn’t felt in what felt like an eternity. He chuckled, breaking away from her neck to kiss at her lips. His knees bent slightly, allowing him to scoop her up easily, her legs wrapping around his waist.

If she wasn’t so busy kissing him, she would’ve marveled at the ease with which he carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. Her heart was racing, her body thrumming with need, her mind swimming in a sea of desire. The bedroom door swung open, and he laid her down gently on the California king-sized bed that had seen more of her naked body than perhaps her own bed had.

Justin hovered over her, parting her thighs to make room for his frame. He kissed her again, a wet, sloppy mess of a kiss that had her toes curling and her core pulsing. His hands roamed under the hoodie, feeling her soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over the cups of her bra. “Do you want this off?” he murmured, his voice gruff.

She nodded, their parting of their lips allowing her to catch her breath. She felt his hands remove the jacket, tossing it to the side. Then he moved to the hooks of her bra, deftly unclipping it with a single hand, the other squeezing the plush flesh of her thigh, hooking it around his waist to keep her in place. She felt the cool air of the room kiss her now bare breasts, her nipples tightening to hard peaks. He leaned down to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the skin there, leaving a trail of kisses down to her collarbone. She sighed as his mouth closed around one nipple, suckling gently.

Her hands moved to his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp as she held him to her, urging him to take more, to give her more. He chuckled against her skin, his tongue flicking out to tease the tight peak before moving to the other side to give it the same treatment. His hand slid down her body, over her stomach, and into her shorts, finding her already soaked.

“Eager, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust, as he pulled away from her chest to look into her eyes. “So fucking eager for me, aren’t you?” He slid his hand into her shorts, his fingers sliding through her slick folds, finding her clit with a practiced ease that had her back arching off the bed. He watched her face as he circled the sensitive nub, his touch light and feathering.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her hips moving in tandem with his hand, searching for more friction. “Can I have your fingers, please?” she begged, her voice hoarse with desire. Her hands moved away from his hair, finding the sides of his face, biting his lower lip gently as she pleaded with him.

“Anything you need, angel,” Justin whispered against her skin. He pulled his fingers from her shorts, hooking his fingers into the waistband and tugging them down along with her panties. He tossed them aside, leaving her fully bare before him. Just as he always did, he took a brief moment to take in the sight of her, the way her skin glowed under the soft light of his bedroom, the way her chest rose and fell with each desperate breath she took. He leaned down to kiss her jaw, biting the junction of her neck and shoulder weakly.

Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft whine escaping her throat as she felt his lower half press further into her. She nodded, eager to please. Justin’s hands moved to her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh as he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed. His mouth found hers again, swallowing her gasps as he ground into her. She grabbed hold of his wrist, kissing the inside of his wrist, then repeating the action with each of his fingers. Her eyes didn’t shift away from his, not even when she took his index finger into her mouth, sucking and licking until it was slick with her saliva.

“Need your mouth full?” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He watched as she sucked on his fingers, her eyes locked on his, and felt a surge of lust that nearly brought him to his knees. When she was done, he pulled his hand away, bringing his glistening fingers to her center. He slid one, then two into her, her walls tightening around them. She was so wet, so ready for him.

Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, a silent moan escaping her lips. He watched her face, the swollen plump of her lips parting, the way her eyelids grew heavy. “So beautiful, baby,” he whispered, his thumb unintentionally brushing against her clit as he pushed his fingers in deeper. She responded with a whimper, her back arching up to meet him. He began to move his hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, watching her face, her body, learning her, memorizing every twitch, every tremble.

Her core tightened around his hand, her hips bucking slightly as he found the perfect rhythm. She bit her lip, trying to hold in the sounds that threatened to spill out of her. She felt the heat building, her body coiling tightly, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “God,” she whined, her hand poised on his forearm as it flexed with every thrust of his fingers.

Justin watched her, his eyes dark with lust, his free hand bracing himself on the bed beside her. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “That’s it, angel. Just relax for me. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, sweetheart, so good for me…”

Her breath hitched, her nails digging into his forearm. She was so close, so close to coming apart for him. And when she did, it was with a high-pitched cry, her body shaking as he continued to pump into her, drawing out the orgasm until she was boneless and panting beneath him. He talked her through it, as he always did, “That’s my girl, so fucking beautiful, baby. Just like that. Just like that…”

When her tremors ceased, he gently removed his hand from her pussy, bringing it to his mouth to taste her. “Mmm,” he groaned. “Taste yourself, baby.” He offered her his fingers, and she took them eagerly, sucking them clean, staring up at him through her lashes.

Justin’s cock was painfully hard, straining against his pants. He leaned down to kiss her, tasting himself on her lips. She wrapped her legs around him, trying to pull him closer, desperate to have him fill her. He chuckled against her mouth, breaking the kiss to remove his polo before his hands moved to undo the button of his pants.

“I want you so badly, J,” she breathed, running her hand down his chest.

“You’ve got me, baby,” he replied, indulging the way she pressed her lips to the pad of his right thumb; evidently not having gotten her fixation satiated. He pulled back, shucking his pants and boxers, his dick springing free, thick and hard, his veins twisting up the length of his shaft. She bit her lip, watching him with hungry eyes. He leaned over her, his hand moving to her chin, tilting her head up so he could kiss her again.

“Wanna make you feel good,” she purred, her back arching into him as his kisses trailed over her jaw and down to the tops of her tits. Her hips rocked against his. Her hand found the nape of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair as she tried to bring him closer.

Justin’s cock was begging to be inside her, but he held off, enjoying the sweet torture of her needy whimpers and the way her body moved against his. He kissed along her collarbone, making her squirm and moan. “Do you, baby?”

She nodded, her voice thin and breathy. “Yeah, I do. I want to suck you, feel you in my mouth, taste you, please…”

Justin groaned, his body responding to her words. “Just for a little bit, baby,” he murmured, releasing her chin and rising to his full height. He gripped the base, his hand twisting in a slow rise and fall, his tip left untouched. “On your knees,” he instructed, his voice taking on a commanding tone.

She obeyed without question, practically scrambling to get off the bed and onto her knees. She quietly watched him take a seat at the edge of the bed. From this position, her face was directly level with his crotch, his cock standing proud and erect before her. The sight of him, the smell of him, had her mouth watering, and she didn’t wait for his next instruction before leaning in to kiss his thighs, her hands coming up to rest on his knees.

Justin’s hand met the side of her face, firmly cradling her cheek. “Look at me,” he ordered softly. She did, her eyes lifting to meet his, full of hunger. He tapped the tip against her lips, smearing a bead of precum over them.

He watched her intently, his eyes hooded as she licked her lips, savoring the taste of him. Finally, he guided her forward, the signal to begin. She opened her mouth, taking him in with a sigh of pure pleasure. She could feel the heat of him, the velvety softness of his skin against her tongue. He was thick and heavy in her mouth, his skin a bit salty to the taste. She moaned around him, the vibrations causing him to tense.

Her hands moved to grip the base of his cock, her thumbs stroking the underside as she took him deeper. She knew what he liked, knew the rhythm that would make him lose control. She watched him, his eyes never leaving hers as she began to suck him off, her tongue swirling around the tip, her cheeks hollowing as she took more and more of him into her mouth.

The hand on her cheek contined to guide her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip as she worked his shaft. Justin’s breathing grew harsher, his eyes closing as he cursed under his breath. He watched her every move, his eyes darkening as she took him deeper, her saliva coating his length.

“Don’t wanna cum like this, angel,” Justin murmured, gently pulling away from her eager mouth. He didn’t want it to end too quickly, not when she was so obviously craving him. “Said I was gonna fuck you. How do you want me?”

He guided her to stand, his hands moving to her hips. She stood in between his spread legs, her own trembling slightly as she awaited his next command. He pulled her in for a kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, tasting himself on her.

“Tell me how you want it, my love,” Justin whispered against her swollen lips, his hands roaming from her waist to her lower back, down to her ass, cupping and squeezing it firmly.

Her breath hitched as she leaned into him. “I want it from behind,” she responded, her voice a heated whisper. “With my face in the pillow.”

“Yeah?” Justin’s eyes bore into hers, the hunger in them growing.

She confirmed with a nod. Justin’s grip tightened on her hips in an affirmative squeeze before releasing her, standing to his full height. He took a step back, watching as she positioned herself on the bed, her legs spread just enough to allow him entry, her face buried in the pillow, ass up in the air. He couldn’t resist the urge to smack it lightly, watching as she jolted with the impact. She moaned into the pillow, urging him on.

“God, you’re perfect,” Justin rumbled as he took in the sight of her, all sprawled out and desperate for him. “So fucking perfect.” She was so slick and ready, he could see her wetness glisten in the dim light of the room. He brushed his tip through her folds, teasing her entrance before sliding in, watching as her body took him inch by inch. She moaned into the pillow, her hands fisting the fabric tightly.

Her tight heat clenched around him as he pushed in deeper, filling her completely. He took a moment to just appreciate the feeling of her, the way she felt so right around him. Then, with a grunt, he began to move, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had her back arching. She was so wet, so warm, and it was all for him.

Every moan and whimper from her made his blood warmer, his strokes more insistent. When he slipped out accidentally, her grip tightened on the pillow, her hips pushing back to meet him again. Justin took hold of her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he thrust back in, eliciting a muffled cry from her.

“I’m sorry, baby. So wet for me, I’m slipping out,” he murmured. He pulled almost all the way out, the head of his cock dragging over her clit before plunging back in, making her moan loudly. Sure, he was being a little mean, playing with her like this, but the way she reacted was intoxicating.

“You’re teasing,” she whined, turning her face slightly to the side so the pillow didn’t muffle her voice entirely. Justin chuckled darkly, his hand coming down to smack her ass again, rubbing the raw skin gently before moving back to her hip to keep her steady.

“You know I don’t like it when you whine like that.” He tsked.

“Taught you to use your words. What do you need?” Justin encouraged, his voice a low growl in the quiet of the room.

Her breath hitched. “Harder. Please.” Justin’s grip on her hips tightened as he gave her what she asked for, his strokes becoming more forceful, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room. She could feel him everywhere, his cock stretching her, his hands holding her in place as he claimed her.

The force of his thrusts had the bed shaking beneath them, the headboard thumping rhythmically against the wall. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she bit into the pillow to muffle the screams of pleasure that were building in her throat. She could feel her core tighten with every stroke, the pressure building until she thought she might just shatter into a million pieces.

“Oh…” she breathed into the pillow, her voice muffled, the fabric dampening the cries that spilled from her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling as she felt the pressure build, the warmth spreading from her core to her fingertips.

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes rolled back, and her toes curled as Justin's relentless thrusts hit that spot deep inside her that only he knew existed. She could feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge, her muscles tightening around him. One of his hands moved from her hip to the small of her back, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he pushed her further into the mattress.

She couldn’t think with him inside her, couldn’t form coherent thoughts as he pounded into her, making her body sing with pleasure. She was close, so close, and all she could do was whine and beg into the pillow, her voice lost to the world but not to him. He knew her so well, knew when she was close, and just when she thought she’d fall apart, he slowed his pace, drawing out her agony.

Justin’s chest was slick with sweat, his breathing heavy and labored, his heart hammering in his chest. He watched her body move under him, her ass bouncing with every thrust, her thighs quivering. He watched her fuck herself back onto his cock, even as his hips stilled for a moment. The muscles in her back rippled with each gasp, and her breath was coming in short, panting bursts.

“Mmhmm, baby, just like that,” he hummed, his eyes flicking upwards to catch the intensity with which she gripped the pillow. She was aching, he could tell, having taken matters into her own hands in the wake of the pause he’d allowed. “Look at you, so desperate to cum for me. Keep going, angel, keep taking it.”

The words were a command and a caress, pushing her closer to the precipice she hovered upon. She could feel the wetness of her own desire mixing with the sweat on her skin, making her body slick and slippery. She obeyed, her body responding instinctively to his touch, his voice, continuing to do the work of impaling herself on him even as he held back.

Unexpectedly, she grew quiet, spasming around him, but no sound of pleasure followed. Her hips circled but her torso went slack, the tension draining away. Justin paused, concerned she had been hurt. This was out of character for her, she was always vocal in some way during their intimate moments. They had been working on her ability to voice her desires and enjoyment over the course of their relationship, so her sudden silence was disconcerting.

“Angel, baby, you okay?” Justin asked, worried. He paused his movements, his cock still buried deep inside her. He leaned over her, pressing his chest to her back, lifting her head from the pillow to get a look at her face, hoping to find the answer in her expression.

Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow and quick. She didn’t respond, but her grip on the duvet tightened, her hips now completely still. Justin felt a jolt of panic, but just as he slowly began to pull out, she spoke, her voice hoarse and needy, the words spilling out in a bit of a cry.

“Please… please don’t stop. I’m so close to cumming. Please, just don’t stop. Baby, please don’t stop.” She sobbed out the words, her voice trembling and raw. Her eyes remained squeezed shut as she clung to the edge of her sanity.

Justin felt a rush of relief at her words. “Scared me, angel. You okay?” he murmured, his hand smoothing over her hair as he watched her closely.

She nodded, her eyes fluttering open to find him staring down at her. “I’m okay, I promise,” she panted. “Just really need you to keep going. Please.”

Justin searched her face for any sign of pain or distress, finding none but an intense, almost desperate need. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead before resuming his steady, deep strokes. He kept a hold on her face, needing the reassurance that she was okay, that she was still with him.

“Mm, fuck, baby, okay,” Justin whispered, his eyes stuck to her face as he began to move again. His strokes were gentle at first, but soon grew in speed and power as he watched her reaction. She pushed back against him, her breath hitching with each thrust. “Look at you, so beautiful like this. Taking me so good, baby, so good for me…”

Her eyes rolled back in her head, the arch in her back deepening as she took him in. Justin’s thrusts grew more powerful, his hips slapping against her ass, the sound echoing through the room. She was still quiet for the most part. Just the sound of her panting and the occasional whine slipping out from between her clenched teeth.

“Mmhmm, baby, that’s it,” Justin encouraged, feeling her muscles clench around him as he watched her chase the elusive second orgasm. He leaned over her, one hand on the bed for balance as he fucked into her with all the finesse and power of a man desperate for his girl’s undoing. His cheek pressed against hers, his moans mixing with her whimpers.

Her hands fisted the sheets, her knuckles straining as she held on tight, her body writhing beneath his. “Yes,” she moaned, the sound clear in his ears. “Yes, yes, yes… “ her voice trailed off into a whisper.

“Justin,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Please, can I cum? Been so good… I wanna cum for you…”

“Gonna cum on my cock?” Justin rasped, his voice strained with his own need.

She nodded frantically, her eyes screwed shut, her breaths coming out in panting whimpers. “Yes, yes, please, baby, let me cum for you,” she begged, her voice tight and desperate. “You feel so good, baby, I‘m so full, so close, please…”

Justin groaned, his own control hanging by a thread. He leaned down to kiss just below her ear. “Asked so nicely. You can cum, angel.”

“Thank you… oh my god,” she whined. The permission was all she needed. Her body responded immediately, tightening around his cock, her walls pulsing as the orgasm crashed over her. She was lost to the sensation, her voice hoarse as she screamed into the pillow, the fabric muffling the sound but not the intensity of her climax.

Justin felt her clench down on him and knew she was there. He didn’t hold back anymore, his hips moving with the force of his need, driving into her again and again. He could feel his own release building as he watched her come apart for him. Her body was shaking, the sight was so beautiful he could barely believe it was real.

Her cries grew louder, and he felt the beginnings of his own climax, his balls tightening as he pumped into her. He leaned down and kissed her neck, whispering sweet words of praise. “I know, baby. You’re doing so good, so fucking good. I’m so proud of you, taking all of me, giving it back so sweetly, baby. So fucking sweet…” Then, with a final, deep groan, he buried himself inside her, feeling his hot cum spurt into her, filling her up as she trembled and pulsed around him.

Once the ringing in his ears and the fuzziness of his brain had receded, Justin slowly withdrew. He made sure to gently kiss her neck and shoulder, not wanting to leave her feeling cold or abandoned after their intense connection. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the bed, her breath still coming out in gasps. He followed her down, his body heavy with satisfaction.

Justin pulled her body closer to his, his hands stroking her sweat-dampened skin. He held her close, feeling her heart pound against his chest as she tried to regain her breath. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his voice soothing and gentle. “Did so well, baby. Thank you for letting me in like that,” he said, kissing her temple.

She was shivering, undoubtedly experiencing a drop in adrenaline and endorphins. So he surrounded her with warmth, his embrace tight and comforting. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, whispered to her, kept her awake and coaxing her to stay alert.

“I got you,” he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble in her ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her body continued to shake with the aftershocks of her orgasm, trying her best to allow air to flood her lungs. Her eyes remained closed, lost in the warmth of his embrace. She could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and she matched her breaths to his, her pulse slowing with each gentle kiss he placed against her skin.

Finally, she turned her face towards him, her eyes fluttering open to find him smiling down at her. She gave a soft, tired smile in return, her body feeling like jelly. “Thank you,” she said weakly, curling into his chest with a sigh.

Justin’s arms tightened around her, his thumb brushing soothing shapes over her spine. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth, each one gentle, long, and filled with affection. “You’re welcome,” he whispered. “How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten?”

“I’m at eleven,” she murmured, making him chuckle. He pulled the comforter over them both, his knuckles brushing over the curve of her ass, palming it gently to pull her closer to him. Her eyes remained closed, her cheek pressing into his chest.

“Mm, that’s not on the scale, but I’ll take it.” Justin chuckled, his fingers continuing to trace patterns on her spine. She tipped her head back, making a contented noise. Her eyes remained closed, but she felt the warmth of his smile when he dipped forward to give her the kiss she was silently asking for.

His hand cradled her face, the kiss slow and tender. She huddled closer to his warmth as they kissed, vulnerability warming her skin and making her heart flutter. They separated for a moment, just long enough for Justin to whisper a gentle, “Thank you for trusting me,” before kissing her again. He was lost in her, in the feel of her body against his, in the way she melted into him as if she belonged there; as if she was meant to be in his arms, taking everything he had to give, giving him everything he needed in return.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “You feel so safe,” she responded. “Like nothing can ever go wrong when you’re here.”

Justin’s smile grew, his eyes closing as he breathed in the scent of her. “Good. That’s what I want to be for you,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to her forehead. His hand slid down her side, his thumb brushing over her ribs and stomach, tracing the line of her hip before settling at her waist. “Are these pictures gonna be a regular thing when I’m out of town?” he asked with a playful edge, his voice gravelly, resonating through his chest and into her ear.

She laughed softly, her cheek still pressed to his chest. “I think so. Is that something you’d like?” She asked, peeking up at him.

Justin’s smile grew, his eyes sparkling. “You could send me a picture of your thumb and I’d have heart palpitations, angel,” he quipped, making her laugh, the sound light and musical. He kissed her forehead again, his hand still resting on her waist. “I’ll start the shower, can I get you anything? Water?”

She nodded, her voice still a little shaky. “Yeah, water would be great, baby. Thank you.” She watched him get up, his naked form illuminated by the soft light of the light flooding in from the hallway. He was breathtaking, every muscle defined, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

She pushed herself up from the bed, her legs wobbly as she moved to the bathroom, beginning the clean-up of the stickiness between her legs. He returned to her side a few moments later, a glass of water poised in hand, Nova trailing behind him curiously, brilliant green eyes gleaming in the low light.

“Aww, did your dad lock you out?” She cooed, smiling when Nova meowed pitifully, her tail swishing. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Justin handed her the water, watching her take a grateful sip, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I set some food out for her while I was down in the kitchen, but she wasn’t interested. Wanted to check on her favorite person first,” he said, pulling her back against his chest, his hands running over her sides.

Her laugh was soft and sweet, a sound that never failed to make his heart swell. “You spoil her, you know that?” She took another sip, her eyes half lidded as she watched him over the rim of the glass.

“I have to compete with you somehow,” Justin said, shrugging. He picked Nova up, the cat purring as he held her to his chest, tail curling around his forearm. “I’ve had her for years but you give her a check-up once and she’s all about you now.”

Her smile widened, taking another sip of water. “I love her, she’s so sweet. She missed you today, though. Caught her stealing one of your socks again.”

You smile, nodding. "Sure. Thank you, Virgil."

Virgil starts taking the bags out of the trunk, carrying them over to the front door as you unlock it. "I'm surprised you're home so early." He says.

"Keeping tabs on me?"

"No," he shakes his head, cheeks red. "I meant.. I usually see you come in late."

"Closed the clinic early today, we've got a staff party tomorrow, hence.." You gestured to the bags. Virgil nods, helping her carry them into her kitchen.

The two of you were on friendly terms, Virgil often helped you out around the house if you were busy. Despite being a footballer, he tended to take care of the yard work and you stopped by to make sure were in order at his place if he was away for a match or pre season training.

"How about a cup of tea?" You offered and he smiled, "you sure? I don't want to be a bother."

"Not a bother at all, make yourself at home. It's the least I could do to thank you for your help."

"It wasn't much help, I only carried the bags to the kitchen." He chuckles, sitting on a stool by the counter.

You shrugged, "still. It would have taken me like, 12 trips to get all of them, you used your big footballer muscles and did it in one."

Virgil smiles, watching as you filled the kettle with water and took two mugs out of the cupboard across from him; one with little flowers along the rim of it and the other a red mug Liverpool logo on the front.

"Surprised you have that," he says, you drop the teabags into the mug. "What? This?" You nodded to the red mug. "It'd just be wrong not to support the local team." You two laughed, you referred to Liverpool as if it was a rec league team.

You two are there in silence, you leaned on the counter as you stood across from the footballer. The man looked around while you looked at him, counting to yourself quietly. Once Virgil hears your whispers, he looks over at you with furrowed brows.

"What are you counting?"

"Your wrinkles," you say nonchalantly, pointing to his forehead as you count each one. Virgil rolls his eyes playfully, swatting your hand away. "You okay?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"You sure? I mean, you usually can't see the wrinkles on that big forehead on yours. So unless you've aged drastically since I've last seen you, I'd say you're worried about something."

"Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. L/n?"

"Yup," you nodded, smiling at him as you crossed your arms over your chest. "100%, now tell me, what's on your mind?"

"Well," he sighs as he starts. "I was invited to a wedding today."

"And? Is it for an ex or some cousin you hate?"

"No, nothing like that. It's actually Andy, you know, Robbo?"

You nodded, shutting the stove off when the kettle begans whistling. "He finally put a ring on Rachel? Good for them, tell them congratulations for me."

Virgil smiles, "I will."

"Wait, so if it's for Andy, what's the problem? I thought you two were good friends."

Virgil makes a face, wondering if he should really tell you what's bothering him. "We are, I uh.. I need a date for a wedding."

You laughed, "that's what's worrying you? C'mon Virgil, you're a footballer. You're handsome, you're young..ish- regardless, it shouldn't be too hard for you to get a date."

He rolls his eyes at your comment, "yeah well, easier said than done. Especially since I've - never mind."

"Oh no," you turn to face him after pouring the water into the mugs. "You're not going to leave me hanging like that! What, since you've..?

"Since I've been telling the guys I have a girlfriend. That's why Andy gave me a plus one, I really thought he wouldn't do that."

Your brows furrowed, you were beyond confused now. "Okay, you've officially lost me. You're nervous to ask her to be your date? Or - oh my god! Is she a married woman, Virgil?!"

"No!" He laughed, shaking his head at your outrageous suggestion. "I'd never date a married woman, in fact, I'm not dating anyone."

You were getting the milk from the fridge when what he said finally processed. You turn to face the man, "so wait, let me see if I got this right. You've been telling them you're seeing someone but you're not actually seeing anyone?" You say, looking for some clarification. Virgil nods, avoiding your gaze.

"Why would you lie to them?"

"I really didn't mean too! It wasn't a lie in the beginning. I was seeing this girl, she was cool but we didn't want the same things so it just sort of.. ended? They kept asking and I don't know why I didn't want to tell them the truth but I wasn't sure what to say so I played along and now, well, you know where I've ended up."

You sigh, unsure what to tell him. You didn't even think there was advice to help someone who's gotten themselves into such a position.

"That's a messed up thing you're in, dude." You added the milk to his mug, handing him the one with the flowers. Virgil nods, stirring the spoon in the mug.

"Do you have sugar?"

"Mhm hm," you turned, reaching up into the cupboard to get the sugar from the middle shelf.

Virgil watched, admiring you; not only on a surface level but deeper than that. He likes spending time with you, even if it was something as simple as a chat across the lawn. You were beautiful and kind, funny and smart, your humour was witty and you were charming. You could talk yourself out of a crime if need be - you were exactly who he was looking for.

Seems his lies have sent him in your direction; imagine if he hadn't helped you take your bags in today.

You turned to him with the sugar, you could feel him staring at you but he was sitting there, elbow on the counter with his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he smiled at you.

"What?"

"Will you be my date to the wedding?" He asks and you laugh, taking the top off the sugar jar.

"You're not serious."

"I am, what are you doing in 3 weeks?"

"Probably work, but I can't be your date, virgil."

He pouts, much like a child when they're told no. "Why not?"

"How would that work?"

"It's fine, I'll handle everything y/n. You just need to pack your bags and get the time off work. Hotels, flights, everything we need there, I'll take care of."

"Wait, the wedding isn't here?"

"Portugal," he says, doesn't miss the slight raise of your eyebrows.

"I've always said I'd go back to Portugal, even if it's just for a short time."

"See," Virgil says, "it's like my lying led us here, this can be a good thing for both of us. I'll have a girlfriend for the weekend and you get to visit Portugal again."

You can't help but laugh at his justification. "Please," he says, "I'm begging you now. I'll own you big time." His hands clasped together under his chin as he looked at you with big, brown, puppy eyes.

"Like season passes to your box at Anfield big time?" You asked, a raised eyebrow. Virgil laughs, nodding. "Exactly like that."

"You've got a deal then." You tell him, he smiles. "Perfect, I can't thank you enough."

"Mhm hm, now drink your tea before it gets cold."

--

The week of the wedding arrives faster than expected, you had been in prep mode all week; getting your hair and nails done, trying to pack whatever you think you'd need for a wedding.

A celebrity's wedding isn't different from a normal one, is it? Is that what a footballer is? A celebrity ? Can you call it a celebrity wedding- Your thought was interrupted by a knock on the door.

It's Virgil, a big smile on his face despite it being 8am. "Why are you so happy?" You asked upon opening the door.

"Oh, good morning to you too, sunshine. Are you ready to go?" He makes a face, chuckling. He starts carrying your luggage out of the house as you make one last walk through, assuming you had everything and things were in place for the few days you'd be away.

"Yup, all set." You notice he was putting your suitcase into his car. "You're driving?"

"Yeah, I figured it'd be faster than an Uber."

"We've got," you glanced at your phone, "4 hours before our flight."

"I know, it's fine." He waves you off, shutting the trunk before opening the passenger side door for you. You lock up and walk over the lawn to his driveway, getting into the car.

It was a short drive to the airport, the music played quietly and Virgil hummed as he drove. He glances over to see you typing away on your phone. "Who are you texting so early?"

"Playing the possessive boyfriend already, Virgil?" A raised eyebrow as you looked at the man. His cheeks flush red and he shakes his head. "I'm kidding," you rested a hand on his knee. He looks down and you move your hand. "I was just replying to some work stuff, I've never left them for so long."

"It's only 3 days, they'll be fine. Plus, don't they know you're on vacation?"

"Not really," you set the phone on your lap, "I told them I had some family stuff, couldn't exactly explain that Virgil Van Dijk was asking me- no, begging me, to be his fake wedding date."

"Technically," he points a finger at you, "it's a real wedding date, you're just my fake girlfriend."

"Technicalities, Virgil."

He laughs, pulling into the parking lot. The two of you head into the airport and after checking in, the woman sends the two of you down a hallway that seemed like a dead end.

You didn't travel often but you knew this seemed.. sketchy to say the least.

"Where are we going?" You asked Virgil, the man opens the door for you and leads you right onto the tarmac. There's a plane a few feet away and you turn to look at him, dot connecting in your head. "Private?" You asked him another question.

He nods, "figured I'd spoil my girlfriend," he jokes, smiling at you as you two walked over to the plane.

You sat across from Virgil, checking your phone for the millionth time since you've left home. "You know, they won't be able to reach you when we're in the air, I'm sure they'll be fine."

"I know," you switched it off and set it down before the plane took off.

The two of you were eating breakfast, a rather large spread for being in the air and considering the flight was barely 3 hours.

"So," you set the fork down on the plate, "get me the details, who's gonna be at the wedding?"

Virgil takes a sip of his coffee, "well, Andy and Rachel obviously."

"Obviously," you chuckled.

"Thiago, Jordan, Millie, Adam and their wives, Ox and his girlfriend, us and then Trent."

"What, Trent doesn't get a plus one?"

He shrugs, "I don't know, I don't think he's seeing anyone right now. Plus he's in the states, he said he's coming but we have to see."

You nod, the two of you chat a bit more. Virgil updates you on a few matches, how they think they're going to do, what it's like being captain. You tell him how the clinic is doing, how you're liking it so far compared to when you used to work at the hospital. Just small details that might come up in a conversation with his teammates.

Once you landed, Virgil collected your luggage and you were off to the hotel. It was a short walk to the venue from the hotel, the two of you put your stuff away and decided to go for a walk, grabbing a coffee before heading back to the hotel.

The rehearsal dinner was in a few hours, giving you two more than enough time to get ready. "We need to get our story straight," he says to you when you come in from the balcony.

"What story ?"

"Our outfits," he says with total seriousness, "what are you wearing tonight?"

You shook your head with a small smile on your face, taking the two dresses out of the wardrobe to show him; a light blue dress with a halter top, the small white flowers going from the waist to the bottom hem and the other was a burnt orange that was backless.

"I figured the blue was a bit more family friendly, classy enough without being too dressy," you hold it up to yourself to show him. He nods, "yeah, good. It's pretty."

You hung it back in the wardrobe before turning to him. "What are you going to wear?"

"We need to match." He was already searching through his suitcase for the shirt to match your dress. "Do we really need to?" You sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him.

He nods, pulling out the baby blue shirt. "This is close enough, no?"

"Yeah, but why does it look like you've had it rolled up in the bottom of a box for like.. 4 years?" Your brows furrowed as you looked at the state of it. Virgil shakes the shirt, trying to rid it of the permanent wrinkles. "Do you not have an iron, Virgil?"

"I do, but uh, I forgot to iron it."

You shook your head, getting up to search for the iron you knew you saw. You find it in the drawer in the wardrobe, handing it to him. Virgil spreads the shirt on the bed, plugging the iron in before fiddling with the settings. He looks between the iron, the shirt and you, a bit clueless before attempting to iron the shirt.

He works on the sleeve, making it worse than it was before, you watch as he helplessly works at the shirt. You figured maybe you were making him nervous in some weird way so you excused yourself to the bathroom to unpack your makeup and hair stuff.

When you came back, 7 minutes later, he was still working on the same sleeve. Your lips pressed together, arms folded over your chest as you watched.

"What?" He asked, glancing at you.

"You're terrible at that. Do you not know how to iron?"

He sighs, "it's been years since I've had to do it, I usually just get my stuff dry cleaned."

You smiled as you walked over, taking the iron from him and putting him out of his misery. "If I leave you to iron this, you might take the whole 3 hours to finish it. Why don't you go shower or whatever you need to do, I'll do it for you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, go. Before you ruin the shirt," you shook your head, switching the setting from wool to cotton. You wondered how he ended up on wool to begin with. "Thank you," he smiles, walking into the bathroom.

While he showers, you finish up on his shirt and hang it on a hanger in the wardrobe. You also looked for his pants, ironing the 3 pairs of dress pants he had brought as you didn't know which one he'd be wearing.

Virgil returns to the room post shower, white towel wrapped around him that sat right below his hips, and you had just shut the wardrobe after hanging up his pants. You turn to find him behind you, your eyes fixed on the man; the water dripping down his chest, down to his stomach and it stops at the towel wrapped around his waist.

"You're staring, y/n." He says, you can hear the smirk on his face before your eyes meet his face.

It's not like you've never seen him shirtless before, he used the pool in his yard quite often, not to mention the glimpse of him you catch in the media or what the Liverpool account posts.

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times before speaking. "I uh, I ironed your pants as well, I wasn't sure which ones you were gonna wear so I ironed all of them."

He smiles, "thanks."

You nod, excusing yourself to the bathroom to shower. You shut the door, back pressed to it for a moment before going about your routine. You weren't sure how long you were in there but you had showered, done your hair and you were mid way through your makeup when there was a knock on the door.

"Can I come in?" Virgil calls from the other side of the door. "I need to fix my hair." He says and you open the door for him, concealer all over your face, hair pinned up with the robe wrapped around you.

He smiles when he sees you; you look so.. well, beautiful but there was something else, a domesticity of sorts. The two of you getting ready in the same bathroom, there's some intimate in the way you were seeing each other right now. Moving in silence as you both did your own thing beside one another.

You break the silence, "how did we meet?"

"We're neighbours..?" His eyes meet yours in the mirror, confusion all over his face.

"I mean if they ask, your teammates. What did you tell them?"

"Oh," he says, wrapping the hair tie around his hair. "I told them we met through mutual friends, my friend, Kevin. His wife knows you and we were all at the same party and we hit it off from there."

You hum, finishing up on your makeup. You were searching for your lipstick, "and how long have we been together?" You find the one you were looking for.

"Almost a year. If my math is right, it should be like.. 10 months?"

The lipstick in your hand, you look at Virgil with a shocked look on your face. "You've been lying to them for almost a year? How the hell did you manage that?"

His lips pressed together then he shrugs, which makes you laugh. "Okay," you nod, "almost a year it is." You turn back to the mirror, applying your lipstick.

Virgil watches as you do it, your hands steady while you go over your lips, pressing them together to make the colour even. "What do we think?" You asked, turning to him when you notice he's watching.

"Beautiful," he smiles, "truly."

"So cheesy," you chuckled, walking out of the bathroom to change into your dress.

The two of you head down to the venue a few minutes later, all dressed and ready to meet his teammates at the rehearsal dinner.

Before you walked in, Virgil grabbed your hand which caught you off guard. Your fingers interlocked with his and it took you a moment to realize why he did that; the two of you were a couple, of course.

It was already full in there, most of their family had already arrived and a few friends were scattered through the venue. You see a few of his teammates but Virgil leads you to the front, tapping Andy on the shoulder.

"Virg!" Andy smiles, pulling Virgil into a hug. "You made it," he steps back and sees you next to the man, his grin only widening. "You must be the famous girlfriend we hear about all the time."

"That would be me," you smiled, "I'm y/n, it's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too, this is Rachel, bride to be." He introduces you to his fiancee. You smiled at her, the two of you exchanging niceties.

"It's nice of you to make it, Andy was saying how he was certain Virgil wouldn't be bringing you." Rachel says, her arm interlocked with Andy's.

"Well to be fair, Virg seemed a bit nervous to ask me to come but I wouldn't miss it for the world. I don't think I've said it but congratulations."

Virgil's heart skips a beat, it wasn't out of ordinary that someone called him Virg, but you've never had. You always called him Virgil, so to hear the nickname come out of your mouth, make him rather.. soft.

"It's my fault," Andy starts, "we did tell Virg to bring you around before but he always said you were busy with work. So I think it's fair of me to think you were fake."

You laughed, "I can assure you I'm alive and real, feel free to pinch me to confirm." Andy laughed at your comment, smiling at his teammate in approval of you. Virgil returns the smile.

"Anyways, make yourselves comfortable, we're going to start the rehearsal soon." Rachel tells the two of you, leading Andy off to greet someone else.

Virgil's hand rests on your lower back, the two of you sitting towards the middle of the chairs, watching as they went through the rehearsal. It was mostly family, his teammates were only there so they could all mingle and catch up as they had been on break for a few weeks at this point.

At some point after they were done the run through, Virgil suggested drinks and you followed him to the bar, his hand once again on your lower back.

"Virg!" You hear someone call for him, the two of you turning at the same time to see who was coming his way. Both Jordan and Millie were making their way over to the two of you.

"Hey," Virgil smiles at his teammates. "Guys, this is y/n, my girlfriend. This is Jordan and James."

You smiled at the men, "it's nice to meet you both."

"We thought you weren't coming," Millie says and Jordan follows up with a, "it's nice to meet you, we thought you weren't real."

"That seems to be the general consensus tonight," you laughed.

Ox makes his way over to the bar, seeing his teammate with a woman he's never seen before. "You must be Virgil's girlfriend, I'm Ox." He introduces himself.

"I'm y/n, nice to meet you."

"I can't believe you're actually here."

You turn to Virgil, making a face at him. "Why do all your teammates think I'm not real?"

"He wouldn't show us pictures," Millie says, shrugging. "I guess that's true," you nudged Virgil, "between Virg's practices and games, and then with my work, we barely get time to see each other and when we do, we're not on our phones."

Jordan makes a face, looking between you and Virgil and you instantly know what he's thinking. "No!" You laughed, shaking your head. "That's so not what I meant."

"What is it that you do, y/n?" Ox pipes up.

"I'm a doctor, an OB actually."

"Oh wow," Ox smiles at his teammate. "She's good, you've got good taste, big man. I see why she hasn't been around."

You smile, your phone buzzing in your hand. You excuse yourself, walking away to take the phone call. You can hear the boys talking behind you, you glance over your shoulder and smile at Virgil, the man's heart skipping a beat. Despite you not being his actual girlfriend, it did feel good to get the approval from his teammates.

Virgil hadn't even realized how long he had been chatting with his teammates, he went in search of you and found you just outside, chatting with Julia, the two of you talking about their kids.

"There you are," Virgil says, walking down the steps towards you. You smile at him, "I see you've met Julia." He gives the woman a quick hug before standing beside you.

"Yeah," you smiled at her, "I'm mad at you, you know."

"What for?" His brows furrowed, looking at you. He's wondering what he could have possibly done.

"You've been hiding me from her, Julia and I are best friends now."

The blonde smiles at you, "yes we are. We've already made plans to get lunch when we get back to Liverpool. I can't believe you've never brought her around before, Virgil." She tells him, her voice similar to the one she uses when she scolded her children, and or Thiago, when they misbehave.

"Oh well, I'm sure y/n's told you about her hectic schedule. Blame her, not me. I do hope you two have fun at this lunch." He laughs, his arm over your shoulder.

The rest of the night was quiet, everyone caught up with each other with their summer plans and you met the rest of the players and their partners over the course of the night. Eventually you two decide to call it a night, heading back to the hotel.

You were by the door, taking your heels off when you saw Virgil stop in the middle of the room, in front of the bed.

"What's wrong?" You asked him, walking over. You seem to realize what he's thinking; there's only one bed.

Not like they've taken a bed out of the room while you were gone but you two had been too tired and too busy getting ready for the dinner that neither of you seemed to register that there was in fact, only one bed in the room.

It didn't occur to Virgil when booking the room that you'd need a separate bed, you weren't really a couple after all.

"I'll take the couch," you tell him, not wanting him to feel bad for his slight mess up.

He shook his head, turning to you. "No, it's fine. I'll take the couch, you take the bed."

You glance at the couch next to the window, it was spacious - that's if you were under 5 foot. There's no way he'd sleep comfortably if he did manage to fit on it.

"You know what, we're both adults. We'll sleep together." You tell him, his eyes widening at your words. "Not what I meant," you smack his arm. "We can both fit on the bed comfortably, no need for either of us to suffer on the couch."

"You're sure?" He asks and you nod, "of course, but hands to yourself mister." You pointed a finger to him, making him laugh.

Virgil raises his hands, "I swear I'll be on my best behaviour," he says, watching you walk into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

--

The sun peeks through the curtains, waking you from your sleep. You shut your eyes, trying to get a few more minutes but you can hear the shower running and then shuts off followed by the bathroom door opening. The smell of Virgil's body wash fills the room and you sit up, rubbing your eyes.

"Mornin' sunshine," he smiles at you, sitting on the edge of the bed. You yawn, stretching as you try to wake yourself up. "What time is it?"

"10:27," he looks at the clock, "how about some breakfast?"

"Yes please," you get out of bed, fixing the comforter as you walk to the bathroom. "Lots of coffee please," you smiled at him, shutting the door.

Virgil orders room service while you shower, you return to the room just as it arrives. The two of you sit on the couch, eating breakfast in comfortable silence. Virgil grabs his phone, "Andy sent over some pictures from last night," he shows you a few photos that the groom to be had sent.

"Those are cute, send them to me."

Your phone buzzes on the bed and you look over at the clock, "shit, I've got to do my hair." You set the cup down on the table and walk towards the bathroom. "Do you need the bathroom?"

"No, I'm good." he tells you, "do your thing."

You walk in and walk back out, leaning on the door frame. "What are you wearing today?"

He smiles, "don't worry, I ironed it and put it in the closet."

"Properly?" You asked, walking over to confirm.

"Yes," he shook his head, watching as you took the shirt out to confirm that he did in fact iron it properly. "Wow, good job. Big upgrade from yesterday."

"Watched a YouTube video," he says, making you laugh.

You leave Virgil in the room, off to shower and then to start on your makeup and hair as you weren't 100% sure what look you wanted to do. Virgil left you alone, letting you get ready in peace. He could hear the music playing, your humming accompanying the melody.

He thought to himself that it was something he could get used to, that his house would feel so quiet and empty without you humming.

The line between real and fake seemed to be getting blurred more and more as the time went by.

"Virg?" You called for the man, he got up from his spot on the couch. He had been ready for some time, you still had an hour before you needed to leave. "Yeah?"

"Can you zip me up?"

You stepped out of the bathroom, hair pulled over your shoulder with your dress on. He smiles, nodding as he walks over to you; the sage green dress hugged your body in the right places, it was as if the dress was made for you and only you.

Virgil's hand rests on your waist, the other holds the zipper and gives it a soft tug, pulling it up to the top. The hand holding the zipper now turns into fingers trailing down the curve of your spine, coming to rest on the other side of your hip. "There you go."

Turning around to face him, Virgil's hands remained on your hips. "Thank you," you look up. He nods, "you look.. wow."

You can't help but laugh, straightening his shirt. "You look pretty wow yourself."

Virgil lets go of you when you take a step back, walking to the vanity to put your jewelry on. It takes the two of you half an hour to gather the last minute things you needed, assuring you were ready before heading out for the ceremony.

It's a short walk to the venue, everyone was being ushered into the church to take their seats while the bridal party was lining up to walk in when you two arrived.

The weather was beautiful, the sun was out and the church was full with their families and friends; they couldn't ask for a better start to their wedding day.

The ceremony was short and sweet, Andy and Rachel exchanging vows and promises, everyone was beyond happy for them.

Most of the guests were now outside, the doors to the church open as everyone was heading out.

You stood next to Virgil by the stairs, letting him block the sun from your face as you checked your phone. You hear the footsteps before you hear the voice. "You're actually here, you're real?" The Scouse accent thick, Trent.

"I am real," you looked up, smiling at the man who looks like he's seen better days. "You must be Trent."

"Yeah, it's nice to meet you. Excuse me." He says, covering a yawn with his hand.

Before you two could speak, Andy was calling the two players over for a group photo. You stop Virgil, standing on your tiptoes to reach his collar, his hand on your hip you keep you steady as you fix it before sending him on his way; a small act of intimacy that you'd only find between a couple.

You had been checking your emails, something you knew Virgil would complain about if he caught you doing it yet again. You were so caught up that you hadn't noticed him calling your name. When you do, you look up, making a hand motion as to ask him what he wants. He waved you over, pointing to the spot in front of him. Your brows furrowed, still unsure what he wanted as the dots didn't seem to connect. Virgil realized as much, pointing towards the photographer and then back to the spot in front of him.

Only then did it click what he meant.

You head over, joining the other girlfriends and wives in the photo. Andy and Rachel were front and centre, the rest of you around them.

"Alright everyone, squeeze in a bit more please!" The photographer shouts, showing you all with his hands to move closer to each other.

Virgil moves you from beside him to in front of him, his arm over your shoulder and your hand instinctively reaches up, fingers interlocking with his.

The photographer gives everyone a moment to situate themselves, "perfect, alright everyone look here! Smile!"

A few moments later, you were all allowed to move. Andy and Rachel were off to take some more photos, there was only about 30 minutes before the reception which wasn't too far from the church.

Everyone makes their way over, waiting for the official entrance from Andy and Rachel as Mr and Mrs Robertson for the first time.

You were sat next to Virgil, Jordan and his wife, Rebecca, to the right of Virgil and Thiago and Julia to your left.

Andy and Rachel were having their first dance, the whole venue was quiet as you all watched the two of them, wrapped up in love and giggling as they whispered to each other mid dance.

You wiped the outer corner of your eye, blinking a few times in an attempt to save your makeup. Virgil turns slightly when he hears a small sniffle. He sees your watery eyes, smiling to himself and leans in to whisper to you; "are you crying?"

"Shut up," you whispered back, turning him back around with a small nudge. "Weddings make me emotional."

The evening was quiet, dinner consisted of everyone chatting, Andy and Rachel made the rounds to say hello to everyone who they didn't get a chance to talk to at the church. Eventually they reopened the bar and the dance floor, everyone started making their way around, mingling, drinking and dancing.

You were replying to a message when Virgil came over, two shot glasses in hand. He passes one to you, "to Andy and Rachel," he says, tapping his glass to you. The two of you down the shots, tequila, based on the after taste.

"Okay, let's go dance!"

"I don't dance, Virg."

"It's a wedding, you have to dance!" He takes your phone from you, putting it into his pocket and grabbing your hand. "Virg," you groaned, the man ignores your pleas and takes you to the dance floor, spinning you around.

Before you know it, the two of you are giggling and dancing, his arms over your shoulders as he hugs you from behind, swaying to the music.

"I'm gonna get a drink," you tell him and the man lets you go while nodding before shimmying his way over to Trent, who looks like he was about to fall asleep in his chair. You laughed, leaving Virgil to bother Trent as you walked to the bar.

You had barely made it to the bar when someone shouted for you. "Y/n!" You see Thiago off to the side, "can you take a picture for us?"

"Sure," you take the phone from him, he and Julia standing together, arms wrapped around each other as they smiled, then Thiago kissed her.

Sometimes you wonder what it'd be like if you had a stable and loving relationship like theirs.

"I thought you got lost!" Virgil says, walking towards you. You shook your head, handing the phone back over to Thiago. The Spaniard then turns, passing the phone to Virgil. "Okay now you come in, let him take the picture."

"Are you sure?" You asked, Thiago was already pulling you into the photo.

He nods, you and Julia on either side of him, the 3 of you smiling as Virgil takes the photo, the camera flashing. Thiago steps out, letting you and Julia have some together, his wife telling him something about they have enough pictures of them together. You laughed, the two of you smiling for the camera.

"Do you want one together?" Thiago looks at Virgil, who then looks at you and you shrug, waving him over. Virgil hands his phone to Thiago while Julia replaces him by her husband's side.

Virgil's arm over your shoulder, your arm around his waist, the two of you smiling while Virgil pulls you into his side. "Alright Virg, give your lady a kiss." Thiago says, smiling.

Your 'boyfriend's' cheeks are red, a flush he can blame on the Portuguese heat or the liquor but you know the real reason. "Come on man, what are you waiting for?!" Thiago says, laughing at Virgil's shyness.

"Leave them alone," Julia tells her husband, rolling her eyes at his childishness.

"It's fine," you whisper to Virgil, turning to him a bit. He looks at you, whispering back, "you sure?" You stood close, the air between you two charged with a mixture of tension and anticipation.

"Mhm hm," your hand rests on his chest while he leans down, you tip toe a bit, meeting him half way when he kisses you.

But as your hand found its way to Virgil's cheek and your lips met against each other's, something shifted. What was meant to be a quick moment blossomed into something real, something raw. When you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, a shared realization dawned upon them.

The kiss may have been staged, but the feelings it stirred within were undeniably genuine.

As you glanced at each other, a silent understanding passed between you and Virgil. This fake relationship may have begun as a charade, but perhaps, just perhaps, it held the promise of something more.

Thiago grinned, "perfect. The picture of love," he says, handing the phone back to Virgil. You smiled, your own cheeks now flushed and red. You reached over, your thumb brushed over his lips to wipe away the lipstick left behind. Virgil's arm wraps around your shoulder, the two of you chatting as you join Thiago and Julia for a round of shots.

The night wrapped up just after midnight, everyone waiting at the front to wish Andy and Rachel well, seeing them off as they left before everyone else headed to wherever home was after that.

Virgil's jacket over your shoulders while you walked back to the hotel. Despite the humidity earlier in the day, there was now a slight chill in the air.

"Did you have a good time?" He asks, opening the door for you. "I did," you walk in, waiting for the elevator to your room. "Thank you for bringing me."

"Thank you for coming, you really saved my ass."

It hits you in the moment that this was in fact, fake. You were doing him a favour, you weren't a couple, you never will be. Just a good friend helping him out in a tough situation.

When you returned to the room, Virgil announced that he's gonna go take a shower while you got ready for bed. The two of you moved in silence, you sat at the vanity taking your makeup off while the sound of the water running filled the room. You had to remind yourself that this wasn't real yet again.

All the feelings felt over the weekend were just for show. Certainly Virgil didn't feel the same way you did.

The steam filled the bathroom, Virgil lets the water run as he stands there. The kiss was real, the moments you shared were real, his feelings for you were real.

How the hell was he used to bring it up without it being awkward?

The shower shut off just as you were about to get into bed. Your phone bus is on the nightstand, and you reach over to grab it. There's a notification from Instagram.

juliavigas tagged you in a post. - 2mins ago.

You opened it, checking to see what she posted. There's a few photos from the wedding. Some of her and Thiago, the venue, one of you and her, as well as the one with you, her and Thiago. She also included the one in front of the church, Virgil's arm wrapped around you as you all smiled.

Virgil finds his way to the bed, sitting next to you. "What's so interesting?"

"Julia posted some pictures," you show your phone, letting him scroll through the pictures. "I guess everyone will think we're together now." He looks at the one in front of the church before handing the phone back to you.

"Wasn't that the whole point?" You ask, setting your phone on the nightstand.

"I guess so," he shrugs, the two of you sitting there in silence, the tv playing quietly in the background. There's a million thoughts going through his head at this very moment.

As he looked over at you, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Virgil couldn't help but admire your beauty, the way your eyes sparkled with a warmth that mirrored a flickering flame. It was in shared moments like these that he felt a pull, a force pulling him closer, urging him to take that leap of faith. But as the silence went on, Virgil felt the weight of his hesitation, suffocating him with its embrace.

How could he confess his feelings when the fear of rejection spun around in his mind, an unwelcome shadow over his every thought?

He glances at you once more, your eyes meeting in a brief exchange, Virgil felt a sense of longing wash over him, a wave of emotion threatening to consume him whole.

Still, the words remained unspoken, trapped behind the barricade of his uncertainty.

He had to take the leap of faith, he wouldn't know if he didn't try.

"What are we?" He blurts out, breaking the silence.

You turn, looking at him with a confused expression. "What are.. what do you mean?"

"Well.. we.. we kissed, so like, are we.. what are we?"

"We're not in high school, Virg. A kiss is a kiss, no?"

His smile fades, your heart breaking the moment you see that. He nods, turning his attention back to the tv. "Yeah, no. Of course."

"I'm kidding," your hand rests over his on the bed, "if you're asking me if I like.. if I like you, then I'll only answer if you put it into a note, like high school." You raised your eyebrows, making him chuckle.

"Yeah, okay." He nods. The topic was dropped, the tension lifting slightly.

--

The next morning, you and Virgil leave bright and early, heading to the airport for your flight back to England. The plane had barely taken off and you were still not fully awake, nursing your coffee as Virgil's fingers drummed on his knee.

"Dude," you groaned, "I have a headache, it sounds like you're playing a gong right now."

He stops tapping on his leg, brows furrowed and lips twisted in a weird expression. "Can you play a gong? Is that what it is?"

"I don't know, you know what I mean." You tell him, leaning your head back, eyes shut. You barely got all but 3 minutes of silence before Virgil speaks up again. "Do you have a pen?"

You open your eyes, reaching over to dig through your purse next to you before fishing out a pen and handing it to him. You watch him as he uncaps it, scribbling something down on the napkin in front of him, sliding it over the table to you with the pen.

'Do you like me? Check yes or no.' The two little boxes labeled yes and no under his question.

You smile, shaking your head at his childishness and the fact that he took what you said seriously. You picked up the pen, checking a box and sliding it over to him.

The yes was checked, Virgil glances at you with a cheeky smile before picking up the pen, flipping over the napkin and writing something else before sliding it back to you.

'Will you be my girlfriend?' the same yes and no boxes drawn under the question.

Your answer was yes but you wouldn't give into him so quickly. You picked up the pen, chin in the palm of your head thinking as if it was the hardest question of your life. You can see Virgil shifting nervously in his seat, and it's as if you can hear him overthinking his decision to ask you.

To put him out of his misery, you check a box and slide it back over to him.

There's a sigh of relief when he sees you've checked yes. You toss the pen at him playfully, shaking your head. "You're so cheesy."

"You said to ask it in a note!" He says, folding the napkin and putting it into his pocket.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it!" You laughed, the man shook his head and unbuckled, leaving over the table. His hands cupping your face, smiling at you before he kisses you.

Your hand interlocked with his, stretched over the table when he sat back down. "How about when we get back, I take you on an actual date?"

Your thumb brushes over his hand. "Not sick of me yet?"

"Could never get sick of you, y/n."

--

No questions. No small talk. Just acknowledgment of what they both knew this was.

He set the phone on the nightstand and ran his hands through his hair, the familiar weight of anticipation and guilt settling in his chest. It had been a long day—meetings with coaches, film review, the kind of grueling preparation that usually left him satisfied. But tonight, sitting alone in the house as evening turned to dark, the accomplishment had felt hollow. The silence had gotten to him first, then the empty kitchen where he'd eaten takeout standing at the counter instead of sitting at the table they'd picked out together.

That's when he'd reached for his phone.

This had become their routine over the past four months—late-night texts that led to her showing up at the house they used to share, the house that was supposed to be theirs but now felt too big and too quiet with just him in it. It started three weeks after the breakup, when she'd texted him about picking up some clothes she'd forgotten. One thing led to another, and suddenly they had this arrangement that neither of them had ever explicitly discussed the rules for.

The living room still had her touch everywhere. The throw pillows she'd insisted on were arranged just so on the couch. The coffee table books about art and photography that she'd collected were still fanned out the way she liked them. He'd told himself he kept them because moving them felt like too much effort, but the truth was simpler and more pathetic: they made the house feel less empty.

The kitchen was worse. She'd organized every cabinet, labeled the spice rack, and insisted on keeping fresh flowers on the counter even though he'd argued it was a waste of money. The flowers were long gone now, but her coffee mug still sat in the cabinet, untouched because he couldn't bring himself to use it. Sometimes he'd catch himself reaching for two plates instead of one before remembering.

They'd bought this place together eight months before everything fell apart. Spent weekends walking through furniture stores, arguing about thread counts and whether they needed a dining room table that seated eight people. She'd won most of those arguments, and now Joe was grateful for it. At least the house had personality, even if it wasn't entirely his.

The worst part was how right she'd been about everything. The couch was comfortable for watching film. The kitchen layout made sense when he was cooking for the team gatherings she'd insisted they host. Even the paint colors she'd chosen—warm grays and soft blues that he'd thought were too feminine—somehow made the house feel like a home instead of just a place to sleep.

Joe stood and walked to the window, looking out at the circular driveway where her car would appear soon. The security lights cast long shadows across the property, and he found himself wondering what she told herself on the drive over. Did she hesitate before texting back? Would she sit in her car for a few minutes before walking to the door, the way she used to near the end, when coming home felt more like walking into a minefield than a sanctuary?

He remembered the last few weeks before the breakup, how every conversation felt like walking through a minefield. His schedule was getting more demanding as the season approached. Her growing frustration with always coming second to football. The way they'd started sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, even when they were technically touching.

The fight that ended it had been about something stupid—him missing dinner with her parents because of a last-minute team meeting. But really, it had been about everything else. About how she felt like she was building a life around someone who wasn't fully present for it. About how he felt like he was failing at everything that mattered off the field.

"I can't do this anymore," she'd said, standing in this same bedroom, her voice quiet but certain. "I can't keep pretending that this is working when we both know it isn't."

He'd wanted to fight for her, to promise he'd do better, but the truth was he didn't know how. Football was everything he'd worked for his entire life, and the demands weren't going to get smaller. She deserved someone who could give her more than the leftover pieces of himself.

So they'd had the breakup conversation like adults. Divided up their things, figured out who would take the house. She'd moved out over a weekend while he was at training camp, leaving behind only the furniture they'd bought together and a note thanking him for everything.

For three weeks, Joe had convinced himself he was fine. The house was quieter, sure, but he could focus better. No more scheduling his life around someone else's needs. No more guilt about missing dinners or working late.

Then she'd texted about the clothes.

She'd shown up on a Tuesday evening, professional and polite, gathering the handful of items she'd forgotten. But when she was done, instead of leaving, she lingered by the door. They'd started talking for the first time since the breakup. And when talking turned into touching, and touching turned into them tangled together on the couch they'd picked out, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"This doesn't change anything," she'd said afterward, already reaching for her clothes.

"I know," he'd replied, even though some part of him had hoped it might.

That was four months ago. Since then, they'd developed this careful dance of late-night texts, brief encounters, no talk of feelings or the future. She seemed to have this whole thing figured out in a way that he didn't. Clean boundaries. No complications. Just two people who were good together in bed and smart enough not to confuse that with anything else.

Except he was starting to confuse it with something else.

He started noticing little things. The way she still kicked her shoes off by the door in the exact same spot, muscle memory from when this was her home, too. How she'd absently reach for the lamp on the bedside table that she'd picked out and placed there. The way she still moved through his kitchen like she knew where everything was, because she did—she'd organized those cabinets herself.

These weren't the observations of someone who was just hooking up with his ex. These were the observations of someone who missed her in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

Joe heard the soft hum of an engine in the driveway and felt his pulse pick up. Fifteen minutes. She'd made good time from wherever she was. He stepped back from the window, not wanting to look too eager.

The front door opened with her key; he'd never asked for it back, and she'd never offered, and he heard her familiar footsteps on the hardwood. She still moved through this house as if she belonged there, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe that was why he kept texting her.

"Upstairs," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her footsteps paused for just a moment, and he wondered what had caught her attention. Maybe she was checking her phone, or maybe she'd noticed something different about the house. It was a brief pause, the kind that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, but he found himself cataloging it anyway.

Then her feet were on the stairs, and Joe felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with wanting something he'd already lost.

* * *

She appeared in the doorway, and Joe's breath caught. Still beautiful. Still looking at him like she was deciding something.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."

The silence stretched between them, not awkward exactly, but loaded with the weight of everything they weren't saying. She was wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, nothing special, but Joe found himself looking at her like he was trying to memorize something.

She pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward him, her eyes doing that thing they always did, taking inventory. When her gaze lingered on his shoulders, then dropped to his chest, he saw the moment she registered the difference.

"You've been spending more time in the gym," she said, not quite a question.

Joe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Offseason training's been more intense."

She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume, the same one she'd always worn. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the muscle there, and he felt his breath catch.

"I can tell," she murmured, and there was something in her voice that made his pulse spike.

He caught her hand in his, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You like it?"

Instead of answering, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Soft at first, testing, then deeper when he responded. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made that quiet sound in the back of her throat that he remembered too well.

They broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads touching.

They moved toward the bed without breaking the kiss, her fingers tracing the new muscle definition she'd noticed.

"Jesus, Joe," she breathed, her hands tracing the new definition in his shoulders, his arms.

He wanted to say something, but she was kissing him again, and then they were falling back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and familiar desire. Her jeans hit the floor, followed by his pants, and then there was just skin against skin and the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

Joe took his time, the way he always did with her. His mouth on her neck, her collarbone, mapping territory he knew by heart but somehow felt different now under his hands. She was responsive, arching into his touch, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back in a way that made him groan.

When she rolled him over and straddled him, her hair falling around her face, he found himself staring. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"What?" she asked, noticing him staring.

"Nothing," he said, his hands settling on her hips. "Just... you."

Something flickered across her face, too quick for him to catch, before she leaned down to kiss him again. And then they were moving together, finding that rhythm they'd never lost, the connection that had always been easy between them, even when everything else was complicated.

Afterward, they lay without touching, still breathing hard. The silence felt thick, full of things Joe didn't want to think about too hard.

She was the first to move, sitting up and reaching for her clothes, which were scattered across the floor. Joe watched her, noting the careful way she avoided his eyes, the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this dance before.

"You don't have to rush off," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

She paused, bra halfway on. "Don't I?"

There was a challenge in her voice, and Joe felt something shift in his chest. This was the part where one of them would usually make an excuse, pretending it was simple and meaningless. But tonight felt different. Tonight, the silence felt like it was asking questions he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.

* * *

She was already reaching for her sweater when Joe found himself speaking.

"I miss knowing how your day went."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her hands stilled on the fabric, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing still evening out.

She turned to look at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. "What?"

Joe sat up against the headboard, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked. "I said I miss knowing how your day went."

She pulled the sweater over her head, the motion sharp and deliberate. "Why do you care?"

The question stung. He watched her stand and reach for her jeans—the familiar routine of her getting dressed to leave—and felt something crack open in his chest.

"I'm serious." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by how hard this was to say. "I miss knowing if you had a good day at work, or if that thing with your sister worked out, or whether you're sleeping okay."

"You can't do this," she said, shaking her head as she buttoned her jeans. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't what this is." She gestured between them, her voice taking on an edge he recognized, the one she got when she was protecting herself. "This is physical. It's simple. It works because we don't do... this."

Joe felt something desperate rise in his chest. "But what if I want to know? What if I want this to be more than just—"

"Then ask me sometime," she cut him off, reaching for her shoes. "Out of this bedroom."

The words landed like a challenge, and Joe felt his mouth open to respond, but she was already moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. "Home, Joe. I'm going home."

"This used to be your home, too."

The silence that followed was deafening. When she finally turned to look at him, there was something in her expression that made his chest tighten.

"Used to be," she said softly. "See you around, Joe."

And then she was gone, and he was back to being alone in a bed that felt empty without her, the sound of her leaving echoing through the house.

Joe stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his head. The way she'd looked at him when he said he missed knowing about her day. The careful distance she'd put between them with her words. The challenge in her voice: Then ask me sometime out of this bedroom.

The next morning, Joe found himself staring at a blank text message for twenty minutes, typing and deleting words until his thumbs were tired. Finally, he settled on something simple:

How's your day going? Can we meet up soon, not to hook up, but to hang out? It can be in public

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Her response came an hour later, and despite everything, Joe found himself smiling as he read it:

Give me a week of consistent communication that's not you trying to hook up with me, and I'll consider it.

Joe read the message three times, something warm and terrifying unfurling in his chest. A week. She was giving him a week to prove he wanted more than just her body in his bed.

“You’re interrupting,” Marlowe returns. But not that she minds it. Though she thinks she should. She really should mind it.  “Come in, please.” 

Joe’s laughter is low and deep. “You can kick me off your porch. It’s fine. I’d understand.”

But Marlowe doesn’t want to. She does not want Joe to take a singular step backwards. “Come in.” An invitation, Marlowe knows, to be burned like she has welcome tattooed across her forehead in place of common sense. 

Joe nods, easing himself over the threshold and into the foyer. But he doesn’t go further, just peers up to the front steps, down the small hallway that leads first to the formal dining room before it opens up deeper into the living room. Marlowe knows it’s reckless, knows she’s dancing on embers, that the fire will come for her once it catches. Marlowe reaches for the pharmacy bag. Her pinky just brushes over the back of his hand, fingers grazing over knuckles and he pulls back. 

“Here, I can—” she starts. 

“I know you can,” Joe murmurs. A warning in the depths of his low voice, gentle at comes. He works his fingers over her knuckles, as if to soothe an injury or an ache. It sends a shiver down her spine. “But I’ve got it. Just lead the way.”

Marlowe doesn’t argue, just leads Joe deeper into the house after a soft request that he shed his shoes, which are definitely more like slippers now that she takes them in. Marlowe points out where the bathrooms are downstairs before she plants them in the kitchen. The living room opens up right across from them. Moana’s credits are rolling now from the flatscreen bolted to the wall. The house is still around them. Joe’s careful as he moves, socked feet shifting with his weight. 

He’s actually fucking here. A looped thought, plays like an echo in Marlowe’s head. Even as she stares at him, taking in the red tint to his ears, like seeing him for the first time. It’s clear though as her gaze drags over his face, those blue eyes dancing around her, towards the living room then back to her again that he’s…uncertain—cautious about something. 

“You caught us while she’s sleeping. And Korey’s usually a heavy sleeper. You’re okay,” Marlowe offers with a hope it eases the hesitation in Joe’s face. 

The basket settles against the kitchen island—a deep gray granite with traces of white and tan in it that her mother insisted on getting as the stories tell it. “I wasn’t sure what she’d need,” Joe starts, glancing again towards the living room. 

Korey remains quiet from the couch from what Marlowe can, or rather can’t, hear. Undoubtedly, Korey probably has her face pressed into Marlowe’s pillow, mouth parted slightly and drooling. A sight Marlowe woke up too, if waking can be synonymous with starting one’s day but not quite sleeping the night before. 

Marlowe breaks the silence. “But it seems like you got everything.” There are more bags than Marlowe realized hooked around Joe’s wrist now that he’s spreading them out. 

“I had my assistant talk to a pharmacist while I was at practice. But I picked everything out myself. I wasn’t sure if she’s allergic to anything. I’m hoping not. I stayed away from anything with nuts just to be careful. I read it’s a common allergy.” 

Pedialyte, children’s Tylenol, popsicles, small packets of crackers and cheese, fruit snacks are pulled out from the bags and placed into the freezer as applicable. But even in the middle of Marlowe’s work, she pauses, catches the quiet confession. I read it’s a common allergy. A singular sentence—such simple words really. But it’s what they mean, that Joe went out of his way to make sure everything he got, every single item, would have purpose. That Joe stood in those narrow aisle and read every single word on the packaging. 

“You Googled that?” Marlowe asks. Her heart is untamable in chest, beating so fast she’s almost certain it’s audible. 

His nod is immediate with little hesitation before the shyness pushes at the corners of his mouth. “I feared I nearly killed you with the chocolate dessert on your birthday and I wasn’t looking to do it again. So yes, I Googled common allergies in kids.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things. When I want to, I will no matter what. So you don’t have to keep saying that.”

Not that Marlowe needed the reminder—Joe very pointedly would do what he wanted within reason it appeared. The fact still remains, none of this is required. He has no obligation. Yet, he’d still done it. Yet, her heart is still racing in her chest. Because she can see the wicker basket from the corner of her eye. Knows that whatever is inside of it is for her. This should only be about Korey. Not about Marlowe too. But Joe doesn’t seem to care too much at all about just doing something for Korey. 

“But I appreciate it,” Marlowe continues on where she’d been interrupted, electing to ignore the teasing roll of Joe’s eyes. 

“Perhaps I should’ve waited,” Joe laughs, hand coming up to the back of his neck. 

“Sometimes a little bit of patience won’t kill you. Are you thirsty? We have water, apple and orange juice, sodas too.”

“I’m okay, thank you though. H-how long do you think Korey will sleep for?”

Marlowe looks back to the living room. The TV’s back to the main screen of Disney+, waiting for the press, the click of the remote to load up something new. Marlowe eases herself from the kitchen into the living room. Korey lays on her back instead, thumb resting at her cheek. Korey’s mouth is opened and a rough snore escapes her chest. “We’re at the mercy of the dice. Could be 10 minutes, could be an hour,” Marlowe answers. 

“Have you eaten?”

It’s just after 4. Almost 5. Too early for Marlowe to eat dinner properly. It is close to dinner for Korey though, right now, Marlowe’s not attempting to disturb the solid sleep Korey is getting either. Details she doesn’t need to bore Joe with so she turns her attention away from the clock on the stove back to him. “Had lunch around 1 after I got her to eat.”

“Do you feel comfortable sitting outside? I know this isn’t not the same thing we had planned for tomorrow, but I brought you some food too.” He slides the basket closer to the edge, not quite taking the handles of it, just collects them in the gap between his thumb and other four fingers. 

The back deck isn’t too far off from the living room. If Marlowe kept the screen door closed but the sliding door open, she wouldn’t be too terribly far. Only a few short feet in the grand scheme of things. “We can do that. Let me just grab one of the old baby monitors though. She’s clingy when she’s sick. And when she starts to wake I don’t want her to panic if I’m not there.”

“Of course, yeah. Or we can stay inside too. Either way works.”

“Outside is okay. Give me a second.”

He gives another nod and Marlowe eases down the hallway. The hall closest should still have the monitors. Her mother had specifically not wanted to get rid of them just yet, not until Korey was a little bit older. Marlowe grabs them from the third shelf, cracking open the backs. No batteries. But one trip to the kitchen junk drawers produces the kind that Marlow needs and she sets one monitor on top of her closed laptop. Most of what was left for her were emails—ones she could get to tomorrow or even later tonight too. 

She can’t believe Joe actually showed up. He showed up. And Marlowe let him in. She tries not to take it as a sign. It can’t become an omen. It shouldn’t. 

“Follow me,” Marlowe directs.

It’s reckless. So totally entirely reckless. But he’s right there. 

Marlowe takes just a quick second to brush her hand over Korey’s forehead. Not as warm as it was in the middle of the night. But the rattle in Korey’s chest lets Marlowe know that it still might be a couple more days before whatever ails Korey passes fully. 

“That’s the kind of sleep I need,” Joe teases as he follows behind Marlowe, “where you have literally no worries.”

They pass through the edge of the living room, down towards the backdoors and Marlowe pauses just long enough at the wooden chest to grab a blanket. Though there’s a table and chairs, just down from the deck is the grass and no picnic’s complete with the checkerboard blanket. 

“The kind of sleep we all need,” Marlowe agrees and eases the sliding doors open. 

Joe steps through and she follows swiftly, getting the screen shut to keep as many insects as possible out. And Marlowe tries not to think about how much she is dancing on the charcoals, waiting for the match to light and fall as she clips the other monitor to her hip and works side by side with Joe to get the blanket fully spread out. 

“She looks a lot like you,” Joe confesses, placing the basket onto one of the corners of the blanket. “Korey, I mean.”

It’s all too easy to hear what’s under the surface—how much this means that Marlowe and Malia look alike, how the echo Marlowe hears is probably because of how much her face rings true to Malia. Marlowe waits until both of them are seated before she takes in Joe again. He’s already pulling out the plastic baggies and tupperware. Cans and utensils spill out too. The words are catching in her throat, how often Malia and Marlowe were confused with each other. 

Instead she reaches for her phone, having grabbed it on the way outside. And she swipes in the photo app for a long minute. Malia is seated at the table, a cake situated in front of her—her eyes squinted in the frozen frame, her laughter paused, captured in a singular moment of time. Marlowe’s right behind her, arms wrapped around Malia’s shoulders. Marlowe and her family were on the tail end of Happy Birthday and Malia said she couldn’t make her wish without Marlowe, so Marlowe slid herself around Malia’s shoulder. Remi snapped the picture, froze them in time, before Korey could even be a thought. Both Malia and Marlow still alive at 26 and 28. 

Marlowe holds out her phone and Joe looks up, eyes tracking the movement and he can only stare—brows lifting in shock. “Malia I take it,” He offers after a few seconds of taking in the photograph. 

“Yeah,” Marlowe returns. “It is.”

“What was it like having a twin?”

Was is such an awful word. Flattens all the years into three letters, takes the thirty two years Malia had and thins them all to dust. “She was older actually, by two years.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. You two just, wow. Sorry. It’s the nose and eyes.”

“No need to apologize, Joe. But yes, Korey looks a lot like Malia.” Because Marlowe looks a lot like Malia.

Joe’s eyes dance, between the now dark screen and Marlowe’s face. For a man who’s job demands he keep a solid poker face, Marlowe can see the questions dancing behind his skull, the calculations, the curiosity, the obvious leap that one has to make. If Malia’s dead, leaving behind a kid, where’s the father? Where is he in the entire question?

“Ask it.”

“What?” Joe whispers, eyes snapping to her. The blue irises ice her veins. Makes the phone feel like a ton rather than a few ounces. 

“Ask about Korey’s father.”

“I don’t—I know how hard it is for you to talk about your sister. So, don’t go there if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Marlowe trudges on. Now that the words have started, she can’t stop them. A compulsion ordering her to say more. Though in California she hadn’t been able to concentrate, could hear Joe but it felt like she was lagging, here she can’t stop. She has to keep going. All gas with no brakes. She wants Joe to know, even if it hurts to talk about at times. Even if Marlowe wishes none of this had happened, there’s nothing she could do to take it back. The very least Marlowe could do is tell Joe. Be honest about what happened. Be honest about herself too. 

“He paid a lump sum when Malia told him she was pregnant. Didn’t care what she did with the cash, but it was all he’s ever contributed. Didn’t even try to convince her for her safety to terminate. Didn’t show up to the funeral either.”

“He’s a piece of shit.” Joe’s brows furrow at the news, disgust clouding his features. Features too perfect for the kind of horror that crosses them. It makes Marlowe want to run her thumb over his furrowed brows, smooth out the wrinkles. Tell him it’s not worth getting angry about. It’s all too late now in the end. Malia’s already dead. “What the fuck is his problem? Just leave his kid and the mother of his child like that? That’s bullshit.”

Words that Marlowe’s thought many times, said to Malia the entirety of her pregnancy. “I tend to agree. Malia said she knew that if she wound up pregnant, Leo, Korey’s father, would be no help.”

“That doesn’t matter. She’s,” Joe states, thumb pointing over his shoulder to emphasize his point, “still his kid. Money doesn’t replace his presence.”

“I know it doesn’t.” Marlowe can see it, in the twist of his lips, the way his eyes are still hot—not at her, just the reality. The fact that Korey’s mother is dead and her father won’t show up for her. A reality that Marlowe and her parents did their best to acknowledge and fill the gaps. It would never be perfect, but they’d do their damnedest. “But Korey’s never without. We are ignoring the fact that I really need to do her hair again but she’s never without.”

Joe’s laughter cracks the stern press of his lips and he shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry about that. I know she’s sick and I know that’s your priority. I really wouldn’t know the difference though.”

“You’ll learn. The difference is night and day once you know what to look for.”

The second the words are out his face softens; the edges are still firm, undoubtedly a piece of Joe still chewing over and reeling from the news of Leo’s absence. But in the waning afternoon and creeping evening sun, Joe looks like he’s melted ice cream on a hot summer day. “You think I’ll be around long enough to learn?”

Charcoal meet match. 

Marlowe knows that look from someone who’s gotten too close already. Someone who wants to get closer. But she can’t. Marlowe truly can’t do this to herself. She can’t do this to Joe either. Yet, she already had. It’s probably too late. The wreckage is already around them, in sandwiches, cups and bowls of fruit, expensive chocolates Marlowe can’t pronounce the name of, the bouquet of flowers—fucking hell she hadn’t seen Joe pull those out. And if she had seen them earlier, Marlowe would’ve sent him packing right from his appearance at the front door. 

“You don’t want damaged goods. And I can’t survive another heartache.”

_____________________________

Joe blinks, feels the pull in his chest and gives into it, leans in closer to Marlowe just a hair. She didn’t really mean that. She couldn’t. 

“You can’t say for certain what I want or don’t want.”

Joe doesn’t mean that maliciously. But he sees the way Marlowe tucks in around herself, brings her knees to her chest. The food’s long forgotten now. Because why in the fuck would Marlowe consider herself damanged goods? 

Marlowe’s life is undoubtedly chaotic—between constant travel, her niece, and taking care of herself, Joe’s sure the quiet moments she gets to herself are few and far between. That she feels a bit worn down. He prays she’s not teetering on the edge of burn out. That she is actually taking care of herself. But he’d never go so far as to call her damaged goods. It can’t be easy what she’s gone through, what she’s currently still dealing with. But Joe wants every thought behind her eyes. Even the dark ones, how much she misses her grandmother and sister. 

Joe wants everything Marlowe will give him. Every single piece. No matter what.  

“I lose everyone. They leave me.”

Six words but they sting, press into the middle of Joe’s chest, like a bench press too heavy for him to get back up. She’s not even giving him a chance. “I think I deserve the chance to show you what I want. Prove to you that it’s not heartache I’m after.”

“You’ll want someone who doesn’t over schedule themselves. You’ll want someone who’s life isn’t chaotic. You’ll want someone that’s younger. Someone better. I’m practically raising a kid.”

He shakes his head, scooting in a little bit closer to Marlowe. “You’re raising your niece, which I think is noble, because her mother’s no longer with us and her father’s a Grade A asshole. It shows how much you care about Korey, about Malia too. I have a pretty busy schedule too when the season starts. You’ll be pleased to know that I do find older women attractive and I don’t mind a little chaos.”

Joe’s praying the levity will save him. That he can get Marlowe to crack a smile. But she only stares—the impossibly soul piercing kind, the one that pulls down at the corners of her lips. The look Joe’s always almost second guessing himself on—if he should apologize or wait it out because he thinks just behind the piercing stare is amusement. A small flicker that’s easily missed. 

And instead of waiting, Joe continues on, “I’m just asking for a shot, Marlowe. A chance. Please give me just that.”

The seconds hand tense and thick between them. Marlowe’s gaze turns, casting out towards the backyard—a wide and open space with a fence and privacy hedges. Perfectly manicured grass too sitting before bushes and shrubs and plants that are all well watered and maintained from what Joe can tell. But Joe’s focused on Marlowe, on the quiver in her chin, the way she digs her nails into her own calves. 

“I’m scared.” Two words. Two fucking words but Joe can hear everything behind them. “You’re--I don’t know how to describe it. If it matters because I don’t date. Don’t know how to do that anymore. If I even can. I work so I don’t have to think or feel. I take care of Korey because it’s the closest thing I have to my sister, and I don’t-I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

It’s all leaps and bounds, assumptions—fear. It’s all fear. Joe sees it. He can tell Marlowe sees it too, that she’s the one in her own way. It’s probably kept her safe for the last year or so, kept her from the heartache she’s so worried about, the heartache that she might face. All the thick walls of fear, looped around and into themselves, over and over again. He wonders if the fear’s been reaffirmed for her, what else there is besides the death of her sister and grandmother that stands in her way? 

Joe can’t fault Marlowe for wanting to protect herself, for trying to starve out a fire before it burned down everything. Joe thinks he might worry about that too, if the roles were reversed if he’d want to subject himself to the uncertainty that dating and relationships present. It’s easy to assume that Joe would, that even in the face of adversity, he’d still risk it. Because he’s not in Marlowe’s shoes. 

Nobility is a far reaching goal, unattainable to Joe in a pure understanding of the word. Joe’s not a noble man. Would never consider himself the type to inflate his own ego with such beliefs or assumptions. But God does he want to be. Joe wants to show Marlowe that there’s still good out there, that he’d never intentionally hurt her.

“You can think about it.” Because Joe’s not going to lose Marlowe. That much he’s sure of. Not if he’s got a thing to do with it. “It’s out in the open now. I like you. I have a feeling you like me or else we’d be having a totally different conversation right now. And you can think about it. It does sound scary to be in your shoes,” Joe emphasizes. “But I don’t have the intention of letting you slip through my fingers. I don’t want to let you go.”

Joe would be a fool to do so. He’d be a coward really. It’s only a little bit more hard work, and Joe’s not afraid of hard work. He’s built off it. He’s built for hard work. 

“It’ll be sour work. You’d be better off.”

He grins, feels it splitting his cheeks. Of course Marlowe is consistent. Of course’s she’s persistent. Just like she’d always be. Her cheek is soft under his palm, wet from her tears. Her brown eyes swim, flooded with the salty water. Joe swipes at her cheek with his thumb, easing away the track of her tears. “You let me be the judge of that, okay?” 

“I just don’t want—” 

“I know. You don’t want another heartache.” Joe is far from a saint. He’s far from the kind of person who should be enshrined. He’s fallible and flawed. But goddamn all he wants is a chance. One shot. It’s all he’ll need. 

“What if I can’t do it?”

“What if you can?”

Marlowe’s chin wobbles in his hold, but her laughter is watery. Bubbles out of her chest and over her lips in short bursts. “You’re persistent.”

“I am.”

“Annoyingly so.”

“So I’ve been told,” Joe returns. 

He’s heard the stories of him as a kid. Knows what he’s like at practice, during games. Obsessive is too dark, too heavy of a phrase. Joe’s determined. He’s precise, always calculating, always figuring his next move and the move after, the response. He’s no good at dancing, but he can play chess. 

And Marlowe’s no game. Not something to be won, not a prize. She’s human—flawed just like him. Hurting. Scared. She’s got a baby monitor strapped to her hip and she cares about Korey enough to warn Joe that Korey’s hair isn’t done up, though Joe can’t even recall what state Korey’s hair is even in. All he’d seen was the cartoon dogs on Korey’s shirt. He wanted to laugh at the gaping snore escaping her little frame but worried the noise would wake her. Marlowe is who Joe wants. The woman in front of Joe, the woman who’s charmed her way in. Her direct replies. The sharpness to her wit. Her shy smiles. And it’s early. No one knows what the future holds. Least of all Joe. Least of all Marlowe. 

“I don’t like making promises I don’t think I can keep,” she whispers, like it’s a secret, something that shouldn’t be uttered and yet is said anyway. 

“Good thing it’s not a promise. Just more time.” Time is all Joe needs.

“Can I have some time? To think about it?” Marlowe hardly puts breath behind the question. 

The words nearly taken away in the strong breeze that blows, cuts through the cotton of Joe’s t-shirt and brushes over his skin. He should’ve taken a bit more time to dry his hair from his shower, but he didn’t want to arrive too late in the evening. He still needed to get in and out of the CVS with little detection. So the towel dry was all he managed. And in the breeze, the residual moisture nips at his scalp but Joe latches onto every word Marlowe whispers. 

“You can always have some time,” he breathes. Joe can handle taking things slow. Slow still meant progress could be made. Slow is just grace and patience—two things he can give to Marlowe. 

“Thank you. And can you pass me that bowl of strawberries too? They look delicious.”

Joe laughs, takes one last swipe at her cheek to clear away the tears with the pad of his thumb. The moisture all but melts, settles into the grooves of his fingers. It’s too much a perverted thought, to wonder how the tear tastes but it crosses Joe’s mind briefly. Only for a second before he nods at Marlowe’s request. “I hope they are delicious.” Joe hands the bowl over, slipping the silicone cover off it first. “Finding a decent batch of them was harder than I imagined in the grocery store yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Marlowe questions. 

“As soon as you texted that Korey was sick, I went out to the store to get the food for the picnic.” 

Her text came early in the evening, past the swell of thick evening traffic but not too late. Joe didn’t even know what to get or what he was doing. Yet, he was doing it, weaving through the streets, guiding the cart up and down the aisles. He started drafting up ideas on what to bring for the picnic the day before but didn’t feel solid about those ideas. Not until she texted him that she’d need a raincheck on the stars. 

That simple text solidified that Joe would do something and it wouldn’t be Friday either. So, Joe drove, and even though he felt like a baby on fresh legs standing in front of the fresh produce, he was making decisions: strawberries, sandwich meat, chips, flowers, a care package for Korey. It all came together while his knees knocked in that grocery store, praying he was making the right choices. 

Marlowe’s first bite into the larger berry causes a bit of the juice to drip down onto her chin. Her worried hum pushes over her chest—a clear sign of her need for a napkin. Joe traces the dribble down her dark skin even as he reaches for the napkins he tucked inside of the basket. It’s not the time. It’s not the place. Joe knows it and instead of giving in, he takes the paper napkin to her chin. 

“Here,” he offers softly, dabbing as gingerly as he can. “I didn’t realize you’d be such a messy eater.”

Marlowe’s eyes cut, the squint giving away her short lived annoyance. “I didn’t think the strawberry would attack,” she retorts, taking the napkin now to hold it under the dripping fruit. 

“I think I would attack to keep from being eaten. Really, we ought to expect more violence from our fruits.”

“Korey would agree but specifically about brussel sprouts.”

“She’s not a fan?”

“Not in the slightest. She tolerated broccoli.”

“Taste better covered in cheese,” Joe returns with a shrug. 

“I’ve made a promise to do exactly that,” Marlowe hums. “But you’re okay with me taking my time?” There’s spaces around the words—pauses that Joe can see just how much Marlowe’s being careful about how she phrases the question. Afraid to call it the wrong thing, afraid to give herself, and probably even him, the wrong kind of hope. 

Though it works over Joe’s heart, makes him anxious that maybe along the way Marlowe will not choose him—that she’ll decide it’s too much to handle—Joe realizes he’d rather do this right and be heartbroken than do it wrong and heartbroken. “I think I’ve made you cry or made you nearly cry on both of our hang outs. Giving you time is the least thing I can do.”

“I’d say I’m tough, but the track record doesn’t appear that great.”

“No,” Joe starts with a shake of his head. “You are tough.” If Marlowe wasn’t tough, she wouldn’t still be here, sitting next to Joe. Wouldn’t be diving for another strawberry. Wouldn’t have even agreed to think about it more, give them both the time to let whatever it is between them simmer—give it the space to grow even when she’s scared. “No one’s tougher than when they’re living life in the face of fear.”

Marlowe’s lips part. Joe can see the words forming on her teeth and tongue. He shakes his head, voice hitting the air before hers. “And you can’t disagree with me. Besides,” Joe continues on, rummaging back into the basket for the small jar he’d tucked inside.  “I brought pickle spears. And I know Buckwheat had a whole pickle but I hope spears are still sufficient.”

As Joe settles the jar next to the bowl of strawberries, he’s greeted by a smile—still thick with wet tears on Marlowe’s cheek but a smile all the same, bright and real over her lips. “What did you think? Or did you fall asleep?”

He rubs his chest as he laughs. “God, you’re ruthless. It was one time.”

“The start of a pattern if you admit to it again.”

“The Little Rascals is quite charming. The ‘hate’ letter—where Alfalfa's been basically banned from seeing Darla— and they blow their nose into it so they recite the wrong thing to her made me laugh so hard I cried. But you can’t tell anyone that.”

“‘Dear Darla, I hate your stinking guts. You make me vomit. You’re scum between my toes,’” Marlowe recites, a fit of laughter escaping her. A soft sound interrupted momentarily by a sniffle. “Whenever my parents get annoyed with me, they’ll quote it. And same with me about them. Makes family dinners interesting.”

Joe pictures them over dining room tables, pulling the line out when someone’s taking forever to pass a plate and grins. “Sounds entertaining.”

Before Marlowe can put breath behind her words, mouth opening to start the word, a small static voice carries over through the monitor. “Auntie!” The worry is immediate, a word that carries Korey’s fright at the lack of her aunt’s presence. 

Marlowe’s up before she can speak, eyes widening as she places her napkin and strawberry back down onto the blanket. “Shit, one second.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Joe calls out, watching Marlowe scurry up the steps and back into the house. 

“I’m right here, bug!”

The outside is still while she’s gone. Joe spies the flowers that he hadn’t actually given to her properly—that he’d been meaning to find the best way to exchange but was unsure of how to do. He hadn’t even gotten to the sandwiches proper either. He busies himself with assembling the line of food like he imagined and tries to keep the smile from lifting his cheek. He has a shot. A proper shot. Or least, he has a shot at a shot. All he’d fucking need. 

“See, I’ve just been out here. That’s all. With Joe, that’s it, bug.”

Joe glances over his shoulder at the sound of Marlowe’s voice. Korey’s hitched onto her hip—like when they first met. Korey peers out and waves at Joe. “Hi, Joe.” Her voice is small but clear. 

And there’s no manual, no playbook for Joe to have studied that could tell him the best way to interact with the niece of the girl he’s trying to swoon. This is too much too soon, even Joe can admit that. Yet, the little girl’s erratic wave warms his chest. She looks like most sick kids do, sleepy eyes and a tiny pout, but she’s still enthused nonetheless. So, Joe won’t be impolite and he waves back at Korey. “Hi, Korey.”

Korey ducks her head into Marlowe’s neck, a bit shy at the sound of Joe saying her name and he laughs. “Do you want inside or outside?” Marlowe questions, head still turned towards Korey. “Either way we’ve got to attempt dinner while we’re at it.”

“I’m not hungry,” Korey pouts. 

“Joe brought you popsicles.”

“Can I have popsicle?” Korey returns, pulling back up and out of Marlowe’s neck. “Pwease?”

“What do we say to Joe? For bringing the popsicles?” Marlowe prompts calm and at ease. Like holding the little girl is second nature to her, one arm tucking Korey’s legs into Marlowe’s stomach and back.

“Thank you, Joe!”

“You’re welcome, Korey. I hope they help you feel better,” he calls back. Does he stand and move closer? Joe’s not too worried about getting sick. But again, he has a sufficient lack of knowledge on the rules of engagement here. What’s too much? What’s too little?

“So inside or outside?” Marlowe asks again softly.

“Inside, pwease,” Korey returns. 

Her gaze is swift to him—Marlowe drifts her eyes down towards Joe and he nods, seeing the question painted into her gaze. If he’s okay moving everything back inside. He’d move it as many times as necessary. “It’s fine, Marlowe.”

“I can help.”

“No. You’re going to get Korey her popsicle that she’s bargained hard for. And I’ll be inside in a few.”

The words mean little to Marlowe. She takes the wooden steps down into the grass. “I need you to do me a favor, Korey,” Marlowe states, voice calm still. As if she always speaks this way to Korey—soothing and at ease—all the time. 

“Yes?”

“Stand right here,” Marlowe starts, placing Korey onto the grass, “and you don’t move until I say so.”

Korey’s gaze is assessing, calculating as she looks down to the array of food and then back up. “Can I get a strawberry?”

“Deal, bug.” 

Marlowe plucks a fresh strawberry—small and dark so hopefully it’s sweeter than the others—from the bowl and Korey takes it with ease. “Okay, I stay right here.”

The half strawberry Marlowe started is consumed by her in a single drop of the fruit into her mouth and it leaves both Joe and Marlowe to slip the bags and bowls and jars back into the basket. “You’re stubborn,” Joe notes to Marlowe. And maybe it’s not real stubbornness. Perhaps there’s a bit of persistence to Marlowe as well. 

“I am.”

But Joe doesn’t mind it really. Even if it feels silly for her to insist so much on helping. Joe could handle the few pieces. Yet, it doesn’t seem to change the fact that Marlowe’s collecting and assembling—her nails painted a soft pink with cloudy white mixed in and dots of gold scattered across them. Joe’s not sure when she changed them. But the variations are fun to see—the dark navy blue nails with clouds from three weeks or so back, the red, the baby blue. A fun and whimsy to her that changes each time.

“I’m assuming people have told you about it too,” Joe jokes, taking the last bag of chips from the blanket. 

“Only a time or two,” Marlowe winks. 

The only thing left are the flowers—a collection of pink roses, carnations, and sunflowers intersped with a couple tulips, some baby’s breaths and daisies— still wrapped in the plastic they came in. The older woman who cashed Joe out told him about the trick of getting a little piece of paper towel and wrapping it around the stems to help them last. And so far, her trick proves to be working. Giving them to Marlowe had been the thing to Joe. Would hopefully help prove to Marlowe that he was interested romantically. Yet, he hadn’t been sure how to give them to her. He remains doubly unsure now. 

But still, they’re there and when Marlowe reaches for them, hands slipping into the peripheral of his vision, Joe eases in quicker. “These are for you,” he offers, quietly. Both of them kneeling on the blanket with blades of grass digging into their knees. 

“Thank you, Joe. They’re beautiful.”

“Sunflowers!” Korey’s interjection makes all of them laugh. “Can I have one?”

Joe can’t say no—wouldn’t dream of it. “Of course, Korey. You can have one too.”

“Thank you!” Korey beams over to him. A smile bright enough to give the sun competition. 

“I’ll let you pick it out once we get inside, okay?” Marlowe offers. She’s quick to collect the blanket once Joe’s up—her arms now full of the blanket and flowers—and then she points towards the house. “Alright, Korey. Lead the charge.”

And lead Korey does. She reaches back for Marlowe’s hand—and Marlowe, no matter the amount of things she’s holding, takes Korey’s tiny palm—and waddles in front. All the while, Korey’s face is still clouded in sleep and determination. 

“Thank you, for letting her steal one of the flowers,” Marlowe whispers. She holds a paper towel at the ready, a few drips of the purple popsicle already staining the white.  

The food’s scattered out onto the kitchen island now. Korey perched onto the countertop, in front of Marlowe with popsicle in hand. Marlowe’s flowers rest inside of a hot pink vase and the singular sunflower Korey picked out is its neighbor on the main dining room table, resting inside of a skinny clear one. Marlowe made quick work of getting the flowers deleaved and into the vase. She turned and turned the stack of flowers as she layered them and Joe watched, enthralled at the ease in which Marlowe handled the flowers and Korey’s wiggles to see every minute detail. 

Now, settled next to Marlowe, Joe nods, working down the last bite to his sandwich. “Of course. Want another bite?” 

He points to her sandwich—the turkey one Joe assembled on a prayer and whim. There’s about half of it left, consumed in stolen seconds when she presumably felt safe enough to let her guard down and a few times fed to her by Joe, when he worried she’d not gotten enough on her first attempt. Like right now. It’s been much too long since she actually attempted a bite. Though the popsicle is melting quickly and Korey’s only managed a third of it down. 

“I am racing a very dangerous clock,” Marlowe laughs. “I’ll finish it. That is a promise. Talk to me about space. What was that planetarium documentary about anyway?”

“Theoretically on time travel? I think?”

“But actually?”

“I’m not really sure. I just saw it was new and got a little excited.” 

It feels silly to hear it outloud. How he’d seen the flyer and the post when scrolling through the website. Joe emailed immediately to see if he could get a private screening of it, knew it was probably a ridiculous ask. All he had in his ears, besides his own excitement, was Marlowe’s voice, her simple, I like the stars. He liked space. It seemed perfect. To watch the night sky with her, hand over the flowers, and ask her to be his. He’d still do it. When the time was right of course. When Marlowe told him what she wanted. 

Marlowe’s laugh is warm, soft as she flicks her eyes from Korey to him. “Talk to me about space. It’s nice to see you excited.”

The blush warms his chest and Joe knows he’s only got a few seconds before it creeps up his cheeks. How could Marlowe not see how ready she already was? How just the softest confessions from her have Joe melting on the stool? “No, no,” Joe laughs, a swift shake of his head. “I’ll bore you.”

He’ll never stop. Joe knows once that train leaves the station it’s very hard to reel it back in. Marlowe would probably not stop him. She’d let him ramble for hours. Marlowe has Korey to take care of and her sandwich to eat. Joe needs anything, something, to spare him from the embarrassment.

There’s only a second to catch it. The twitch in her lip is not quite a smile, but something along the lines of sly grin. But it’s fast. One second it’s there, and the next after a blink it’s gone off Marlowe's face. She looks up to the little girl in front of her, head titled before she speaks. “Korey, do you want to hear Joe talk about space? He really likes space. Like the way you like Bluey.”

“Oh, that’s such a low and dirty move,” Joe laughs. “I can’t say no to her!”

“Talk about space, pwease,” Korey demands, her legs swinging back and forth. “What is it?”

And how does Joe talk to a three year old about space, about galaxies, and black holes and signs of life on other planets? Why wasn’t there a playbook on this? “Gosh, you’re auntie is a little mean.”

“I know,” Korey returns, the words dripping with exhaustion and relief that someone finally sees it. “But space, pwease.”

Oh, Joe’s in a world of trouble. If he thought Marlowe was stubborn, he should’ve known Korey would be unrelenting. She has the perfect mentor for it. “So, we’re on the planet Earth,” Joe starts.  

Korey’s brows knit together and she looks around the kitchen. Her arms move with the turn of her head but Marlowe is quick to move with her. “We’re in my house?” She peers back at Joe. Eyes big and curious—clearly ready to hear more but unsure of the information she’s getting. 

Fucking hell Joe’s still shaken about how much Korey looks like Marlowe. Because Marlowe looks so much like Malia. Because Malia and Marlowe look so much like each other. And now that Joe’s thinking about it—it’s their mother. The slope of their noses. Eyes that look like they’re seeing everything beneath the surface. They get it from Regina. 

“We are in your home, yes,” Joe laughs, all a tuft of an exhale. “You are right. But like your home is on this thing called a planet. And the planet’s called Earth. Does that make sense?”

Korey nods and pulls the undoubtedly sticky mess of the popsicle down from her chin. “What’s a planet?” 

“Good question, Korey. So, let’s start at the beginning, I guess,” Joe starts and there’s no stopping.

When he dives into the explanation he knows there’s no way to reign himself in. He is mindful to try and explain it in a way that Korey should get it. And when he sees the knitting of her brows he knows he has to find some other way to explain it. So he back tracks, tries to use words or comparisons that she might get. She hums, nodding and her face smooth overs when the explanation makes enough sense. 

Joe goes even after Korey finishes her popsicle and the bowl of grits Marlowe fixes her. He goes on and on long enough for Marlowe to finish her sandwich too. Joe goes on way too long about space, but Korey’s listening to intently. Marlowe is too. It’s like neither one of them really cares how long he rambles on, like they’re actually taking in every word. 

“So space is big?” Korey questions. 

“Massive. Bigger than you or me. Bigger than your grandfather too,” Joe returns. 

“Whoa, bigger dan PopPop.” Korey stares down at Joe from her spot on the kitchen island and blinks, the curiosity and awe widening her whole face. 

The sound of Trey’s nickname feels strange at first. Like somehow Joe shouldn’t have this information. Too informal of a term for Joe know. Like there’s no way that Trey could be anything other than Trey Dominic. But Korey wouldn’t know him as anything else than PopPop. Trey would always be just her grandfather. Joe nods. “Yep, it’s pretty big.” 

“And it don’t fall?”

Her question feels too big for her. Like Joe wouldn’t have considered Korey to understand that space was around them. That they were in it. But somehow the concept has made its way through. Enough so that Joe notices how much she is grasping what he’s saying. “No, space doesn’t fall. Not like say, when you drop something.” 

“Hmm,” Korey returns, gaze falling to Marlowe. “But how?”

And there’s gravity, there’s scientific explanations but there’s also the philosophical and religious ones too. Though he’s not religious, he’s somehow anxious to answer. Maybe it’s the crosses on Marlowe’s neck and wrists that make him hesitate. But he looks at Marlowe too. Who’s only looking at him. A small smile pulling at her lips. Her nod is just as small. Prompting, permission, and grace all in one motion. 

“Well, I’m not sure what you’ve been taught,” Joe starts looking back at Korey. “But if we ask science, space is affected by the gravity of all the other planets, and stuff in it. That keeps space together. But there’s little in regards to up and down in space. Just sort of it’s all there.”

“Gwampty,” Korey’s attempt at the word is a little gumbled at the start but she tries it again with the prompting of Marlowe. “Gwav—dat’s hard,” Korey laughs. “I can’t.”

Marlowe’s voice is softer than usual, a sticky honey sound even if gruff in her throat. “You can. Try again. It’s okay to get it wrong.”

Korey tries again, breaking the word apart into pieces after Marlowe. “Gw-a-v-tee.”

“See. You got it.”