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Robby settled between the two of you. “I’m in.”

You took a sip of wine and nodded. “Sounds fair. Who starts?”

“I will.” Jack turned to face you more fully, his expression gentle but serious. “How long did you know you were our soulmate? And why didn’t you tell us?”

Your lips twitched as your eyes flickered down to your wine glass then back up to meet Jack’s steady gaze. You looked between the two of them. “I don’t know when I first really started to suspect. A month after I met you maybe? I knew your names matched my mark but there was something else. A pull, I guess.”

You sighed and bit your lip. “I didn’t know for sure until girls’ night with Dana. She saw my license with my first name.”

“That was what, Friday?” Robby asked.

“Yeah. I was going to tell you, but I needed time to figure out how.”

“You could have just introduced yourself as Angel,” Jack said. “I would think that would be the default anyway. Didn’t you want to meet your soulmates?”

Something shuttered in your expression. You sat your wine glass on the coffee table with deliberate care, but Robby noticed the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’m going to need something stronger than wine for this conversation.”

Robby leaned forward, concern overtaking curiosity. “You don’t have to answer. That’s the rule, right? Pass if it’s too much.”

You looked at him. “No. I think it’s important you understand. Both of you.” You took a deep breath. “It’s just not a story I tell often. Or ever really.”

Jack reached across Robby to touch your knee, the gesture so unexpected that both Robby and you stilled. “Take your time. We’ve got all night.”

You nodded, drawing your legs up closer to your chest. Making yourself smaller on the sofa. Robby wanted to wrap his arms around you, shield you from whatever memories were bringing that look to your eyes.

Instead, he stood. “Bourbon?”

The corner of your lips curled up in a half smile. “Yeah. That would be great.”

He nodded and crossed the room to pour you a glass. He hesitated before deciding to pour himself one as well. From the look on your face, he was going to need it. “Jack?” he asked without looking at the man in question.

“Why not?”

Robby returned to the couch, all three glasses in hand. He passed over yours and Jack’s before sitting back down. You sipped at your drink and closed your eyes with a sigh. When they opened you looked more determined than you had been.

“My mother is the reason I go by Katrina and why I didn’t tell you right away.” You looked between them. “It’s not a nice story.”

“We’re doctors, sweetheart,” Jack reminded gently. “We’ve heard plenty of not nice stories.”

You hummed in agreement. “But it wasn’t my story.”

Robby watched you gather yourself, shoulders straightening. The protectiveness he’d felt since seeing your bloodied face in the ED surged again, stronger now, mixed with dread at whatever you were about to share.

You sat your glass on the side table and wrapped your arms around your legs. “I was raised by a woman that was obsessed by soulmates. Completely, pathologically fixated on the idea.”

Robby reached for the hand closest to him and pulled it into his lap, lacing his fingers with yours.

Jack watched your fingers curl tightly around Robby’s. Your eyes were fixed on some distant point as if you couldn’t bear to watch their faces as you spoke. He recognized the technique. The deliberate disconnection patients used when recounting trauma. It made his chest tighten in a cold anger. He kept his face neutral, a skill honed through years of delivering bad news to families.

“Her soulmate name wrapped around her calf in a faded gray that meant he was dead. She would sit for hours with a drink in her hand tracing the letters over and over again until her skin was raw while I was forced to sit in the corner and watch.”

You took a deep breath. “Shiela named me Angel specifically to make it easier for my soulmates to find me.” Your voice was flat, emotionless. “A unique name would stand out, make me more…findable.” Your laugh was brittle and without humor. “She used to tell me that it was my destiny to be found, that I was born to serve my soulmates.”

Jack’s jaw tightened but he kept his expression neutral. He knew interrupting now would only make it harder for you to get the story out. His left hand curled into a fist against his thigh, out of sight.

“She was absolutely giddy on my twelfth birthday. She made me stand in front of her in nothing but my underwear for hours, waiting for the mark to appear. I was so cold.” Your voice trailed off as you got lost in the memory.

Robby shifted, leaning closer to you, thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand to ground you.

“I watched them form on my arm and I was so excited. Two names. I knew that was rare. Thought it made me special.” A single tear ran down your cheek. “But when my mother saw ‘Michael’ and ‘Jack’ on my forearm, she slapped me so hard I fell against the kitchen table.”

Jack heard Robby’s sharp intake of breath, felt his own pulse quicken with anger.

“She was furious. Said I had the most common names in America. That I’d never find my soulmates with names like that. She said the universe was punishing her through me for never finding her soulmate and letting him die.”

You took another sip of your drink, keeping it wrapped in your hand this time. “Until she said that, I had no idea her soulmate wasn’t my father. She’d told me repeatedly how he’d died when she was pregnant. I would come to discover that she blamed me for his death. She thought he died because she got pregnant with someone else’s child.”

“Jesus,” Robby muttered.

“She only got worse after that. She asked people their names constantly. Any Michael or Jack we came across, she’d force me to touch their hand or arm to check. These men were my teachers, elderly men at her church, strangers. She’d invent reasons to talk to them, to get me close enough to touch them. It wasn’t enough to give them my name, to hope they’d recognize it. ‘What if they lied?’ she’d say.” Your voice broke. “I was so embarrassed, so humiliated. And when nothing happened, she’d be angry for days. Tell me I wasn’t trying hard enough.”

Jack’s stomach turned. He’d seen soulmate obsession before, people who spent their lives chasing that connection, building their entire identity around the name on their skin. But this was different. This was abuse plain and simple.

“You were a child. She was supposed to protect you.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended but he wouldn’t take them back.

Your eyes met his, surprise flickering across your face at his tone. “I know that now. Of course, I do. But all I knew then was that I was a failure. That my only value in life was finding and serving my soulmates and I couldn’t even do that right.”

Jack watched you take another swallow of your drink, using the moment to compose yourself. Your hand trembled slightly as you set the glass down on the table again. He fought the urge to reach for you. To offer comfort beyond Robby’s grip on your hand.

“As I got older, she got more desperate. Started drinking more. The touching strangers thing got worse. She’d drag me into bars with her, announce my soulmates’ names and offer to let them touch me. Some took advantage of that.” A muscle ticked in your jaw. “By the time I was fifteen I hated my name. Hated the marks on my arm. Hated the whole concept of soulmates.”

Robby leaned forward, his posture protective as if shielding you from an invisible threat. Jack had seen it before when Robby positioned himself between patients and potential danger. The realization that he felt the same instinct toward you settled something in Jack’s chest. It was a confirmation of what he already knew, that the three of you were already a unit, whether you’d planned it or not.

“Shiela died when I was fifteen. Car accident. She was drunk, hit a tree. I was in the backseat.” You looked at them then, eyes haunted. “When they told me they hadn’t been able to save her, the first thing I felt was relief. That’s a horrible thing to admit, isn’t it? That I felt relieved when my mother died?”

“No,” Jack said firmly. “It’s not terrible. It’s honest. And given what you’ve told us, it’s understandable.”

You gave him a small, grateful nod before continuing. “They contacted my aunt as next of kin—my mother’s sister. I didn’t even know she existed. When she showed up, she was shocked to see me. Said she’d tried to find Shiela for years but she kept moving, changing numbers. She apologized for not finding me sooner, said the family always knew my mother wasn’t quite right.”

Jack’s jaw clenched tighter. Not quite right. The euphemism felt inadequate for the harm that had been done. “Your aunt took you in?”

You nodded and smiled at the memory. “For a little while. Maggie was the one who found my birth certificate at the house. She hired someone to find the man listed as my dad. He didn’t know I existed. My mother just disappeared one day.”

Your face softened slightly at the mention of your father. The first positive note he’d seen. Watching you now, in their living room, wrapped in their clothes and sharing the darkest parts of yourself, Jack felt something shift inside him, a certainty he would do whatever it took to ensure you never looked that lost again.

“One paternity test later and I had the best dad I could have ever asked for. He was furious with Shiela. Still is. Says if he’d known about me, he would have moved heaven and hell to be in my life.” You smiled, small but real. “He’s the complete opposite of her. Patient, kind. I just wish he’d gotten to me sooner.”

The simple statement hung in the air, heavy with all it implied. Robby swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Resisted the urge to pull you into his arms and promise nothing would hurt you again. He knew better than to make promises he couldn’t keep. The world was too unpredictable and brutal for such certainties. Instead, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, offering the only thing he could—his presence and understanding.

You straightened, adjusting yourself on the couch. “Okay, that’s enough of my bullshit for one conversation,” you declared. “How did you two meet?”

The abrupt change of subject might have felt jarring if Robby hadn’t recognized your need to retreat from vulnerability, to regain solid ground after exposing so much of yourself. He exchanged a glace with Jack and saw the same understanding, the silent agreement to follow your lead.

Robby huffed a breath. “It’s been more than ten years now.”

Jack nodded, his mouth quirking in that half smile that still made Robby’s chest tighten after all these years. “Yep. I’d recovered from losing my leg and was ready to get back to work. Got hired at PTMC as an attending.”

“Gloria introduced us in her office. We shook hands and that was it,” Robby finished.

Jack laughed. “Gloria was not pleased. We had to spend another hour in her office going over protocol.”

You hummed, something about the tone catching Robby’s attention. “Is that so?” you asked with a raised brow.

Jack glanced at Robby who just shrugged. He had no idea what you were thinking. The conversation shifted to lighter topics, as if by unspoken agreement. Funny stories from residency were shared by all three of you. You all laughed more freely as the night progressed.

Eventually Jack glanced at his watch and frowned. “It’s late,” he said sounding surprised. “After midnight.”

“Shit, really?” You straightened and reached for your phone. “I didn’t realize.”

Robby felt a pang of disappointment at the thought of you leaving. “You could stay,” he offered. “The guest room is made up.”

“We’d like you to,” Jack added. “If you’re comfortable with that.”

You smiled but shook your head. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to go home. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow and nothing appropriate to wear.” You typed out a quick text. “Rick says he can be here in fifteen minutes. Him and Marcus were out anyway.”

“Will you come back tomorrow after your meeting?” Robby asked. “We’re both off.”

“I’ll let you know. Depends how my meeting goes.” Your expression was softer than it had been all evening, the sharp edge worn down by hours of conversation. It wasn’t a commitment to return, but it was enough for now.

You stepped into the elegant beauty of Grand Concourse just before noon the next day. Immediately, you felt the weight of curious gazes ogling on your bruised face. The host’s gaze lingered a beat too long before his professional mask slipped back into place. You gave your name and he led you through the tables to one in the back.

Richard Montgomery stood as you approached, his frame impeccably clad in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. His silvering hair was freshly cut and his features were still sharp despite his advancing years. When he smiled the resemblance between you was unmistakable.

“Katrina,” he greeted, leaning down to kiss your cheek. He froze mid-motion as he took in your injuries up close. The warm welcome in his eyes changed to shock, then something darker. A simmering anger at whoever had harmed his girl.

“You didn’t tell me it was that bad,” he said quietly as he pulled out your chair.

You settled in your seat. “It looks worse than it is. Hairline fracture. No concussion. Could have been much worse all things considered.”

Your father studied your face with focused intensity and his fingers twitched on the table as if he was suppressing the urge to reach out and examine the bruising himself. Knowing him, he probably was.

“Still,” he said, a world of concern in the word.

The waiter appeared and poured water into their glasses before disappearing again.

“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”

He pursed his lips and nodded once. “Very well. So, tell me more about the soulmates,” he said to change the topic.

“They’re good men. Dedicated doctors. The junior staff respect them. Jack was in the military, honorably discharged after he was injured. He’s more regimented, controlled. Robby is the emotional one. Cares with his whole heart. They balance each other out.”

“And where do you fit?” your father asked, watching your face carefully.

You considered the question before answering. “I’m not sure yet. It’s early. But they made space for me last night. Made dinner. Listened while I trauma dumped.” Your voice softened as you recalled the night before. “They didn’t push.”

“Where do they live?”

“In an old brownstone. They’ve fully redone it. It’s awesome.” You paused and bit your lip. “Robby has a kid, kind of. Ex-girlfriend’s son that he’s kept up a relationship with.”

He tilted his head, eyes running over your face. “How do you feel about that?”

You shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me if that’s what you’re asking. I just hope he likes me when we finally meet.”

He made a sound of agreement. “Well, at the least they’ll understand the hours.”

The waiter returned to take your orders. You’d been coming here for years and your father ordered for you as he always did. Once you were alone again, your father leaned forward, his expression softening. “I’m glad you found them. And I’m glad you’re giving them a chance. Your mother—”

You cut him off. “Let’s not talk about Shiela today. I did enough of that last night.”

His eyebrows rose. “You told them?”

“Most of it.” Your fingers traced the rim of your water glass. “About the obsession and everything that entailed. About her dying and Aunt Maggie taking me in.”

“And me?”

“They know you exist. That’s all so far,” you said.

He nodded, his expression neutral but eyes calculating. “I don’t want to cause any problems between you. You tell them whatever you want. Just make sure they understand the importance of discretion for the time being.”

You narrowed your gaze, gaging his sincerity. “Are you sure? Because I actually think they could be a big help.”

“Then by all means tell them. I don’t want our secrets to cause any problems between you.”

The waiter arrived with your food. You ate over quiet conversation about your days since you’d seen each other last. Once the meal was consumed, your father wiped his mouth with his napkin. When he set it down, his expression changed. The warmth remained in his eyes, but his posture straightened, his jaw set with the focus of the business man he was. “So, what do you have for me?”

You reached into your bag and pulled out the legal pad you’d been scribbling all your notes in. You’d taken time when you got home last night to organize the chaos with colored ink and sticky note flags. It was still kind of mess but your father had learned to follow your trains of thought ages ago.

“It’s not great. But it’s fixable,” you said simply.

He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his inner pocket and scanned through your notes a page at a time, paying special attention to your colored scribbles in the margins. Everything you had observed at PTMC from both yesterday and when you were working with EMS. Staffing problems, patient flow issues, security deficiencies. But you hadn’t stopped at cataloging problems.

The second half of the notebook outlined how to implement the solutions you and your father had discussed over many late night sessions. What would work, what needed to be looked at further. There were no numbers. The money was his end of things.

He glanced up from the pages, his gaze sharp with pride and appreciation. “You have a complete restructuring plan here.”

You shrugged. “We talked about most of this already. This is just how I think it will work best. I think we can easily have two of the best hospitals in the state.”

Your father tapped a finger on the table. “Are the wait times in the ED really over six hours?”

“Sometimes eight. They can’t clear the beds because they can’t move them upstairs because there’s no help. They’ve got behavioral health patients spending their full 48 in the ED.” You sighed in annoyance thinking of all the issues that needed to be addressed again.

“And your solution?” he asked though you knew he’d just read it.

“They have one attending per shift. Rarely two. That’s a priority. Then we need to get those floors opened up. Open the clinic to take the non-emergent cases. Administrative consequences for the departments that delay accepting transfers.”

He nodded and jotted a note under one of yours. “You have security underlined three times.”

You pursed your lips in thought. “Yeah. You’re better at that part than me, but they’re stretched thin. Staff is breaking up fights and getting assaulted in the process. It’s not great. Alert buttons attached to badges maybe?”

He leaned back in his chair and put away his glasses. “It’s a start. When’s your first shift?”

“Technically yesterday but I was in admin and running around taking notes,” you said. “Tomorrow night is my first real shift.”

Your father frowned. “I don’t like you working nights.”

You huffed a laugh. “Better than me running a rig at whatever hour.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were doing that or I would have put a stop to it.” He sounded exhausted by your antics and it only served to make you grin.

“I feel like that’s the story of your life.”

He rolled his eyes. “It certainly is.” He ran his gaze over you again. “Are you sure PTMC is where you want to put the time and money?”

You met your father’s gaze without hesitation. “Yes. Their admin is questionable but their people are good. I watched them when I worked the rig, now I’m working with them. Just start working on it. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

“And you’re sure this isn’t about your soulmates? That you’re thinking clearly?”

The question would have grated coming from anyone else but you understood the concern behind it. You’d made your career working alongside your father, proving yourself based on merit not nepotism. Your judgment was your most valuable professional asset.

“I’m sure,” you said firmly. “They deserve better than what they’re getting. Give them the tools and they’ll prove themselves. Jack and Robby being there is a bonus, not a reason.”

He studied you a moment longer then nodded once. “Okay. We’ll get started. Keep me updated on anything else you find.”

You nodded, relief washing through you. The Pitt had a chance now and your soulmates didn’t even know it yet. Well, there was no time like the present to tell them. They did invite you over after all.

Dana just gave him a deadpan stare for even insinuating she’d been serious. “It is not my job to run your social lives, Abbot. Should have asked the girl for her number when she was here. Or anytime since you two first saw her and about tripped over yourselves.”

Robby shot a desperate look to Jack seeking backup. Jack just shrugged. They weren’t going to get anything out of the charge nurse she wasn’t willing to give. And she liked you, they all did. Dana’s fierce protectiveness was legendary. If she wasn’t giving, no amount of charming or bargaining would budge her.

Robby leaned forward on the counter. “Please. I’m not above begging. I just want to check on her.”

Dana’s lips twitched. “Wild idea, why not just wait for her to show up? She always does.” Her tone was laced with amusement.

Jack was amused, despite himself. There was something satisfying about seeing his unflappable soulmate thrown into chaos by a woman, even if you were their soulmate. He was enjoying every second of it until a voice cut through the chatter of the hub.

“Quit pestering the poor charge nurse. She has enough to do without you two harassing her.” The voice was soft but confident and tinged with humor.

Jack turned and there you were. You had traded your EMS gear for a pair of black scrubs and a gray cardigan. Your face was mottled in shades of black, blue and purple and you wore a single strip of tape across the bridge of your nose. He found himself smiling at the spark of mischief in your eyes.

Robby spun around, hands already reaching for your arms, but Jack stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. They closed in around you, not crowding but shielding you from the rest of the hub.

“What are you doing here?” Robby asked, words tripping over each other. He swallowed. “Shit, are you even okay to work?”

Jack nudged him with an elbow. “Calm down, Mike, and let her talk.”

Dana snorted and Jack caught Princess and Perlah at the end of the desk, both pretending not to listen but very much hanging on every syllable.

Jack reached out with slow, deliberate care and tilted your chin, coaxing your head gently from side to side to examine the bruising. “How you feeling, Angel?”

You blinked and then smiled wide. “Like I got kicked in the face.”

Jack said the last four words with you and grinned. “That’s because you did.”

You snorted, then winced when the movement tugged at the tape.

He let go, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Why are you in scrubs?” he asked even as he scanned the rest of your outfit for clues.

Robby’s eyes widened just now noticing your attire.

You let the silence stretch, the hub going quiet as all the eavesdroppers awaited your answer. You grinned again. “I’m the new floating attending for the ED.”

As soon as you said the word attending, Jack felt something loosen as a little of the perpetual tension eased. Robby’s smile lit his face. “Are you—are you serious?” Disbelief colored his words.

You shrugged. “Dana knew. Asked her to keep it quiet until I walked in. I wanted to see your faces.”

Dana who’d been the master of the poker face until then, finally smirked. “Best prank in years.”

Jack tried stifle the grin that spread across his face. “It’s about damn time. And I’m fucking thrilled it’s you.” The words came out in a flood of gratitude and relief.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Because I’m your soulmate or because you need the help?”

Robby hummed, eyes bright. “Not because of the soulmate thing. We know you know what you’re doing. The bond is just…” He shrugged, cheeks coloring.

“A bonus,” Jack finished for him.

You nodded, approval in your eyes. “Good answer.”

Dana still chuckling, shook her head. “This is better than a daytime soap. Things are going to get a lot more entertaining around here. You two done falling at her feet or do you want to kiss in the supply closet next?”

Robby turned scarlet and Jack felt heat rise in his neck. “That was one time, Dana,” Robby muttered, voice dropping an octave.

“Yeah, we make out on the roof now,” Jack added and was rewarded with your laughter while Robby uttered a quiet ‘Jesus’ beside him. He finally tore his eyes from their newfound mate and glanced to Dana. “I think that’s enough drama for now.”

Dana raised her mug in a mock salute. “Then get the hell out of here. Some of us have to run this circus without a full support staff.”

Jack gave a two finger wave and Robby rolled his eyes, but the smile never left his face. It was good to see. “Mind showing me the locker room?” you asked.

“Happy to,” Jack said and started down the hall. He tilted his head to get a better look at your profile. He felt a surge of protectiveness that he shoved down. “Impressive bruising,” he observed, only half joking.

You huffed a laugh. “I’m not one to do things halfway, Jack.”

He liked the way you said his name. That you’d used his first name at all, even if he had been calling you Angel almost exclusively since he’d discovered the truth.  He opened the door. “It’s not much to look at.”

“I’ve had worse,” you said with a shrug. He didn’t ask even though he very much wanted to. He filed that away with all the other things he had to ask you about.

It was a small room with lockers lining the walls and a bench running down the middle. A counter with a sink sat to one side and he went over and grabbed a roll of masking tape and a marker out of a drawer. “Pick a locker, any locker. Tape your name to the front. Helps the janitors know what to throw out when we die of exhaustion.”

You took the tape from him and ripped off a length of it. Instead of slapping it on the nearest empty spot, you paused looking thoughtful.

Jack watched you. “What is it?”

You shrugged. “Feels weird to pick one at random. Like I’m trespassing or something.”

Jack pursed his lips, eyes shifting between you and the bank of lockers. Then, before he really registered what he was doing, he peeled the tape off his own locker and moved it one slot to the left. “There. Now you can be between me and Robby.”

You watched him do it, a slow smile creeping across your face. “Thanks, Abbot Jack.”

He wiped his hands on his pants and motioned for the marker. “Let me?” You held out the tape and he slapped it on the locker before writing Sparks and underlining it twice. “There. It’s official.”

You smoothed the edges of the tape down with your fingertips. “Not a bad place to land, all things considered.”

He liked the way it looked, the three names lined up. As if the universe was finally making sense.

He set the code on his new locker, then opened the old one and started transferring things over. “What’s your schedule?” he asked as he worked, darting you the occasional glance.

“I have to do all the admin crap today, then I have a meeting tomorrow. After that, I’m on nights with you for three, then swing to days with Robby for two.”

Jack ran over the calendar in his head and frowned. “Damn it. I’m off the next two nights. I wanted to be there when you started.”

The corner of your lips curled. “I know. I meant what I said. I’m on when you come back.”

He studied your face for a minute. “Come home with Robby tonight? We can talk. Have dinner.”

You tilted your head considering, that spark of mischief in your eyes again. “I’ll consider it.”

“That’s just fine, Angel,” he said, but couldn’t help the disappointment that settled in his gut. Hopefully, he’d kept it out of his voice.

He helped you set a new code on your locker and waited while you hung your cardigan inside after pulling a purple stethoscope out of the pocket and draping it around your neck. He arched a brow. “Thought you were doing admin today?”

“Better to be prepared.”

Jack nodded as he grabbed his bag to head home. You walked together until you peeled off at the hub while he continued toward the bay. You paused just long enough to look back over your shoulder and give him a wave and a smile.

He returned it, watched until you settled at the counter to talk to Dana, then let himself breathe. He almost made it to the exit before his phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out and blinked at the screen.

Unknown: See you tonight

He laughed and typed back: Looking forward to it. He slid his phone back into his pocket and headed for his truck, already counting down the hours until he saw you again.

robby’s a light sleeper, believe it or not. and you thinking that you could sneak out of his bed and not wake him was laughable. not for the fact that he’s a light sleeper, but since he’s grown a physical dependency on you being near him at all times.

it was about eight in the morning, your early morning work schedule showing up on a cloudy saturday morning, (because why would you need to sleep in in your day off?) white light from outside peaking sheepishly through the blinds of robby’s kitchen.

you’d thought a cup of coffee would be a nice way to wake him up, letting him catch up on his sleep since you know he gets so little of it anyways.

especially since he was… more advanced in years than you were.

you press the on button to his coffee machine, it starting to turn on but after a few minutes it rattles back to sleep mode.

you’d been over a handful of times, despite you and robby dating for a few months, keeping your relationship under wraps. you couldn’t risk anyone at work being suspicious of the two of you. you never really had a thing for older guys, and robby for younger women until you went out for a drink with your coworkers, and realized how much you needed the other.

you try again, replugging the machine, turning it on the same way, the blue led light blinking and teasing like it was laughing at you.

“c’mon,” you mutter.

a gruff, sleepy voice enters the room.

“you have to hit the side of it. that top button doesn’t work.”

you yelp at the sudden sound, the room that was empty less than two seconds ago now making you feel like you were on a survival reality show.

you grip the countertop, “you scared me.”

“sorry that i scared you in my own house, hon.” he plants a kiss on the top of your head, “let me help.”

he warrants a ‘move aside’ motion, and you take a half step back as he tinkers with the machine. he mumbles to himself then hits the side of the plastic, a screeching sound and the smell of coffee filling the room.

“there we go.”

you lean your forehead against his chest, him smelling like spearmint and home while his chin rests atop your head. one hand in your hair and the other wrapped around your shoulder.

“‘m sorry that i woke you.”

"That last bite is yours."

"No, yours."

Jack smiled at you from across the table, his eyes narrowing with teasing disapproval. The candle between you shifted in its glass holder, its flame catching the tines of his fork when he leaned forward over the remains of dessert.

There was barely anything left to argue over. A single bite of chocolate cake sat in the center of the white porcelain plate, surrounded by dark crumbs and milky streaks of melted ice cream. Still, he turned his fork onto its side and pressed it through the middle with the same concentration that made you think of him as a doctor—the emergency surgeon with a 10 blade in hand, the soldier cutting a crike in the field—dividing the last bite perfectly between you.

You pursed your lips, trying not to smile as he straightened the fork again, speared his half, and lifted it toward his mouth.

“You are so—”

“Charming?” he finished for you.

Your eyes narrowed, though the grin had already started pulling at your mouth. You leaned onto your elbows and collected your own half from the plate, letting him watch you take it.

The chocolate was dense on your tongue, the cake soft through the center and covered in a dark icing that clung to the roof of your mouth. Melted vanilla ice cream had soaked into the bottom layer, cooling the sweetness before you swallowed.

"—infuriating."

But there was no bite to your words, no heat to make them land anywhere tender. Your belly was full and warm, the dark restaurant and the last glass of wine leaving you a little light-headed, your limbs heavy beneath the table. Jack’s eyes caught the candlelight when he sat back to look at you, chin tipped up with a note of amusement.

“I seem to recall someone calling me ‘hot’ a couple weeks ago. What changed?”

“You refusing the last bite of chocolate cake, of course.” You shrugged.

“Sheesh. That easy to lose my title?”

"Mhm," you hummed into the last sip of your wine before setting it down.

"S'just too bad." he said, shaking his head and biting his lip, "worse is that it's 6:45."

This time, your lips did purse in disappointment. The hospital was only a few blocks away. You had known that all evening. It was why he had chosen somewhere downtown, why his overnight bag was under the table, why he had glanced at his watch twice during the movie and again when the waiter asked about dessert.

"Can… I call you in sick?"

“Oh, yeah, that’d go well.” He chuckled, sitting up to set his napkin on the mahogany table, his eyes skating around for the waiter. He caught the man’s attention and made a small writing motion with his hand, asking for the check.

You lifted your hand to your ear in an imitation of a phone.

“Yes, hi, this is Jack Abbot’s friend. I have to call him out because he’s really not feeling well.” You paused, nodding gravely at the imaginary person on the other end. “Oh, yeah, it’s a severe case of hot-older-man syndrome. He’s got it really bad. Okay, thanks for understanding.”

Jack shut his eyes. His head tipped back, his face pulling into a grimace that made you laugh before he had even spoken.

“Okay. Too many things wrong with that.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty convincing.”

“One—friend?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not this again.”

He opened his eyes and looked at you across the table. The amusement was still there, tucked into the corners, but his attention had sharpened.

“Think it’s okay to say we’re a little more than friends, sweetheart.”

Your stomach gave a hard squirm beneath the table. You lowered your hand from your ear. “Fine. Jack Abbot’s very special acquaintance.”

His mouth flattened.

“Lady he occasionally has dinner with? Shares with his fellow attending?”

His eyes danced around the room for a moment, as if checking to see if anyone heard that. Then he stared back at you with an eyebrow raised.

“Fine,” you conceded, unable to keep your smile from returning. “A little more than friends.”

“Thank you.” he said, nodding, and then continued, settling back again, “And two—old man?”

“I said hot old man, thank you very much.”

He scoffed. “I know you’re not talking about me.”

“You’re right. I’m seeing another Jack Abbot after this.”

“Better hope he doesn’t work at my hospital.”

You opened your mouth, but Jack lifted a finger before you could answer.

“And third,” he went on, “I’ve walked into that hospital with a bullet wound in my back. Highly doubt they’re gonna let me call out because…” He tilted his head, considering it. “What? I’m held up with a beautiful girl?”

"I think it would be only right." you shot back, though your skin warmed and not just from the wine.

The waiter appeared before Jack could answer, setting the leather check folder beside his elbow. Jack slid his card inside without opening it, letting the waiter take it right away.

And when they came back promptly, you watched him open the leather booklet, giving a nice tip and his illegible signature.

Dinner had been his idea. The movie too. He had arrived at Robby’s house shortly after three with his hair still damp from a shower and a clean shirt folded over the width of his shoulders. He should have been asleep then, storing away whatever rest he could before a night in the emergency department. Instead, he had taken you downtown because he knew Robby was working and you would spend most of the evening alone.

He hadn't said that was why or let you ask too many questions. Only told you to hurry up and get dressed early.

“Thank you,” you said. “It was really sweet of you to set all this up.”

“Thought it would be nice to do something different.”

He shrugged, but his eyes remained on the receipt for a moment longer than necessary, the pen turning once between his fingers. As if the compliment landed strangely on him. He could accept being called hot without blinking, but sweet still made him look for somewhere else to put his attention.

“It was,” you said.

His expression softened when he looked back up at you, and he pushed his chair back and stood. He straightened the collar of his shirt, bending down to grab his backpack to hoist it over his shoulder. You rose, smoothing your long skirt where it had twisted and rumpled from sitting for a while, and Jack’s hand left the chair and hovered behind you until his palm settled against your lower back, broad and warm through the thin fabric of your top. He guided you between the closely set tables, his fingers shifting whenever you had to angle around a chair or the corner of the bar.

“Besides,” he murmured near your ear, “what were you gonna do all evening before I came and got you, huh?”

The restaurant door opened onto the noise of downtown Pittsburgh. A car horn sounded at the intersection, followed by the heavy bass of music through an open window. Groups moved along the pavement around you, couples and families out for dinner, delivery drivers rushing in and out of places to pick up food for takeout. The sun was still out, though the light was softer as it hid behind tall buildings.

Jack kept his palm at your back until you were clear of the doorway.

“Wait around for you to come pick me up?” you answered.

It was meant to be teasing, but the answer was entirely true.

You had no plans. You might have taken a book outside and sat along the edge of the pool with your feet in the water. You might have worked out in the room downstairs, though you had been telling yourself that for three days. There was laundry sitting in the dryer and half a container of pasta in the refrigerator that could have counted as dinner.

Mostly, you would have waited for one of them to come home.

Jack made a face.

“What?”

“Think you need a hobby, young lady.”

“I am not joining the SWAT team.” you shot back.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let you.”

You stopped beneath the restaurant awning and turned toward him. “Oh, it’s let now, is it?”

His smile spread slowly. He bent and kissed the side of your mouth, catching you before your own had fully formed. His lips pressed against the corner for only a second, his hand tightening at your waist before he drew back.

“You can do whatever you want,” he said. “I’d just prefer you don’t choose something with a high risk of bodily harm.”

“I’m not even going to get started on what a hypocrite that makes you.”

You stepped onto the sidewalk, and he followed with a low chuckle.

His hand slid from your waist, down your arm, until his fingers found yours. He threaded them together without looking down, pulling you nearer when a group of people came toward you in the opposite direction.

“I do think a hobby might be a good idea,” he said once the sidewalk opened again. “Maybe something part-time, even. Keep you busy while we’re working.”

“Yeah, but most of the time you guys don’t work together.” You swung your joined hands between you once. “So I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

His mouth twisted.

It was a brief movement, gone when he looked toward the traffic passing through the intersection, but you caught it.

You understood the concern beneath the suggestion. Your whole life had revolved around Robby and the hospital. And Robby had you and his work. But outside of that, neither of you had really ever considered doing anything else. Robby liked his motorcycles, sure. Jack had a life, even if part of his was divided between the ED, the SWAT team, and whatever he kept to himself in the apartment you hadn't even seen yet.

You had them. And you were beginning to realize how easily that could become the whole shape of your life. It felt good.

The pedestrian light changed. Jack tugged your hand and led you into the crosswalk.

“You excited for today?” you asked when you reached the other side.

“For my shift?”

You looked up at him.

He was pressing his lips together to hold back a smile.

“No, Jack.”

“I know, I know.” His thumb moved over the side of your hand. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”

“You suppose?”

“Not really sure what to expect.”

You swung his hand again, unable to contain the excitement that had been building since they first told you the plan for your first visit back.

“Well, I’m excited. Besides, Robby will show you. It can be really fun.”

“Oh, I know it can.”

The smirk he gave you made warmth gather low in your stomach.

You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Are you still not going to tell me who you picked?”

“Nope.” He let the word pop from his lips.

“Like I said: infuriating.”

Jack laughed, the sound carrying above the traffic for a moment before it settled back between you.

The rest of the walk toward the hospital was easy. As the building appeared closer and closer, you found yourself wishing to slow down time, to stay in this little bubble you'd created tonight. It wasn't like the second you'd step inside you wouldn't see him again for the rest of his shift, but still. You never knew when you stepped through those doors. How slammed they'd been all day, how quickly his fingers might untangle from yours because of a trauma coming in through the doors. You knew it felt selfish to think of it like that, so you didn't say anything out loud.

He held the door open for you, the temperature inside nearly as tepid as the evening outside.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, walking past him. You're not sure what made you want to say it, maybe that you wanted to soak up as much of his attention as you could before the hospital swallowed him in. “The hobby thing, I mean.”

He smiled and tipped his head. “Good.”

You made your way through the second set of doors with his hand still in yours. The waiting room was overflowing, bodies packed into the rows of vinyl chairs and standing along the walls. Jack pulled your joined hands close behind his back so the two of you could squeeze between them, keeping you tucked close as someone shifted a wheelchair out of the aisle.

The double doors leading back to triage felt more looming than they had before.

Because there was something else on your mind tonight too.

Something you didn't mention at dinner, something you didn't even want to think about because it worried you so much.

"Abbot!"

His name was called from the main desk. The charge nurses stood behind it going over shift change, charts open between them. Both pairs of eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then dropped to where your fingers were still interlaced.

"Hey, D." you murmured. "Hi, Lena."

“Well, hello to you too, angel girl.” Dana smirked before turning her attention back to Jack. “They need you in Trauma Two.”

Jack nodded, "Let me get changed and I'm on it."

He turned toward you, but you were already opening your mouth.

“I’m good. I’ll let you know where I end up.” You smiled, even with the disappointment already sinking into your stomach. So much for easing into the night. His fingers tightened around yours in apology.

“Go save lives,” you added, squeezing him back.

Jack smiled down at you, then lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles before releasing it. "I'll find you soon."

You nodded, and he was headed towards the lockers with a quickening pace.

When you looked back, both charge nurses were staring at you in open bewilderment.

You pressed your lips together, and tapped your fingers on the linoleum desk, eyes glancing around. “I’m… gonna go find Robby.”

“You do that,” Lena said, holding back a deeply impressed smile.

Dana chomped down on her nicotine gum, her grin widening as she shook her head. The two of them looked at each other with their brows raised, an entire conversation passing between them that you had no intention of standing there to hear.

You weren't entirely sure where Robby had gone, whether you kept passing like ships in the night from room to room, if he was upstairs checking on a patient from earlier in the day, or maybe he'd just went home early.

Though you'd would've gotten a text about that last one.

You checked your phone anyway, thumb waking the screen. There was nothing from him beyond the good morning text he sent almost every day when he left for work before you were up.

A part of you was worried he could be up on the roof. But Dana would've said something if that was the case, and she wouldn't had been so cheeky in her expression if the day had been really that bad.

Still…

You kept moving through the department, looking through the glass of each room as you passed, until you found Frank Langdon near the supply alcove.

“Frankie,” you sighed with a smile.

He looked up, and some of the tension left his face. “Hey.”

He pulled you into a hug, though it ended before you could properly settle into it. His hand pressed once between your shoulder blades before he stepped back, already glancing toward the patient board over your shoulder.

“How are you?” he asked, glancing down at you. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know. I miss you.”

The teasing smile you gave him finally loosened the line between his brows.

“Oh, yeah?”

You nodded. "Always."

“Uh-huh.” His mouth pulled to one side. “I’m sure.”

There was usually somewhere easy for the two of you to go from there. A look held too long. A suggestion disguised as a joke. Instead, his hands disappeared into the pockets of his cotton scrub pants, his shoulders rolling back from the long day.

“Have you seen Robby?” you asked to fill the silence.

“Uh—” His eyes moved from the board to skate across the department. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw him earlier. He’s around here somewhere.”

“How was the day?” Your voice softened.

Langdon licked his dried lips, then caught the bottom one between his teeth. “It wasn’t great.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled and planted his hands on his hips, his badge swinging against his leg. “Listen, I’ve gotta check on a liver lac before they take him upstairs, but I need to talk to you later.”

Your brows drew together, about to ask him what about, when another voice was calling you from behind.

“I’ll find you before I leave,” he said quickly. “I just—it's okay, nothing's wrong I just…I don’t want you hearing it from somebody else.”

Your stomach twisted, but he was already walking away, his eyes darkening when he saw who was approaching.

You watched him go, your brows tightening before you faced Trinity Santos.

“Hey, Trin.” you said.

“Long time no see.” She glanced past you toward Langdon’s retreating back, then returned her attention to you. “Thanks for coming over—jeez, was that the last time I saw you? Two weeks ago?”

You laughed softly, trying to get your mind to unscramble from that strange encounter. “Yeah, I uh, I think so.”

“Jesus, girl. We need to hang out more. Without the entire ED present.”

“For sure." you nodded, eyes averting to your shoes. "I’m down.”

Then you remembered why you had been nervous to come in tonight at all, and your eyes found hers again.

“Actually, Trin… can I ask you for a favor?”

She shrugged. “Course.”

“Privately.”

Her eyes moved over your face. The smile disappeared, worry flattening her expression.

“Yeah. Of course, c’mon.” she whispered. Her hand closed around your arm, and she pulled you toward an empty exam room. The curtain hooks clicked along the metal track behind you before the room went quiet.

"What's going on?" she asked.

“I, um…Okay," you sighed, "you can’t say anything.”

Her eyes only grew more worried.

“Promise me,” you added.

She nodded, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. Yes. Obviously.”

“Even Dennis?”

Her head tilted. “You need me to promise you my firstborn too?”

“Trin…” you groaned.

“Okay, your whole Julie James routine is freaking me out. Did you hit someone with a car or what?”

“Oh my God—your brain is so weird sometimes. No.”

“Then just tell me!”

You looked toward the curtain, though there was no one standing outside it. Your fingers had begun picking at the edge of your thumbnail.

“Can you just—fuck.” You lowered your voice further. “Can you get an ultrasound machine in here without anyone noticing?”

Trinity’s eyes might as well have bulged from her head.

"Oh, fuck…"

"Trin!"

“Okay, Jesus.” She unfolded her arms, her hands swiping through the air as she squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. “Yeah. Give me a few minutes.”

“Quietly.” you added.

She took a step toward the curtain, then stopped, and looked back at you. “Fuck, seriously?”

Your stomach pulled tighter. Her eyes dropped over you for half a second before snapping back to your face.

“Whose is it?”

“For fuck’s sake, Trinity.” You covered your face with both hands.

“Okay, okay.” Her voice softened, though only slightly. “But if you’re pregnant, you have to tell me whose it is.”

You dragged your hands down your face.

“And I get to be godmother.”

You stared at her in bewilderment. “Yes. Fine. Whatever. Just go.”

She reached for the curtain.

“And don’t let Robby or Jack see you,” you added quickly. “For the love of God.”

She was gone and back within two minutes, pushing the ultrasound machine through the curtain.

“Okay,” she breathed, reaching for the bottle of gel and squeezing a thick line over the end of the transducer that she took from its holder. She then pointed it toward your stomach. “Lift the shirt.”

“Shit, is that going to get all over me?” you cursed, gathering the hem of your silk top carefully between your fingers.

“Should’ve gotten into the gown.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“Lift the shirt, mama,” she said again, far too brightly.

“Trinity!” you hissed.

She looked back at you with a wide smile, though the bewilderment still had not left her face. “Listen, you got us into this mess. Let me have my fun.”

You groaned, but lifted the shirt to the edge of your bra and held it there beneath your chin. The backs of your legs pressed against the exam bed behind you while Trinity stepped closer and set the probe against the center of your stomach.

You hissed when the cold gel touched your skin, your muscles pulling tight beneath it, but your eyes had already gone to the screen.

Trinity moved the probe once, then again, angling it lower while the grainy image shifted on the screen. Neither of you spoke while the machine hummed beside you, the static of the ultrasound filling the silence.

There was nothing there. Just wide open darkness, the lining of your uterus, gray and white matter and nothing else.

The breath left you first. Trinity’s followed a second later, both of you sagging at once beneath the relief.

Then the curtain rings shrieked across the metal rod.

You jumped out of your skin as you turned and saw Robby standing at the door.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was half breath, half exasperated frustration. You could see the weariness of the day all over him—the crease fixed between his brows, his eyes red at the edges, the new stress-grays stippled through his beard. Now confusion clouded all of it, his attention struggling to take in the scene in front of him.

For one long second, none of you moved.

He stood just inside the curtain, one hand still wrapped around its edge. His eyes moved from you to Trinity, then dropped to your stomach, where she still held the probe against your skin.

Trinity found her voice first.

“Just—just a, uh, quick anatomy lesson,” she stuttered unconvincingly. "We wanted to see inside her guts, ya know—"

She pulled the probe away and dropped it into its cradle, then clumsily tore a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and shoved them into your hands. You started wiping the gel from your stomach, too quickly to do anything except spread it around. The slick edge of the towel caught the hem of your silk shirt, leaving a damp smear across the fabric.

Both of you looked exceptionally guilty.

Your eyes kept moving—from your exposed stomach to Robby, back to your hands, then toward the ultrasound screen where the grainy image of your empty uterus sat waiting.

Robby followed your gaze.

You watched his expression change while the pieces fitted themselves together. The probe. Your shirt lifted to your bra. Trinity’s panic. The image left glowing on the screen.

His jaw tightened.

“Go check on your patients, Dr. Santos,” he said, his voice loud and controlled now. He stood taller, but his head was still tilted to the floor, his eyes not meeting either of you now. “Hand offs are happening in just a few minutes.”

Trinity nodded too quickly, her lips pressed together and eyes wide. “Yep. On it.”

She stopped just past Robby, looking up at him, and then to you, a pleading look in her eyes. I'm sorry.

“Now,” Robby snapped.

Trinity ducked past him and slipped through the curtain, leaving it swaying behind her.

The room went quiet again.

Robby let the curtain fall from his hand and brought both palms to his face and dragged them upward, pressing over his eyes, then down his cheeks into his beard. He did it again, harder, before hooking his hands behind his neck and staring at the floor.

You finished wiping the gel from your stomach and pulled your shirt down. The damp spot clung cold against your skin.

“I can explain—”

“Honey.” His eyes shut. “Do you really think I would make that mistake?”

Your hands stilled at the hem of your shirt.

His eyes opened— he looked exhausted more than anything, his head tipped slightly while he studied your face.

“Do you really think I would get you pregnant without talking to you first? Without knowing if you wanted that?”

Your brows threaded. “What do you mean?”

Robby looked at you for another long moment, as if weighing his words, hands still locked behind his neck.

“I track your cycle.”

You stared at him.

He dropped his arms at last, one hand landing on his hip while the other rubbed across his mouth.

“I know when you’re ovulating. I know when you’re going to have your period.” His voice lowered, some of the sharpness leaving it. “I know when we need to be careful or not do anything at all."

The paper towel crumpled tighter in your fist.

"You… track…"

He nodded.

"Without ever telling me?"

You weren’t entirely sure what to do with that. It was strange, certainly, having him know something so private without ever discussing it with you. But beneath the surprise was the unavoidable fact that he had been paying attention, quietly accounting for the risk while you hadn’t thought twice about it. That he'd been taking care of you all along, whether you realized or not.

“I just didn't think it needed announcing,” he sighed. His shoulders sagged beneath his black hoodie, and he blinked several times without managing to clear the fatigue from his eyes. “We can’t leave that sort of thing to chance.”

You shifted your weight, the damp patch on your shirt sticking cold against your stomach.

“So… did you know I was late?”

“I did notice the new pack of tampons hadn't been touched in the drawer at home.” He looked back at you. “I also knew that didn’t mean you needed to steal an ultrasound machine and drag Santos into some kind of covert operation.”

You sighed, the corner of your mouth lifting as you tossed the paper towel into the trash. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I didn't realize…"

“I know.” A small smile pulled at his mouth too. His eyes lightened as he held his arms out. “C’mere.”

You did as he bid, the last of the adrenaline beginning to drain from your body as his arms closed around you. He pulled you against his chest and released a long breath, resting his cheek on the crown of your head. His scrubs smelled faintly of antiseptic and the coffee he had probably reheated twice without finishing.

"I always got you," he murmured into your hair. "You know that, right?"

You nodded, hands tightening around his middle.

“You get worried about something like this, you come to me.” His palm moved once over your back. “You don’t have to sneak around the department stealing my residents."

A quiet laugh caught against his chest. “Okay.”

“I mean it, honey.” His voice softened. “This. Anything.”

“I know,” you whispered.

You felt his lips press to the top of your head, lingering there as he breathed you in, the room settling around you with only the sounds of the outside chaos muffled behind the door.

“Long day?” you murmured into his chest after a moment.

“The longest.”

You lifted your eyes to his, and just watched him for a long while, both of your eyes just looking at each other. You unlatched your fingers from where they'd been hooked around each other behind his back and slid them up his chest and around his neck, thumbs by his jaw, his prickly beard ticklish against your skin. His eyes were softening, his jaw unclenching, those tired lines on his face still dug deeper, but gentler now.

A thought flitted across your mind, then. The nervousness of the night, of what it would mean if you'd accidentally gotten pregnant… but… you'd never thought of whether or not either of you would ever want something like that.

You wondered if he had ever pictured it. Whether the careful tracking and the certainty in his voice came only from wanting to prevent it, or from knowing it was a conversation he meant to have with you someday.

Your brows pulled together.

"Have… you ever thought about—"

Behind him, movement crossed the narrow window in the exam-room door. A familiar face stopped on the other side.

Jack looked in through the glass, his brows drawn with curious concern as his eyes moved over the two of you.

Robby turned with you still held against him, glancing over his shoulder toward the other attending. Then he looked back down at you, expression still soft and gentle, but with a knew sort of mischief in his eyes you hadn't seen in the past few minutes.

“Guess he’s ready.” he said, his voice cracking with amusement.

You nodded. “Guess so.”

Your question could wait. It would wait.

Robby leaned down then, taking your lips between his for a long moment, and it felt like his entire day drained from him in one long, tired kiss. His beard brushed over your chin and tickled under your nose, his breath warm between you while his arms held you close. His lips were a little dry, his mouth lingering against yours before he finally pulled away.

You slipped from his hold and followed him toward the door, though it took a second for your feet to cooperate. Your body felt light, your thoughts reduced to a low static beneath the sudden rush of anticipation.

The thought of a pregnancy scare left your mind as you walked down the hall with Robby's arm still snug around you, Jack's back broad and shifting beneath his Figs scrubs top ahead of you.

It had been a while since you'd been shared again, here again, in what had been your old version of normalcy. And not knowing who it was—not being able to choose like you used to get away with… it felt exciting, it felt different. A start to a new normal. You wondered what this would look like— Jack taking the reins sometimes. What kind of choices he would make for you, how he would grow into this relationship, into this version of himself, and how you and Robby would make that room for him.

The last two weeks between Jack's first dinner with you and tonight had been slow moving and gentle. At first, the three of you had agreed that anything beyond heavy petting and kissing should happen with all of you under the same roof.

It hadn’t taken long to realize how difficult that would be to maintain.

So the rule had an amendment.

If one of them wasn’t there, there needed to be a text or a conversation first. Some acknowledgment that the third person was still part of what was happening, even from somewhere else.

Jack came to Robby’s often, keeping you company during the day before his shifts. Sometimes it was lunch followed by long naps on the couch. Sometimes you ended up straddling his lap at the kitchen table, kissing until his hands had worked beneath your shirt and the crumbs from lunch sat forgotten beside you. Other days, he only came by to walk through the neighborhood with you, the two of you circling the same few blocks before he had to leave again.

The waiting also created its own kind of denial.

Kissing was allowed when you were alone. So were hands beneath clothes, grinding against Jack’s thigh until your underwear was damp, Robby pinning you against the kitchen counter while Jack was working. But sex belonged to all three of you unless the other man knew what was happening and agreed to be left out of it.

A few days after that first night, Jack had been over while Robby was mid-shift, and he had sent a text.

It wasn’t exactly asking permission.

The photo had showed you in the bed, your cheek resting against the top of Jack’s clothed thigh while he lay back against the pillows. Your eyes were lifted toward the camera, wide and pleading, and your arms wrapped around his leg.

Robby’s reply had come less than a minute later.

Only if I get a video of your cock down her throat.

Which, of course, you and Jack had obliged.

Another night, Robby had been home with you while Jack was working. Robby stripped you down to your bra and underwear, tied your wrists and ankles to the bedposts, then called the attending anyway via Facetime.

The flash from the camera had burst white across your eyes, blinding you from the cocky grin on Robby's face.

“Aren’t you two supposed to be asleep?” you heard Jack ask through the phone, making you squirm.

“But look at her, brother.” Robby chuckled. “Can’t bear to leave her like this. She's fucking soaked through her panties over some grinding on my stomach. Look.”

The words had made humiliation and desperate, wanton need flush through you while Jack had gone quiet for a moment.

And then, his voice low, the sound of a door closing behind him, he said:

“Show me.”

Heat had swept across your skin while Robby moved the phone between your legs, bringing the camera close up, a shard of light spotlighted on your panties. He pulled them aside and played with you while Jack watched the slide of your soaked folds being touched by his deft fingers. Robby kept you balanced at the edge until your thighs shook and your pleas broke apart beneath the sound of both their voices.

Jack gave permission eventually.

Robby ended the call and fucked you deep into the mattress, each thrust driving the headboard into the wall until you thought the wood might split.

So walking toward this now—toward something that had once been normal between you and Robby, reshaped to hold Jack too—made anticipation buzz beneath your skin.

It was familiar enough that your body remembered what came next. Different enough that it didn’t know what to prepare for.

South Thirteen came into view at the end of the hall.

Jack stopped, holding the door open, and you smiled widely at him, your skin feeling more jittery with every bouncing step inside.

“Someone’s a little excited,” he teased as you passed.

You could only nod, a giggle slipping out when his eyes narrowed and his cheeks tightened around a closed smile.

Robby followed you inside. Once Jack shut the door and drew the curtains across the windows, the room settled into a muted quiet. The department still moved beyond the walls—voices carrying past the door, the squeak of rubber wheels over tile, a monitor beeping steadily close by—but all of it sounded farther away now.

You stood beside the bed, your fingers worrying the fabric of your skirt while you waited.

"Remember what we talked about?" Robby asked, his arms folded across his chest.

Jack was making his way to the rolling stool, hooking up the stirrups of the hospital bed, nodding.

“Have a look. Get her warmed up. Then go collect our guest.”

"You're forgetting something." Robby said.

Jack looked up at him, then over at you, still standing beside the bed and waiting to be told what to do.

“How…” Your mouth had gone dry. “How would you like me, Dr. Abbot?”

Heat spread across your face the moment the words left you.

Jack’s expression changed, his attention settled fully on you now, the amusement tightening into something more focused.

“Would you get me my gloves, sweetheart?” he asked. “Size seven and a half.”

You hurried toward the wall where Robby stood beside the glove dispensers. His smile had already turned fond, touched with amusement as he watched you become more embarrassed beneath both their stares.

You bit your lip. “S’cuse me.”

Robby moved so he was more in the way than not, only to make it worse, placing himself directly beneath the box you needed.

You gave him a narrow look.

His smile widened.

“Pretend I’m not even here,” he said cheekily.

You rose onto your toes and reached around him, your breasts brushing over his folded arms while you fought to pull the gloves free without dropping them. Robby’s eyes stayed on your face the entire time.

When you turned around, Jack was smiling too.

Cocky. Pleased with himself already.

They were going to be the death of you.

You knew better than to say anything petulant. Not wanting any sort of reprimand or punishment, you simply crossed the room and held the pair of blue gloves out to Jack instead.

"Good girl." he said with a smile, chin tilted up at you, then jerking to the hospital bed. "Up, please."

You made a show of squeezing between his knees and the raised stirrups, letting your knees brush against him on the way past. Jack’s gaze dropped for only a second before returning to your face, mischief sitting bright in his eyes.

Finally, you pushed yourself up onto the edge of the bed, and let your legs dangle over the edge.

"Lay back, shoes off and feet in the rests for me, sweetheart." he said. He sounded so clinical, so calm—just like the hot doctor fantasy you'd always had.

You kicked your shoes off, and Jack's hand found the delicate arch of your foot to help you into the rests.

"Scooch down, there you go, good girl, that's it." he said sweetly as you moved to be in front of him.

"She really dressed nice for you tonight, huh, Abbot?" Robby said from the other side of the room. You looked around your legs at him as Jack began pushing your skirt up, bunching it over your hips.

"Oh, yes she did." Jack said when he took a look under the pretty skirt you'd chosen. "And look at that."

You let your head fall back onto the mattress, embarrassment making you squirm a little in the bed.

Robby let out a low whistle, coming to stand next to the other attending.

“Oh, honey…” He shook his head slowly. “You’re gonna be the death of us one of these days.”

You didn't mention how you'd had that exact thought only a few minutes ago as Jack’s thumb pressed into the inside of your thigh.

“Not if she keeps following directions this well.”

You covered your face with both hands and shook your head. “Please don't."

The snap of Jack’s gloves had your knees falling farther apart before he even asked. The reaction came so quickly that both men noticed, like it was pavlovian, instinctual.

A single gloved finger slid down the center of your slick, bare pussy.

Robby’s voice lowered.

“Did he ask you to do this, honey?” His hand settled against your bent knee. “Were you such a good listener that you left your panties at home?”

You shook your head.

"No?" Robby chuckled.

“Told her to give them to me at the restaurant,” Jack answered for you.

You peered through the gaps between your fingers. He was looking down at you with his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Robby muttered from beside him.

Jack hummed, the sound low in his throat, and slid two gloved fingers through your wet folds. They moved easily, parting you with a slick drag from your entrance to your clit and back again, gathering everything you had made him through the evening. The room caught every obscene pass of his hand, and both men groaned at the sound of the shlick arousal as his gloved fingers pushed just barely inside of you.

Your hands fell from your face and slapped down against the mattress when Jack pushed in to his first joints. The stretch came slowly, two thick fingers held together inside your entrance while your body tightened around them.

“Oh, yeah,” Jack sighed, watching you take him. “There we go.”

“Curl your fingers—”

Jack looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Sorry, who’s doing this assessment right now?”

Robby lifted both hands and stepped back from the bed. “You’re right, you’re right. Got carried away.” The laugh beneath his words did nothing to hide how closely he was watching.

“Thank you.” Jack returned his attention to the place between your legs, his fingers still resting inside you. “Gotta get you nice and ready, sweetheart.”

Your hips jumped beneath his hand when his thumb brushed your clit. The contact was light, barely more than the pad of his thumb finding the swollen point of you, but it sent a jolt through your stomach.

“Oh—right there, Jackie—”

His eyes lifted to yours. “You’re not usually so demanding, sweetheart.”

“M’sorry,” you mewled, already trying to tilt yourself harder into his hand. “Just—just feels so nice. I want more.”

“I’m sure you do.” He cooed, sweet enough to make the reprimand tingle through your skin, then eased his fingers deeper. The second joint pushed through with a thick pull of your walls, your thighs tensing and your toes curling in the stirrups. He drew them back until only the tips remained, then pressed them in again, slower this time, letting your body stretch around each inch.

Your palms struck the bed again, and you whined.

A sharp click of teeth came from the corner. “Behave yourself,” Robby hissed a warning.

You pouted, but forced yourself still.

Jack’s thumb pressed harder against your clit, pushing the hood back until the small bundle sat exposed beneath the slick surface of his glove. The air against it felt cool after the heat of his hand, enough to make your legs shiver where they rested open.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Breathe.” His fingers stayed buried while his thumb moved in a tight stroke over you. “I know my fingers are a lot, huh? How do they feel?”

Your breath caught in a small hiccup when he pushed all the way until you sat fully on his knuckles, the meat of his palm pressed close. The fullness was more than you expected, even though it wasn't the first time, it always felt like it. They were thick enough that your muscles clamped down around him before slowly giving way.

“Fuck,” you squealed. “So—so thick.”

“Yeah?” His voice softened further. “They feel good, don't they?”

“Yes.” you whimpered.

“How about this?”

He curled both fingers.

The pressure caught inside you so sharply that your head lifted from the mattress. Before you could brace, he began working them in earnest, quick drags over the same tender place with each firm motion. His wrist flexed between your thighs, the heel of his hand knocking lightly against you while his other palm came down across your lower stomach, holding your pelvis flat to the bed.

You squealed like a cat, mewling and crying out. He picked up in speed, yanking his fingers— and the position left you nowhere to move. Every attempt to buck only pressed you harder into his fingers, the hooked tips pulling against you while the weight of his hand kept your hips pinned. Your feet shook against the stirrups. Your stomach tightened beneath his palm.

"Sh, sh, sh," Robby said from the corner, "Don't make me come over there and put something in your mouth to quiet you."

You almost wished he would, but you couldn't answer, because your orgasm was quick approaching—

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Jack!" you cried.

"That's it, that's it, your pussy is so perfect, sweetheart, squeezing my fingers so good. Ellis isn't gonna know what hit her—"

Your moans caught, your eyes snapping open.

Jack smiled when he saw the recognition cross your face. He tilted his head without slowing his hand, then rose from the stool and leaned over you, pushing more weight into your hips while keeping his fingers buried and moving.

“Oh?” he murmured. “Did I forget to mention who your first resident back is?”

“Jaaack—”

Your hands came up around his forearm, gripping the tight muscle where he held your hips down. His wrist kept flexing between your legs, each movement yanking another helpless sound from you.

“Oh, I know, sweetheart.” His mouth pulled into a mocking pout. “I know.”

He pushed deeper and curled again.

“She’s gonna fucking love you. She’s gonna love this pussy just like we do.”

Your eyes stayed fixed on his face while the heat climbed through your stomach. Your legs had begun to tremble hard enough that the stirrups shifted against their hinges. You glanced toward Robby, catching the dark focus in his eyes.

“Can I—” Your voice broke. “Can I please come? Oh, God, please.”

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Jack demanded.

Your eyes returned to his.

“Want you to come all over my fingers.” His thumb pressed down harder while his fingers hooked inside you, wrenching them back and forth with force. “Want you to fucking soak them. Your pretty pussy wants it so bad, doesn’t she? I can feel how bad.”

Your breath left you in short cries just as he pushed his thumb harder into your sensitive clit.

“Oh, yes. Yeah, right there, huh?” His hand kept the same punishing rhythm. “That’s the spot. C’mon now, come for Jackie.”

Your back arched from the mattress. Your eyes rolled shut, and the sound that tore out of you was loud enough to carry through the curtains and into the hall.

Robby was beside the bed in seconds.

His hand covered your mouth, so broad it covered the entire lower half across your lips and cheeks, catching the next cry against his palm while your orgasm broke through you. Your body clenched hard around Jack’s fingers, hips jerking beneath the hand pinning you down. Spit slipped warm from the corner of your mouth and tracked along Robby’s thumb while the two of them held you through it—Jack working every pulse from your body, Robby keeping your cries muffled against his skin.

As your breathing slowed and your mewling cries softened into dreamy sighs, Robby’s hand eased from your face. His palm moved over your cheek instead, brushing back the hair stuck damply to your forehead before he leaned down to kiss your temple.

"Little loud, honey," he chuckled in your ear. You pushed your shoulder up into the side of your head, giggling breathlessly as his mustache tickled your earlobe.

“Not used to having to keep her quiet,” Jack laughed.

He pulled his fingers from you, the latex dragging slickly through the last tight clench of your body. Your feet twitched in the stirrups, a soft whine leaving you at the sudden emptiness.

“C'mon, sweetheart. Up you go.”

He helped your feet out of the rests, your muscles weak and shaking when one of his hands closed around your forearm and helped pull you upright. The room tipped for half a second as you rose, your muscles still loose from your orgasm, and Jack steadied you until you were seated at the edge of the bed.

His other hand was already waiting—the two gloved fingers pushing between your parted lips, the latex made slippery with your arousal. You closed your mouth around them eagerly, licking into the space between his digits and gathering the taste from each crease. The tips pressed against the back of your tongue, drawing a gag and a small whine from your throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jack groaned.

His eyes stayed fixed on your open mouth, watching your tongue slide in and out between his fingers.

“You really just do this and go about your shift?”

“Most of the time, yeah,” Robby chuckled. “We’ll have our fun later.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Jack’s mouth twisted. “I have to wait a whole twelve hours, apparently.”

The put-upon edge to his voice made you smile around his fingers.

You wrapped your hand around the thick joint of his wrist, keeping him where he was while you drew his fingers from your mouth. Then you flattened your tongue against them, licking long stripes from the base of his knuckles to the tips.

“When you get home…” You paused to lap between his fingers. “You and I can have fun.”

You turned your head toward Robby, leaving Jack’s hand suspended beside your mouth.

“Right, Robby?”

“Sure, honey.” he said, his eyes darkening.

Robby’s gaze stayed on you while Jack latched his wet fingers around your jaw, turning you back toward him. His thumb pressed into one cheek, the other fingers slick against the opposite side, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was hungry from the start. His lips parted yours, his tongue pushing in to taste what remained on your mouth. One hand stayed fixed around your face while the other settled heavily against your thigh.

“Patience is a virtue, Abbot.” Robby shook his head and started toward the door.

Jack broke away from you, listening to the other attending but still looking at you intensely.

“One that pays off especially well in this dynamic,” Robby added reaching for the curtain at the windows. “I promise.”

That was enough to make Jack step away from you, though reluctantly. He licked his lips, his pupils blown wide, the front of his pants pulled tight enough that Robby’s eyes dropped toward it.

“You may want to…” Robby dipped his chin, a laugh catching low in his chest. “Take a moment.”

“Could take care of it right here.”

“Jack.” The warning sat plainly in Robby’s voice.

Jack’s smug grin only widened. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”

“Poor choice of words.” the other attending chortled.

Jack glanced back at him with a smile, then turned toward you one last time.

“I’ll send Ellis in, sweetheart.” His eyes moved slowly over your bare legs and the skirt still bunched around your hips where you sat waiting. “Don’t forget to come say goodbye before you leave.”

“Yes, Jack,” you murmured.

You swung your feet as they hung over the side of the bed, your heels knocking against the metal frame in steady clunks.

Both men paused at the doorway to look back at you.

The matching satisfaction on their faces made heat collect beneath your skin all over again.

And then they were gone.

You’d righted your clothes and leaned back against the hospital bed while you waited, the noise of the department swelling and lulling around the little bubble of South Thirteen. Voices passed the door, wheels rattled over the floor, then faded again.

Sitting still proved impossible. You kept smoothing at nonexistent wrinkles in your chiffon skirt, picking at the edge of one nail, shifting until the paper beneath you crackled. Nothing felt comfortable for more than a few seconds.

By the time the door opened, you were already halfway to your feet, ready to go find Robby and ask whether it was time to call the whole thing and go home.

"Hey, I'm so sorry—"

Ellis slipped inside breathless, one hand still on the door behind her. Her braids had been gathered into a high knot, and she wore black scrubs over a lavender shirt, the sleeves pushed partway up her forearms. Her almond-shaped eyes looked heavier than the last time you’d seen her, the lids lowered with exhaustion, but they found you immediately.

“Hi—oh, it’s okay.” You sat straighter on the edge of the bed. “I was just worried something happened.”

She walked straight toward you without hesitation, the easy sway of her body loosening some of the tension wound through yours.

“There’s a guy in North Five I’ve been tryna discharge for hours, but he keeps thinking of new things wrong with him.” Her mouth pulled to one side, those pillowy lips trying and failing to hold a flat expression. “Like he wants to stay in this hellhole.”

You smiled, watching her hop onto the bed beside you before she let out a long breath.

“Tell him he’s gotta start paying rent soon.” You laughed, then looked her over again, taking in the fatigue settled around her eyes. “Wait, were you on days today?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Pulling a double.”

“You’re insane.”

“Possibly.”

Ellis tipped her head back toward the ceiling and closed her eyes, letting her head lull side to side with a stretch. The movement exposed the clean line of her throat above the collar of her undershirt, her cheekbones catching beneath the fluorescent light, and then she turned her face toward you again.

“Can we lie down?” she asked, looking at the mattress. “Don’t think I’m gonna get another chance.”

"Oh!" you said, too busy staring at her, "Yeah, yeah."

The two of you moved until you were lying side by side. You folded your hands over your stomach, but the stiffness in your arms gave you away, your elbows held close to your sides.

She was so near that you could feel her arm brushing against yours, could smell the shea butter that clung faintly to her skin beneath the sharper smells of the hospital. There was coconut too, maybe from her body wash, softened now by antiseptic and the hours she’d spent moving between patients.

“I won’t bite, you know,” she murmured. "I mean, unless you ask me to."

When you looked over, she was smiling. The exhaustion still sat in the heavy hood of her eyes, but amusement warmed them, catching there the same way it had beneath the colored lights the last time you’d gone out together.

You sighed, letting your mouth pull into a little bashful grin, looking away. “I know.”

You gathered your courage and turned onto your side to face her, propping your head in one hand, your elbow sinking into the pillow beside her head.

“I only have a few minutes,” she whispered, her gaze lowering to your mouth.

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, nerves fluttering through your stomach and down into your hands. “Okay.”

“You look really pretty today,” she said, even quieter.

Your smile widened before you could stop it. Heat crept up your neck, and you glanced down at your silk shirt where it had twisted across your chest when you rolled toward her. From where Ellis lay, the neckline had shifted enough to give her a generous view.

“Yeah?” Your voice barely carried between you.

She nodded.

Her eyes moved over your face once more, slower now. You noticed how soft hers became when she wasn’t trying to hide behind that deadpan look, how the corners tipped downward in a way that made her seem thoughtful even while she stared openly at your lips.

The two of you stayed like that for another moment, close enough that either one of you could have closed the distance.

“Can I touch you?” she asked.

You nodded.

Ellis brought her hand up, hesitating only for a moment before letting it settle against your face. The soft pads of her fingers touched your brow first, then drifted lower along your cheekbone. She tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and traced the line of your jaw, her touch so light that you found yourself leaning into it without meaning to.

You watched her pretty almond eyes study you. Watched her tongue slip out to wet her lips when her fingers moved over your bottom one, then traced the cupid’s bow of the top. You pursed your mouth enough to kiss the tip of her finger and held her gaze while you did it, catching the way her pupils widened, the way her next breath came a little deeper.

"I've never been with a girl before," you whispered.

"S'okay," Ellis said back, shaking her head a little, "You don't have to do anything today, just let me take care of you."

You nodded, the last little bit of nerves leaving your body at her words. With all the unease finally drained from you, you leaned in, and took her lips in yours.

She was so fucking soft.

Her lips were every bit as pillowy as you had imagined, moisturized and easy beneath yours, so different from what you were used to. There was no scrape of beard against your chin, no five o’clock shadow catching beneath your nose. Only the smooth press of her mouth, the soft give of it when you kissed her deeper.

She breathed you in, and the hand that had been tracing your face slid behind your head, her fingers settling into your hair to keep you close while her mouth moved against yours. Her nails grazed your scalp before she gave the strands a light pull, tipping your head back enough to pull a gasp from you. Ellis took it from your mouth, her tongue slipping beneath your top lip to trace the tender skin. Your tongue dipped to meet hers, slick and tentative at first, then pressing closer until both of you let out quiet moans.

Your body had begun to squirm beside her, your knees shifting against the sheet while heat gathered low in your stomach. Every soft drag of her lips felt sharper for the lack of roughness, her cheek smooth where it pressed against yours, her fingers firm in your hair.

“Why don’t you go ahead and use my thigh, baby girl?” she murmured against your mouth. “Can tell you’re already all worked up, hm?”

She eased her thigh between your legs, the pressure making your breath catch. You lifted the hem of your skirt with one hand and shifted your knee over hers, the fabric gathering high around your hips.

“M’not—” you gasped when Ellis kissed the corner of your mouth.

She hummed and continued along your jaw, each kiss wet enough to cool against your skin once her lips moved on. Her mouth found the side of your neck, lingering there while you tried again.

“I don’t want to ruin your scrubs.”

Ellis pulled back just enough to look at you. “What do you mean?”

You reached for the wrist still braced behind your head and guided her hand down. Her fingers slid beneath the bunched chiffon, over the warm skin of your inner thigh, until her palm found your bare center.

She went still.

“Shit.” Her breath drew in sharply, her head pulling back so she could look at your face. Her hand remained cupped against you, close enough that the smallest shift of your hips made your slick folds drag over the pads of her fingertips. “I never knew you were such a bad girl.”

"Not bad," you pouted, kissing her lips as if asking for forgiveness, "Jack took them."

"Aw," she cooed, kissing you back, "It's okay, here, let me take these off."

You nodded, and she worked her scrub pants down over her hips, the fabric catching briefly against her thighs before she shoved it lower. She wore simple black panties beneath, cheeky and comfortable looking, the skin of her thick thighs so pretty in the light. “Don’t need you gettin’ any germs from my day on you anyway, baby girl.”

The mattress shifted beneath both of you when she settled back onto her side. She looked down between your bodies, then guided her knee higher.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Go on.”

Her thigh pressed into the crux of your legs, soft skin meeting your already swollen folds. The contact made you gasp. You were still tender from Jack’s fingers, every nerve left close to the surface, and the warmth of her skin spread through you where you opened around her.

Your hips moved before you thought about it. The first drag was slow, your arousal smearing across the smooth plane of her thigh while your clit caught against the muscle beneath. You shuddered and did it again, pressing down harder this time. The movement pulled at your stomach, a thick stroke of pressure that made your toes curl on the mattress.

“You really are a good listener,” she murmured.

Ellis took your face between both hands and kissed you harder. Her thumbs pressed near the hinges of your jaw while her tongue pushed into your mouth, keeping you there as your hips found a rhythm against her thigh. Each roll left you wetter, the slick friction spreading warm between you, your breath breaking into her mouth whenever the pressure landed exactly where you needed it.

You whined and moaned, and soon she was bringing her hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it above your head.

"Don't know the next time I'll be able to see these beautiful tits, baby girl, let me see 'em," she muttered, her palms immediately finding your bare breasts the moment they hit the air, warm against the cool room.

"Let me touch you—wanna make you feel good," you panted between moans, reaching for her scrubs.

"You are making me feel good," she teased her fingers pinching and rolling your nipples, making your back arch into her, "Gonna be thinking about this for weeks."

Her thigh flexed beneath you, and your breath caught.

“If only I had my fucking strap right now.”

The words made your skin rise in gooseflesh, your eyes rolling back when the firm ridge of muscle caught your clit, the words and pressure mixing together in a delicious way. Your rhythm faltered, then turned rougher, your hips grinding down with less control as slick heat dragged over her skin.

“You wanna come on my thigh, baby girl?” she murmured, catching your bottom lip between her teeth. Her one hand was back in your hair against the pillows where you'd laid back down, and the other squeezed the globe of your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple again. “That what you need?”

"Oh, god, please," you moaned, "feels so gooood, Parker."

“Fuck.” Her breathing hitched, “Love hearing you say my name like that. Ask me again.”

“Parkerrr,” you whined, the syllables stretching when she tensed her thigh beneath you. “Please let me come.”

“Just from riding my thigh?” She clicked her tongue. “Needy little thing.”

You nodded quickly, mouth open, every breath coming thinner.

“Go on, then.” Her hand slid to your hip and pulled you harder across her. “Wanna feel your pussy take what she needs. Come for me, baby girl.”

Your mouth fell open before the cry tore out of you. The tight coil in your belly snapped, your whole body freezing against hers while pleasure pulsed through your clit in sharp waves. Your pussy clenched around nothing, thighs tightening around Parker’s leg as your muscles locked up. She kept moving you anyway, hand firmly on your hip, rocking you through the orgasm.

Her mouth hung open with yours, both of you breathing the same air as she watched every shudder move through you.

When the tension finally left your muscles, you sagged against her. Your breathing came back in small pulls, and Parker kissed you softly, her tongue brushing over your parted lips before she drew away.

You smiled, a little dazed. “That was… very fast. I’m sorry.”

Her smile widened. “Could’ve made you come even faster with my strap, I bet.”

“Cocky,” you chastised.

You started to sit up, but her hand that was in your hair held you where you were.

“Ah, ah—”

You stopped.

“Who’s gonna clean up your mess?”

Your eyes widened. When you shifted your leg away and looked down, you saw what she meant.

Your arousal had smeared along the length of her thigh, shining against her skin. Parker dragged one finger slowly through it, that you watched the slick gather over the pad before she brought it to her mouth. She moaned around the digit, and then her hand in your hair guided you down to her thigh.

You didn’t hesitate, your tongue flattening against her skin, licking up the wet trail you had left there. The salt of her skin mixed with the musk of your own arousal, warm against your mouth while her fingers tightened lightly at the back of your head.

Even after you had cleaned her skin, you kept going. You pressed kisses higher and higher, following the line of her thigh up to the edge of her black panties. Your eyes lifted to her face, taking in her expression: lips parted, heavy eyes on you while her chest rose beneath her scrubs.

“Will you show me?” you whispered, your mouth close to the fabric. “Next time?”

A knock landed against the door. Shit.

"Ellis!"

It was Dana.

“Patient in North Five is askin’ for ya.”

Parker groaned and threw her head back. The arousal dropped out of her expression in an instant, replaced by a deep furrow between her brows and a pout pulling at her lips. "Ughhhhh…"

You giggled and kissed over the edge of her underwear, then higher, skipping the fabric of her scrubs until your mouth found her neck. You nipped beneath her jaw before reaching her lips again.

She kissed you back, both hands cupping your face now, gentler than before.

“To—be—” You kissed her between words. “Continued.”

Parker let out a real laugh that crinkled her eyes and softened her face, kissing you again, slower this time around her smile, taking what little was left before the hospital pulled her back out of the room.

It wasn't long that the two of you were dressed again, and she was saying her farewells. As she turned to leave the room, Robby had opened the door, looking between the two of you with his Carhartt jacket on, his backpack over his shoulders and two helmets in his hands, his eyes flitting between the two of you.

“Have a good night, doc,” Ellis chirped as she slipped past him.

“You… too,” he said, a little amused, watching her go.

Then his eyes came back to you, a knowing smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“Ready, honey?”

You nodded and crossed the room to him, still trying to school your face into something less obvious.

He didn’t comment. He only shifted the helmets into one hand, slid his other arm around you, and guided you out of the ED.

tysm for reading! im sorry for keeping it pretty tame - I don't want every chapter to be the same (in terms of smut) and I've only ever been with a girl one time so was just trying to keep it in my lane of knowledge 😅

your pov:

jack’s pov:

your pov:

— —

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The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

He took a look around and found he was pleasantly surprised. A dance floor took up the rear third of the room, but the music wasn’t mind numbingly loud. The space was filled with lots of rich dark wood and lights that changed color in an undiscernible pattern. The atmosphere was inviting, intimate, unexpectedly refined. If nothing else, they’d get a free drink out of it.

Jack tugged Robby’s hand and steered him to the bar. The long counter was a slab of polished wood and behind it rows of bottles were backlit by frosted glass. The bartender smiled when he saw Jack. “Hey, Doc. Finally made it, huh?”

“Had to wait for our schedules to sync up.” Jack gestured to Robby with a wave of his hand. “Sam Reynolds, Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Call him Robby. Everyone does.”

“Nice place,” Robby said as Sam shook his hand.

The man grinned. “Thanks. What can I get you, doctors? On the house.”

Jack scanned over the bottles on display “We’ll both take a whiskey neat and a bottle of something local.”

Sam gave a quick nod and turned. He selected a bottle of Blanton’s and poured two generous fingers into each glass. Robby’s brows shot up. He hadn’t been expecting top shelf liquor this evening, not that he was going to complain. Sam slid the glasses forward along with the opened bottles of beer. “Enjoy.”

Jack pulled a twenty out of his wallet and placed it in the tip jar. Before he could slip the wallet away, Robby added another. Jack glanced at him, eyebrows arching upward. Robby simply lifted his glass. “Top shelf.”

Jack hummed in agreement and slid the wallet back in his pocket. They moved through the crowd searching for a table with a good view so they could people watch. They lucked into a corner booth with dark leather upholstery. They table gleamed under the lights as they settled in and immediately began their favorite game of ‘why would they come into the ER?’.

“You first,” Robby said, nudging Jack with an elbow.

Jack sipped his whiskey and glanced around the room. “Brunette in the green dress. Boyfriend’s Star Wars collectible in an uncomfortable place after she ‘fell’ on it.” He actually did the finger quotes and everything. “Which is impossible given then curvature of the—”

“Yes, thank you,” Robby said, cutting him off with a palm raised in surrender. “I am a doctor too, remember?”

Jack huffed a laugh. “Your turn, doctor.”

Robby scanned the room, drumming his fingers against the side of the beer bottle. “Purple shirt dudebro. Definitely a hold my beer backflip attempt ending with a skull fracture from his head slamming into the concrete.”

They continued to play the game as they nursed their drinks. The disheveled looking guy by the bar: huffing glue. Ditzy redhead with six-inch platform boots she could barely walk in was definitely a compound ankle fracture waiting to happen.

“What about…” Robby started only to trail off mid-sentence as his gaze locked onto the dance floor. You moved through the crowd, soft curves accentuated by a flirty dress that floated when you spun, flashing glimpses of the tattoos on your thighs. More ink ran up both of your arms though it was impossible for him to see the details from this distance. The light caught the beads of sweat glistening on your skin. Robby’s tongue darted out to wet suddenly dry lips.

“What?” Jack asked and turned to follow Robby’s line of sight, his whiskey forgotten halfway to his lips. “Oh.”

Jack sounded as stunned as Robby felt, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. You threw your head back and laughed as the guy you were dancing with twirled you. The motion lifted the dress and showed more of your decorated thighs. Your dance partner pressed his lips to your cheek and disappeared toward the exit. Robby frowned at the irrational surge of jealousy that flared through him. What was that? Yeah, you were pretty, beautiful even, but he was with Jack. He was happy with Jack.

They watched you saunter over to the bar, hips swaying in time with the music, and lean across the top to grab a glass from the counter behind it. You tilted your head back, exposing the column of your throat as you downed half of the contents in three long swallows. Jack’s brows went up. “Hope that’s water.”

Robby snorted, the sound half strangled in his throat. As if feeling the weight of their stares, you turned and caught them mid-look, your eyes bright and knowing. Instead of the glare or annoyed expression he expected, your lips curled into a smile that transformed your entire face. You glanced between the two of them and your smile widened, changing into something mischievous. You held their gazes for three beats of the music before a feminine hand wrapped around your wrist and tugged you back toward the floor. You laughed again and finished off your glass before twirling back into the crowd.

Jack finished his drink in one swallow. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“What?” Robby asked. “Her in general, or the smile when she caught us leering at her like the old men we are?”

The corner of Jack’s lips kicked up in a smirk. “Yes.”

Robby chuckled but Jacks gaze stayed fixed on you. He was fascinated by the way you moved, the way you laughed. Person after person greeted you and you seemed to know them all. That impression only deepened when you slid behind the bar to pour yourself a shot and another glass of water. Sam simply grinned at you and moved around you as he made a drink.

Jack split his attention between you and Robby as you headed back to the dance floor. Jack was just preparing to ask if they should offer to buy you a drink when a man approached you from behind. Jack straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing as he watched the interaction. He ran his gaze over the interloper and was singularly unimpressed. Everything about him was average except his particularly drunken swagger. “Shit.”

Robby turned to look just as the man’s hands clamped on your hips and pulled you backward. The abruptness of it, the entitlement, had Jack’s jaw clenching in irritation. You spun instantly out of the hold, slammed a palm into his torso and shoved him off balance. The asshole frowned and snarled something before skulking away.

“She handled that well,” Robby said, leaning forward.

Jack watched the retreating figure, making sure he continued to move out of your orbit. “Too well. She’s had practice.” And he hated that. Why couldn’t men act like men and not assholes? You resumed dancing but now you moved with the alertness of someone who no longer felt safe. Who was now expecting trouble.

Robby sighed, obviously noticing as well. “Should we check on her?”

Jack considered it for a beat before shaking his head. “Not yet. She made it clear she can take care of herself. Let’s respect that unless she indicates otherwise.”

Their eyes rarely left you as they carried on an unimportant conversation, the mood shifting from casual to vigilant.

Ten minutes later, the asshole came back.

“He’s back,” Robby bit out.

“And he brought a friend,” Jack said as he clocked the companion. He was taller and broader than the first asshole. His head was shaved and he had his arms crossed over his chest as he scowled at you. They approached you from different angles so you would only be able to see one of them at a time until they had you cornered against the wall. You kept your head when you were confronted by them, but you were clearly looking for a way out.

“Right then.” Robby slid out of the booth and Jack fell into step right behind him. They moved through the crowd with efficiency honed from years of avoiding chaos in the ED. They split up to approach from opposite sides. Robby reached you first and placed himself between you and the men. He left enough room for you to move if you wished but created a barrier nonetheless.

Jack joined on the other side, planting his feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, hands relaxed but ready at his sides. The taller man sneered. Jack met the glare with a blank expression. “Gentlemen, allow me to dispense some free medical advice.”

“Nobody asked you,” the bald one snarled.

Jack’s lips curved in a confident half smile. “I’m an emergency physician and I see what happens when assholes like you make poor decisions every day. I can even tell you which bones are likely to break first.”

“That a threat?” Average asked.

Jack blinked once, twice. “No. It’s a prognosis.” It occurred to him that these two might not know what that word meant but he was pretty sure they got the idea.

The two idiots exchanged uncertain looks.  Robby leaned in, voice low and clipped. “I just spent twelve hours putting people back together. I’d rather not spend the night taking them apart. But I can.”

After a long beat, the duo scoffed and turned away. “Whatever. She’s not worth it anyway,” the tall one muttered.

Jack very much doubted that but he pressed his lips together and watched the two assholes dissolve into the crowd. Only once they were certain the men were gone, did he and Robby turn to face you. Fuck, you were even more stunning up close. Jack forced himself to meet your gaze instead of letting his eyes roam. “You okay?”

Your shoulders sagged with relief as you exhaled, the tension seeping out of you. You offered them a dazzling smile that seemed to steal all the air from his lungs. This was going to be a problem. “Thank you,” you said. “Though I might have managed on my own eventually.”

“No doubt,” Robby agreed with a smile. He stepped back to give you some space.

You looked between the two of them. “Most men would be demanding something in exchange for their help about now.”

Jack shook his head and exchanged a glance with Robby who gave a subtle nod. “You don’t owe us anything, but we’d like to buy you a drink if you’re interested.”

Your eyes lit up. “Absolutely. I’d love that.” You gave your name and held out a hand.

“Jack Abbot.” He shook your hand and sucked in a breath at the spark of awareness that flared when your skin touched his.

Robby took your hand next. “Michael Robinavitch. Most people call me Robby but feel free to call me Michael if you’d rather.”

And that told Jack all he needed to know. He didn’t offer the use of his first name to people he just met. Ever. Robby had felt that same spark of desire. He led you to the table, Jack walking behind you watching for threats. When they reached the table, you paused to catch Sam’s eye and motioned to the table.

“Where would you like to sit?” Jack asked as Robby slid into his previous seat.

You gave a little shrug. “Middle?”

He was surprised you didn’t choose the safer option of an outside seat but he wasn’t about to complain. “In you go then.”

You laughed and god, he loved the sound. What the fuck was wrong with him? He glanced at Robby to find him watching you with a dopey look on his face. At least it was both of them then. He slid in after you.

You turned to him, curiosity shining in your eyes. “So…an ER doctor, for real?”

He grinned. “Yep. Both of us. What about you, sweetheart?”

“Well, sometimes I work here. Sometimes I cover a shift at my friends’ bookstore. And I help my grandfather when he asks.”

Before you could offer anything else, you were interrupted by the server stepping up to the table. A blonde with too much makeup placed the drinks on the table. A repeat of their earlier drink order for him and Robby and something red for you. There was also a glass of water for all three of you.

“Thanks, Chelsea,” you said.

Jack fished out his wallet. “What do we owe you?”

The waitress shrugged. “Sam said it’s on the house.”

Jack handed her a twenty and pulled out another. “First one’s for you, this one’s for the tip jar.”

You reached over and snatched it from his hand before she could. “I’ll give it to Sam.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away with a “Whatever.”

You handed the bill back to Jack. “Drop it in the jar on the way out. She’ll pocket it.”

“Noted,” Jack said with a nod before shooting a glance at the retreating figure, trying to commit her face to memory. He wanted to make certain not to make that mistake in the future.

Robby eyed your drink. “What exactly is that?”

“Alabama slammer,” you said with a grin. “Want to try it?”

Jack curled his lip. “I’m good, thanks.”

Undeterred, Robby tipped the glass to his lips. His eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Not bad. What’s in it?”

“SoCo, sloe gin, amaretto and OJ.”

Okay, Jack needed to try that. A frown covered his face as soon as the first taste hit his tongue. “I’ll stick with my whiskey thanks.”

Your hand wrapped around his glass. “Can I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

You rolled the small taste around in your mouth before swallowing. “Blanton’s. Excellent choice.”

“You knew that just by tasting it?” Robby asked, his surprise evident.

“I can’t do it with everything but Blanton’s ranks in my faves, so yeah.”

Conversation flowed easily from there and Jack found himself surprised by your sharp mind and quick wit. Even better, you matched their dark humor with your own and answered their banter without missing a beat.

Robby’s arm draped across the back of the seat behind you, not touching but close enough he’d undoubtedly be able to feel the heat from your skin. Jack had to bite back his annoyance that he hadn’t thought of it first.

In the middle of the conversation, you made a quip about hospital billing markups and red tape. Jack’s hand covered yours to catch your attention. “Wait, wait, hold on. That was far to astute for a throwaway remark. Are you telling me you actually understand how hospital billing works?”

You hummed in agreement and turned a little further in his direction, your knee bumping his under the table. “I have been intimately acquainted with the ins and outs for years thanks to my grandfather. Trust me, I’ve seen the worst healthcare has to offer.”

“And you’re still associating with doctors?” Robby asked, fingers brushing your shoulder.

“Only the interesting ones.”

As the evening wore on, what had been a chance touch here or a friendly brush there became very deliberate. Robby’s arm inched closer, nearly draped across your shoulders now. Jack slid his thigh closer until it pressed against yours from knee to hip. Neither of them glanced at the time, not in any hurry to leave as long as you were pressed between them. The three of you wandered through topics, discovering shared passions.

“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” you said.

Robby stood to let you out. As soon as you were out of earshot, Jack turned to Robby with raised eyebrows. “Well, I wasn’t expecting this.”

Robby shook his head once as he watched you move through the crowd. “I take it you feel it too then.”

“Hard not to.” Jack and Robby had been together for years and had never once considered bringing someone else into their relationship. Sure, they’d contemplated a threesome once or twice but never made any move to act on it. But they were deeply, inexplicably drawn to you. The question was: where did they go from here?

You returned to the table and Robby stood to let you back in. You hesitated and eyes flicking between them. “So, I have a proposition. My place is a short walk from here with a king bed, fabulous coffee and nothing to do tomorrow? Interested?”

Their gazes locked for a heartbeat, then both said, “Yes,” in perfect sync.

Jack stood and cradled your face in his large hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he searched your eyes. “How much have you had to drink, sweetheart?”

“Two slammers and like five glasses of water. Oh, and a shot of SoCo. Fully able to consent, doctor.”

Jack’s grin spread, wide, warm and wicked. “Fucking fabulous.”

After confirming no one drove, they walked with you to your apartment just a few blocks away. Jack and Robby scanned the neighborhood as you went.

“You weren’t going to walk home alone were you, honey?” Robby asked, putting voice to Jack’s thoughts.

“No,” you answered but it was more question than answer.

Jack pursed his lips but said nothing. He said nothing when he clocked the burnt out light in the entry way, the broken elevator or the flickering bulbs in the second floor hallway. And when you had to wiggle the key a certain way to unlock the deadbolt and lift on the knob to get the door to open, he simply bit his tongue and exchanged a look with Robby. This wouldn’t do at all.

The moment the door locked behind you, Jack pressed you against the wall, his muscled thigh sliding between yours. Your breath was hot against his lips as he searched your eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. You eliminated the last inch between you, capturing his mouth in a kiss. He groaned as his hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

Robby’s ragged inhale broke through his haze. Jack reached back without looking, fingers curling into Robby’s shirt to pull him closer until Jack was sandwiched between the two of you. Jack broke away, turning to claim Robby’s mouth with the same intensity.

“Glad I wasn’t completely off base about the chemistry I was sensing,” you said, voice husky.

Jack smiled against Robby’s swollen lips. “That a problem, sweetheart?”

“God, no.” You ran a hand up their chests.

Robby captured your wrist, bringing it to his mouth, his tongue flicking over your pulse point “We should be clear. Jack and I are together. This isn’t something we normally do.”

“This isn’t something we ever do,” Jack corrected.

“Well, consider me honored to be the exception.”

Jack’s fingers found the zipper on your dress as he mouthed at the spot behind your ear, grinning when you gave a needy whine. “Bedroom?”

“First door down the hall.”

Robby let his teeth graze the warm skin of your wrist as he held it, the soft scrape sending a tremor through you. Then you began to move, shedding clothes as you went. By the time you reached the bedroom, Jack and Robby were both shirtless and Robby’s jeans lay crumpled in the doorway. You had kicked off your shoes, dress open but still in place. Jack’s fingers hovered at the waistband of his pants, pausing in midair.

You noticed his hesitation and tilted your head. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

Jack lifted one pant leg to show the prosthesis. “Kind of need to take the leg off to move the way I want.”

Your brow furrowed as you frowned. “Wouldn’t it feel better off anyway?”

Any lingering hesitation Robby had felt, melted away with your innocent question. Jack settled onto the edge of the bed to take off his prosthesis. Meanwhile, Robby wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing his lips to the side of your neck. You tilted your head to give him better access. “What was that about showing us yours?” he murmured against your ear.

Stepping away to give yourself room, you slipped out of your dress. It pooled at your feet, revealing your bra and a high-waisted undergarment that hugged your curves. You crossed your arms over your stomach and ducked your gaze. “I wasn’t planning on hooking up with anyone tonight.”

Robby’s fingers found the clasp of your bra and released it in one smooth motion. You jerked in surprise at the movement. “You good?” he asked, pressing a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Yeah.” Your voice was breathy. When you started rolling off what Robby now realized were tummy control underwear, his hands covered yours to help until you stood bare in the soft bedroom light. Robby cupped your face, tilting your chin upward and claiming your lips in a slow reverent kiss. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered against your mouth.

Jack leaned against the headboard, his legs parted in silent invitation. You and Robby slid in beside him and for several minutes your hands and lips mapped the territory of unfamiliar bodies. Hesitation gave way to heat and desire. When you knelt between Jack’s thighs, your lips trailed a path from his mouth down to his heavy cock. His hands cupped the back of your head guiding you, while Robby watched from behind, his hand wrapping around his own arousal. You engulfed Jack in the heat of your mouth and the sound he released was unholy.

Robby’s hands roamed over your hips and ass. God, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get enough of you. He traced the tattoo on your thigh then slid two fingers between your legs to find you already dripping for them. Fuck. “Condom?” he asked, voice urgent with need. Please god, have a fucking condom.

You pulled off Jack long enough to gesture toward the nightstand and say, “Second drawer.” Robby opened it to reveal a couple of silicone toys, a box of condoms and bottle of lube. Jackpot. He set the lube within reach, tore open a condom packet and rolled it on.

He moved to kneel behind you, ignoring the twinge in his knee as he did so. The sight of your body, back arched in anticipation made his breath catch. His fingers found you again, slick and hot, working you open. Only when you whined and pushed back against him, desperate and needy, did he stop. Robby locked eyes with Jack as he lined himself up to slide into you. You only stuttered once when Robby slid into your velvet heat, a gasp escaping your lips before you returned to worshipping Jack with your mouth. They kept their eyes locked on one another as Robby rocked into you, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through his body.

With a twist of your head, you deep throated Jack. He groaned and his head dropped back, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat. His gaze found Robby’s again, though his eyes are hooded now, glazed with pleasure. Watching someone else cause that blissed out look on Jack’s face was far more erotic than Robby had thought it would be. Your muscles clenched around his cock, molten and tight, and Robby hissed through his teeth, fighting for control.

“You feel fucking incredible,” he growled, voice rough with emotion. He slid one large hand around you to rub your clit, feeling you quiver beneath his touch. You pushed back against him more urgently, taking him impossibly deeper while your mouth worked its magic on Jack, making him clutch the sheets in white-knuckled fists. Robby could see Jack’s impending release in the tension in his thighs and the flush that crept up his torso. Telltale signs he’d memorized over years of loving this man.

Robby worked you harder, faster, his heart thundering against his ribs. “Jack’s going to come. You going to drink him down, pretty girl?”

The vibration from your answering hum sent Jack over the edge. He threw his head back, mouth open in a silent cry. It was a sight Robby would never tire of, Jack coming undone, beautiful in his surrender. You swallowed around Jack until he pushed you away, oversensitive and trembling.

You came before you could catch your breath. Your cunt contracted around Robby as a shudder ran through you. You turned your face into Jack’s thigh as you cried out, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Your legs shook as Robby fucked you through it, his chest tight with an emotion he couldn’t name. He pulled out before he orgasmed. A glance at Jack showed him already half hard again. His refractory period was usually much longer. Robby arched a brow and smirked, a rush of affection warming his chest. Jack shrugged and gestured to you, a silent acknowledgment of the magic you’d brought into their bed. Fair enough.

Robby’s voice was a low, soothing drawl as he instructed, “Catch your breath, honey.” He carefully removed the condom, disposing of it in the small trashcan beside the bed. You rolled to the side, sinking into the pillows beside Jack. 

Robby retrieved another condom from the box, the foil wrapper crinkling as he tossed it to Jack. He then grabbed the lube the gel glistening as he squirted some onto his hand, its artificial warming properties making him hum in expectation. With a gentle, practiced touch, he lay on his stomach before his lover, taking his time to work Jack open. Though it didn’t take long as Jack was still pliant from their earlier escapades, the act served to make Jack completely hard again.

Robby shifted and Jack moved to hover over you on his knees, his body a landscape of taut muscle. His voice came out in a husky whisper as he asked, “Ready for me, sweet girl?”

“Fuck yes,” you breathed.

Robby’s gaze drifted over the two of you, lingering on the blissed-out look etched on your face. Jack entered you with a swift, sure thrust, and your back arched off the bed, a gasp escaping your lips as you reveled in the sensation of him filling you. He took a moment to find the perfect rhythm then he looked at Robby with a pleading expression.

Robby knelt behind him, hands tracing the familiar planes of Jack’s back, fingers dancing over the constellation of freckles that adorned his skin. Jack paused, his breath hitching as Robby slowly entered him. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned.

Robby thrust his hips forward causing Jack to slam into you, the force of the movements sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. It didn’t take long before they were moving as a single, fluid unit, Robby rocking into Jack who in turn pressed deeper into you. A muscle twitched in Jack’s jaw, a sign that he was trying to hold off his climax, to prolong the exquisite torture just a little longer.

“Oh god,” you groaned from beneath them, your voice raw. “I’ve never—” Your words dissolved into incoherent sounds as Jack changed his angle slightly. Robby grasped Jack’s hips, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises, as he pounded into him, driving all of you toward your release.

Your second orgasm swamped you, causing you to arch off the bed, nails digging into Jack’s arms. Jack followed moments later with a shout, his body convulsing as his own climax tore through him, triggering Robby’s release. For several heartbeats, you all stayed that way before collapsing onto the bed in a sweaty, satisfied pile.

You lay in the middle, sandwiched between their warm, solid bodies. Robby kissed your shoulder, his lips lingering on your skin, while Jack draped an arm possessively over your hip. “That was…” Your voice was rough, ragged at the edges.

“Too much?” Jack asked, a hint of caution in his tone, his eyes searching yours.

You laughed, a rich, happy sound. “Literally the best sex of my life. You’ve ruined me for all normal encounters.”

“Normal’s overrated.” Robby punctuated the statement with another soft kiss to your skin.

“Completely overrated and utterly inadequate.”

***

Morning light filtered into the room, waking Jack. He blinked, disoriented for a moment. Why the hell weren’t the blackout curtains drawn? Then the memory of night before came rushing back. He turned his head and saw you nestled between him and Robby. Your back was pressed to Robby’s chest while one hand curled around Jack’s bicep. A soft sigh rose in his throat at how natural it felt to wake like this. How perfect.

He lay still, committing the scene to memory. The way your lashes fluttered as you stirred, the soft curve of your cheek illuminated by the morning light, the faint rise and fall of Robby’s chest behind you. Two minutes, maybe three passed before you opened your eyes, as if drawn by Jack’s steady gaze. When your eyes met his, you rewarded him with a warm, sleepy smile. “Morning.”

Jack’s heart lifted. His own smile followed effortlessly. “Morning, gorgeous.”

You stretched, arching your back and unwinding yourself from Robby who made noises of protest but didn’t wake. You managed to slide from the end of the bed. Jack raked his gaze over you. You were dressed in boy short panties that said ‘bad witch’ across the back and a baggy t-shirt. And damn if it wasn’t one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen.

You looked back over your shoulder from the doorway. “Take your time. I’ll make coffee.”

Jack watched you go, his desire reigniting with every step you took. Then he shifted toward Robby, placing a hand on his chest, rubbing his thumb back and forth to wake him slowly. It was a move he’d picked up over the years. Within moments, Robby’s eyes cracked open. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Jack replied and leaned forward to brush a soft kiss against Robby’s lips. “She’s making coffee.”

Robby nodded and Jack turned to put his leg on so he could get dressed. As he was buttoning his shirt, he looked over his shoulder. “You notice the locks on the front door? Ridiculous.”

Robby ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah. It probably wouldn’t take much to break in. Don’t forget the lights.”

They left the room to head to the kitchen. “And the elevator. Wonder what else we’re not seeing.”

“A landlord issue, obviously,” Robby added, dropping his voice so you wouldn’t overhear.

Jack shrugged. “Has to be. The building looks decent enough from the outside, but she needs better security at the minimum.”

Robby nodded. “Agreed, but it’s not our place to say anything yet.” The yet hung between them, a silent acknowledgment that they weren’t ready to let go of whatever this was between you.

The scent of fresh coffee and pancakes greeted them as they stepped into the kitchen.

You smiled over your shoulder. “Perfect timing. It’s nothing fancy but I thought you might be hungry.”

“Smells incredible,” Jack assured with a smile. You handed him a steaming mug of coffee. Your fingers brushed Jack’s and he held the touch a beat too long, watching your smile deepen into something shy and pleased. “Cream and sugar are on the table.”

The three of you sat at a small table and talked while you ate. Jack was struck by how comfortable this was, how domestic. More so than any morning after had the right to be.

“How long have you two been together?” you asked between bites.

“Almost three years,” Jack said with a smile. “Would’ve been longer but Robby can be a little oblivious.”

Robby huffed a laugh, cheeks coloring. “I was being cautious.”

“That’s a good trait for a doctor,” you said grinning. Jack’s gaze caught Robby’s and he saw his own feelings reflected there. This was more than great sex with an attractive stranger. There was potential here, something worth exploring.

The meal finished and they helped you clean up the kitchen but they were running out of excuses to linger. At the door, Robby shifted from foot to foot, looking at Jack for support.

Jack took a step forward. “We’d really like to see you again.”

You paused, head tilted, those curious eyes searching theirs.  “Like just sex?” you began hesitantly. “Or something more, because I’m not—"

Before you could finish, Jack reached out cupping your face gently. His thumb brushed your cheek. “We’d like to take you on a date, if that’s okay.”

A brilliant smile transformed your face. “I’d like that. Very much.”

The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.

On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.

You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.

He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?

You didn’t answer.

You don’t plan to.

The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.

Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”

Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”

His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”

“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”

As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”

Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”

She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”

Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”

“Whatever you say, cap.”

The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.

In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”

She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”

He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”

The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.

—

It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.

You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

“No worries, gorgeous.”

Your focus snaps.

Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”

Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”

You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”

He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”

You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”

“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”

Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”

You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”

Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”

Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.

“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”

Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.

Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”

“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”

He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”

“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”

Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”

You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”

It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.

He sends you texts. You don’t reply.

He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.

After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”

“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”

Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”

Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”

“But I’m not your girlfriend.”

“And thank god for that.”

“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”

“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”

“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”

“And you repaid her by leaving.”

Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”

“But she did.”

“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”

“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”

“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”

“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”

“Flatterer.”

“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”

Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”

“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”

At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.

When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”

His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”

Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”

“Not hostile, just professional.”

“You were definitely hostile.”

Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”

She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”

Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”

“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”

“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”

“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”

Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”

Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”

“At the door.”

Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”

Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”

“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”

Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”

“It’s ten thousand dollars.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”

Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”

You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”

“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.”

“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.

Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”

Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”

“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.

She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”

“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”

“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”

“And you’re not forgiving enough.”

You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”

“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”

Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”

With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.

I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life. That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice. But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that. So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that. It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please. I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more. And I promise I love you. Both of you. I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it. Love, Sincerely, Yours, M.

All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.

Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”

Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”

Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”

You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.

In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.

In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.

I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.

Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should let him grovel.”

Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”

“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”

“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”

“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”

“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”

You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”

“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”

“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”

“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”

Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”

“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”

You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”

And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.

Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.

Then.

After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”

“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”

Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”

Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”

Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”

“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”

The world tilts slightly.

Robby’s breath catches in his throat. 

Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?

You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.

You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.

“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”

“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”

You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”

Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”

You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”

His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”

Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”

“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”

“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”

Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”

With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”

“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”

Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”

You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.

“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”

“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”

“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”

‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.

After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”

One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”

You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”

“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”

You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”

His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”

“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”

Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”

You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”

He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m 100% confident.”

“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”

That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”

“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”

Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”

“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”

Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”

“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”

He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”

Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.

Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.

With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.

Noted. Thanks for the tip.

Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.

I’m rooting for you.

If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.

Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.

Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.

“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”

“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”

With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”

Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”

“Kids. Plural.”

He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”

You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”

Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”

You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”

“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”

Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”

“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”

Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”

You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”

“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.

“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”

You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”

He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”

“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”

You tease, “Sounds horrible.”

“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”

Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”

“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”

“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”

Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.

…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…

After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”

Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”

Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”

“You were just talking to her.”

He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”

She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”

Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”

You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”

He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”

Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.

“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”

You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”

“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”

“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”

“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”

“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”

He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”

“Michael!”

“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”

“I will not hesitate to splash you.”

Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”

Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”

“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”

After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”

His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”

You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”

He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”

And you want to kiss him.

You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”

He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”

You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.

As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”

You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”

Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”

You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”

“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”

You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”

He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.

Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”

Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”

Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”

Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”

“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”

Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.

Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.

You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.

For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.

So you decide.

Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”

His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”

“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“What would it be, then?”

He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”

You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.

When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-

Woah, asshole.

Calm down.

He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.

All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”

When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes. 

To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”

Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.

He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”

“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”

Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”

“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”

“You do?”

There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”

With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, Michael.”

“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”

When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.

Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.

Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”

He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”

You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”

You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.

As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”

“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”

You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”

When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”

You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”

“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”

“God forbid.”

“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”

“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.

“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”

“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”

Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”

“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”

Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”

You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”

“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Good. As he should.”

Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”

“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”

“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.

Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”

Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”

You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”

You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”

He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”

The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”

And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.

Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”

You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”

“What? You don’t want a shower?”

“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”

Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.

Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.

She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”

“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”

“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”

Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”

“We’ll see.”

You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”

“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”

Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”

You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”

Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”

You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”

Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”

You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”

Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”

When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”

He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”

You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”

So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”

Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”

Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.

You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”

Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”

He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.

Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.

From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.

That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.

Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”

Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”

Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”

Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”

Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”

“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”

“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”

As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”

Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”

“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”

A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”

“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”

“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”

“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”

“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”

Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.

“Rest of your life, huh?”

“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”

You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”

“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.

Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”

Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.

Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”

Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”

You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”

Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”

You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”

“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”

Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”

“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”

He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”

“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”

You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t play dirty with me.”

“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”

He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”

“Now who’s playing dirty?”

“I would never.”

Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.

God.

God.

Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.

Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”

“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”

“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”

You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?” 

Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”

He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”

The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.

Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.

And you kiss him.

It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”

Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”

You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”

“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”

“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”

Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”

“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”

He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”

You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”

Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”

“I want a hot tub.”

“Okay.”

“And a soaking tub.”

“Okay.”

“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”

“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”

Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”

Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”

The moment your lunch break starts, Trinity yanks you into an on-call room, where Mel, Victoria, Samira, and Whitaker have all also been dragged during a rare moment during the day when you can all leave the floor at once. It’s dark inside and it feels suspiciously like a gathering of cult members. Ever since you found out the six of you lived in the same building (which, yes, half the staff lives in because it’s the cheapest spot close to the hospital), you’ve been a group, even now that Samira’s off living with her knight in shining scrubs.

Trinity looks between you seriously, her phone screen illuminating her face from below like a horror movie villain about to give you the rules for a torture game. She announces seriously, “Guys, I have crucial intel.”

“Alright, get on with it,” Samira sighs. “Some of us have work to do and waiting in here has already taken up half my break.”

Trinity draws a deep breath and holds up her phone, showing off the screen in an arc to let everyone get a good look. “Dennis’ and my other roommate sent us these screenshots last night. I guess Robby has his settings so nobody who has his number can see it, but she did.”

You huddle around the phone as she swipes through a series of pictures, each one of your attending (and your best friend), Robby. A Tinder profile. As her thumb swipes across the screen, all of you ask questions over each other: He owns a motorcycle? And a real suit? Oh my god, is he shirtless there? Wait, he plays basketball?

While they gawk and laugh, you’re stuck on the bio that makes you smile: I’m a doctor. Not in a hot way. In an ‘I’m in therapy and you probably should be too if you want to date me’ way. Soft spot for puppies, babies, and good beer. My best friend forced me to make this when he got a girlfriend so that I wouldn’t be a third wheel. Guess I’m looking for my fourth wheel. Someone to stabilize me.

Victoria’s been standing there slack-jawed for the longest. As the baby of the group, she’s always surprised by everything. “I just can’t believe Dr. Robby is on dating apps.”

Trying not to get pathetically jealous at the idea, you reason, “I mean, he’s single. He’s attractive.”

Samira snickers, “Don’t they have an age limit on that app to protect seniors or something?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Dennis points out. “Dr. Abbot isn’t exactly young.”

“He’s a decade younger than Robby,” she replies. “Robby’s so old I didn’t think he could even download an app without help. He asked me to convert something to a PDF for him the other day. I find the idea that he’d meet someone from an app…charming. The way a cat trapped in a tree is cute.”

Mel crosses her arms over her chest and physically turns away from Trinity’s phone. She huffs out, “Guys, this is so inappropriate.”

Trinity glares. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s sort of my whole thing,” she cuts back. Then she nudges you and asks for backup, “C’mon, you know this is wrong.”

But you’re way too intrigued to agree with your roommate. You shrug and say, “It’s a public profile. Someone was bound to find it eventually, right?”

Mel scoffs and shakes her head. “Et tu?”

Trinity groans and makes Mel turn back around with a pointed look. She goes on, “Guys, the intel isn’t that he has a Tinder.” She zooms in on the picture of him with Dr. Abbot on a basketball court, Robby jumping to dunk the ball. You want to lick the sweat from his hairy chest. Trinity shoves her finger at the screen. “Look at this hog he’s packing. Dr. Robby has a giant dick.”

You take a closer look at the outline visible in his slinky athletic shorts. No way. You scoff and shake your head; the idea that a human man could have a dick that big seems outright ridiculous. In years of practicing medicine and being a sexually active adult, you’ve never seen one that would compare. So you shrug your shoulders up and awkwardly rush out, “That could be a water bottle or something.”

Victoria, wide eyes locked to the screen, chimes in, “Or- or just a shadow. The lighting.”

“Yeah, sure, or a massive fucking cock.”

Dennis, the reddest of everyone (he once told you about an absolutely mortifying sex dream he had about topping Robby), hisses, “Trinity, he’s our boss!”

“So?”

You step in, too. “So what are we even supposed to do with this information?”

“Well we all know what you’re going to do with it,” she says to you with a knowing, wicked grin. “You’re going to fantasize about how it would feel to take such a-”

“Trinity!” You slap your hand over her mouth. “If you bring up my crush on him one more time, I’m going to start paging you on every single bowel disimpaction that comes into the ER for the next six months. I’m working on getting over it!”

“Here’s what I’m proposing,” Trinity says seriously. She’s such a ringleader it’s not even funny. This is her circus and the rest of you are definitely her monkeys. “I say we all put in some money and the first person to get definitive proof that Dr. Robby’s packing gets the whole pool.”

“Absolutely not,” Mel says right away. She’s so serious that she shoves out of the on-call room and back to work. She never wants to play in the circus.

The rest of you stay put, though. Dennis mutters, “How much money?”

“This is high stakes,” Samira reasons. “A hundred each.”

“You’re only saying that because you have the best chances,” Victoria cuts in. “Dr. Abbot probably sees his dick every time they go to the gym together.”

“No outside interference,” Trinity adds immediately. “I like the sound of $100 each. That’s a pool of $500. Sounds pretty fair for the task at hand.”

Dennis wrinkles his eyebrows. “What if nobody does it?”

“Then we all lose out on $500.”

To a group of poor twenty-somethings, that’s pretty damn convincing.

“I’m definitely in,” Samira starts. If Trinity is the ringleader, Mohan’s the strongman. “Even if Jack can’t help, I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

Dennis punches her on the arm; he’s the group’s contortionist, always able to bend himself into ridiculous situations somehow. “Me too. I’m the only one with access to the men’s showers.”

You argue, “Then you should put up $150. That’s an unfair home field advantage.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other girls that makes Whitaker balk.

“Okay, yeah, I may also have a penis, but I have the distinct disadvantage of being scared shitless of Robby, unlike Samira and Santos.” Then he shoves an accusatory finger in your direction. “If anything, you have an advantage because Robby already wants to fuck you.”

You shove him in the chest. “He does not!”

“Ow, first of all.” He shakes his head and says, “How about we go no-holds-barred? Samira can use Abbot, I can use my Y chromosome, you can use your powers of seduction. Whatever.”

Victoria pouts. She’s the tightrope walker, always trying to balance the line of appropriate and otherwise. “And what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Psychological warfare,” Trinity suggests. “That’s what I’m planning.”

Samira offers, “Maybe just beg?”

“Jesus, fine,” Victoria sighs. “I’m in, I guess.”

All eyes turn in your direction. “How about you, Mrs. Robinavitch?”

And your role in this circus of idiot doctors? Well, you’re just the clown who’s been nursing a big fat crush on her attending for two years. The idea of seeing Dr. Robby naked is too appealing for you to resist. So you present your hand to the center of the circle and sigh, “I’m in.”

The bet gets out of hand right away, not that this sort of thing could ever be under control. The six of you – Mel’s invited mostly because she’s your roommate and already knows, though she’s made her disapproval patently clear – meet for beers after a long shift the following Friday. Samira clears her throat and breaks the silence, “Do any of you sure-to-be losers have anything to announce to the group?”

Trinity pulls out her phone and dramatically sighs. “Well, I really thought I had it. I made a Tinder profile of a very respectable, almost-age-appropriate lady and matched with him. Paid for the goddamn Super Like and everything.”

Victoria’s jaw detaches from her maxilla. “You catfished him?”

Trinity looks honestly offended. “Only a little!”

Dennis gawks. “Whose pictures did you use?”

“My mom’s.”

“Seriously?!” Even Samira’s in disbelief over that. “Did you at least tell her?”

“It’s not like she’ll ever find out,” Trinity reasons. “Her and my dad have been together since the Dark Ages. They’d never be on Tinder. And I used a fake name. She’s just the prettiest woman over 40 I know.”

“You’re fucked up for that,” Dennis says with an admonishing shake of his head. Then he sips his beer and presses, “So how did it go between Robby and your not mom? No luck?”

“Obvioulsy not,” she explains. “He told me in, like, the third message that he’s looking for something serious and would only have sex with someone he loves. Like, apropos of nothing. Old people are weird; I don’t get him at all.”

You swallow hard. “That’s sweet, though.”

She scrunches her nose. “Is it?”

Victoria giggles, about one cocktail too deep, “Would you rather find out our boss is a total man whore?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trinity laughs. “It’s kind of sad someone his age is still looking to settle down.”

“Hey,” you stop her, “that’s actually mean, Trin. Robby’s a good man and he deserves to be happy.”

“Sorry, forgot it’s rude to insult someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.”

Samira shakes her head and tuts then, feeling merciful on your behalf, “Poor showing, Santos. I expected better from our leader.”

“Give me another week.”

“Not if I beat you to it,” she replies with a grin. Then she nudges you with her elbow and says, “C’mon, Jack wants us to go to dinner with Robby.”

It’s not an unusual invitation – the four of you get dinner a few times a month – but tonight it catches the attention of everyone else. 

Dennis protests, only half joking, “Woah, woah, you can’t bring her if it’s going to turn into an orgy thing where she gets a quick shot at the win.”

As your cheeks turn pink, you argue, “I thought it was a no-holds-barred game, Whitaker. Your idea, remember?”

Samira gives you a conspiratorial look. “What do you say, babe, wanna go ask our boys to drop their pants in the middle of the restaurant?”

Pretending not to be as embarrassed as you are, you giggle, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“This is so unfair,” Dennis pouts.

“Start following him into the shower, then.” Samira smiles and links her arm with yours as you get ready to walk away. “Calm down; she’s always our go-to fourth wheel. No special advantage tonight.”

“Tonight, he did that thing where he touched my lower back when he opened the door for me,” you bemoan to Mel late that night, both sitting on her bed as you stare at your laptops. “Have you ever noticed how big his hands are?”

“Can’t say I have.”

You shut your laptop dramatically. “Seriously, how am I supposed to recover from that?”

Mel shrugs like she always does. “Ask him out.”

“I can’t. He’s my boss.”

“He’s probably waiting for you to do it,” she reasons. “It would be inappropriate for him to ask you, but not necessarily the other way around. Provided you aren’t asking in exchange for any benefits in the workplace.” Then she gives you a little mischievous grin that only you and Langon are ever privy to. “Benefits besides making out in on-call rooms, of course.”

The next series of attempts comes from Samira. She decides to use her one trump card, enlisting Jack’s help. He finds the whole thing hysterical because he’s a feral child just like his girlfriend, so he agrees. Trinity insists on adding a caveat to the rules: The picture has to be on the better’s phone, taken by the better, explicitly ruling out Jack’s involvement beyond being a co-conspirator. Samira agrees and insists it’ll be no problem.

So, for two weeks, every time Robby and Jack hang out, Samira comes up with excuses to tag along and shoot her shots. She goes to the gym with them and ‘accidentally’ walks into the men’s locker room on two separate occasions, both times catching Robby after the shower but with his towel already on.

On a Thursday night all have off, you’re unfortunate enough to witness one of the efforts firsthand. Samira invited you over to watch the Penguins game with her and Robby (since the two of you hate sports and she’ll be bored out of her mind otherwise).

After three beers, Robby excuses himself to the bathroom. Only fifteen seconds later, Samira stands up, gives a salute to you both, and whispers, “Wish me luck.”

Jack grins like the dumbass he is. “Good luck, honey.”

As she walks away, you shake your head and turn to him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend is obsessed with taking a picture of your best friend’s dick?”

“Nope,” he replies confidently. There’s a cool, clear ‘she knows what she has at home’ energy to the reply. Then he puts on a meddling smirk and akss, “Does it bother you that she’s going to see Robby’s dick before you get to when she wins?”

“Jack!” You toss a pillow at him hard, causing him to spill his beer slightly as he laughs. “Y’know, it’s hard enough dealing with the teasing from the other residents. I don’t need it from you.”

“Hey, I have to listen to Robby going on and on about you all the time; it’s not easy for me, either.”

Your eyes widen into planets, but before you can ask the million clarifying questions you need to, Samira’s back, wearing a disappointed grimace. Looking solemn, she glances between you and Jack and shakes her head. “No dice.”

She tucks under Jack’s arm and he kisses her forehead. “You’ll get him next time, slugger.”

Robby emerges from the bathroom two minutes later with his face tomato red, unable to look Samira in the eyes as he takes his spot next to you once more. He mutters, “I miss anything important?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you reply honestly. Pitying his blush, you touch his thigh and ask, “Can I get you another beer?”

“Please.”

Trinity shakes her head in disappointment once Samira recounts her latest attempt in a line of failures. The three of you and Javadi are at the nurse’s station during shift change, making sure charts are in order as the night shift begins to filter in. Trinity sighs, “Maybe I should just pants him. Say it’s a prank or something.”

You snicker, “That would definitely get you sent straight to HR.”

Victoria puts her head in her hands; she hasn’t even come up with a plan yet and it’s getting to her. “This whole thing is going to get us all sent to HR.”

“Not if you never try anything,” Trinity replies.

Victoria glares. “You’re just trying to get me to back down so you get the money.”

Trinity raises her hands and laughs. “Guilty.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Robby’s tugging off his trauma gown with a frown on his lips. He’s splatterned in blood, enough that it’s gone between his mask and gloves and gown. He’ll need a shower. From across the ED, the four of you watch as Dennis rushes through a patient handover and hustles down the hall. Shooting a knowing look over his shoulder at the four of you, Dennis follows Robby into the showers.

You whisper, “Oh, god.”

“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Trinity says seriously, shaking her head, “especially his share of the rent.”

Victoria sighs, “He made the best coffee.”

When you’re all finished and ready to leave, you and the other girls wait for Dennis by the Pitt’s doors, trying to be inconspicuous as you await his status report.

Dennis emerges, walking fast, expecting you all to meet his brisk pace. You have to practically jog to keep up until you’re a block from the hospital, well out of ear shot of anyone else. Finally, he stops abruptly and swings around to scan his periphery. His eyes are trained on his shoes. He hisses, “Rumor confirmed. Huge.”

Your cheeks burn; blush is becoming a constant state for you thanks to this stupid bet. Trinity’s mouth falls open and she shoves his shoulder hard. “Show us!”

“I didn’t get a picture.”

The whole group groans in disappointment (besides Mel, who sounds relieved). Victoria puts her hand on her hips. “Then you didn’t confirm anything. You could be lying.”

“No way I went through that mortification for nothing. I saw it.”

“Doesn’t count, Dennis,” Trinity replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “We’re talking about $500 here. Hard proof you can share with the class or nothing.”

He frowns and offers, “I can tell you that it’s the size of my goddamn forearm and he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his hip; that doesn’t count for anything?”

Samira claps him on the back and suppresses her laugh. “You’ll have to try again, Whitaker.”

You aren’t really planning on participating. No matter how much you get annoyed at the amount of crap you get for it, you really do like Robby. In fact, it’s a lot past ‘like.’ It’s love. He’s the person you go to for advice, for jokes, for reassurance. For silence. He’s the first person you text in the morning and the last at night. You don’t know exactly how or when it happened, but you gradually went from ‘Robby’s favorite resident’ to ‘Robby’s favorite person’ over the last few years. And that relationship, whatever it is, matters a hell of a lot to you. You don’t want to damage it, even over that much money.

And then your bank account goes into the negative.

You’d run the numbers wrong on your budget for the month, a handful of bills come through at once, and suddenly you’re staring back at a deficit of more than a hundred dollars. All of a sudden, the $500 your stupid-ass friends have been dangling like a carrot in front of your nose has some real appeal.

You know that, for you, there’s really only one option. You could never, in a million years, get away with any of the sneakiness the rest of them are trying. And, yeah, sure, maybe you could go for seduction the way that everyone is prodding for you to. But you’re way too ashamed to do that for a whole host of reasons.

All you can possibly do is beg.

So you spend the whole day screwing up your courage to nut up and ask. You can’t even look at Robby while you work, terrified of the possible outcomes that could roll out in front of you. Of course, there’s the obvious: A visit to HR, fired, tarred and feathered, stripped of your medical future. Most likely, he’ll be mortified and your friendship will be ruined. Possibly, he’ll be flustered and embarrassed and never speak to you again.

Then, worst of all, there’s the idea that this might start something between the two of you. Something you’ve been dancing around for a very, very long time. Something hot and true and real.

What the hell would you do then?

Robby notices. Because of course he notices. He leaves you alone at first, hoping you’ll just corner him and ask whatever it is you’re stewing on. Then he starts avoiding you, too, because he’s wracking his brain for what he must’ve done wrong for you to be like this. He’d made a joke about pandas that hadn’t landed yesterday, but that couldn’t be it. Could it? Maybe it was how he corrected you when you set that broken nose first thing this morning. He hadn’t had his coffee yet. No. You never made a thing about work stuff.

Finally, when he sees you slip into the locker room at the end of your shift, he can’t take it anymore. After a deep breath, he closes the space between you, touches your lower back, and leans in close. “Can we talk for a second?”

You jolt back from him and stare up into his eyes. Shit, you always forget how tall he is when he isn’t doing that thing where he shrinks down to make others more comfortable. “Um, yeah. Is- What’s, ah, what’s up, Robinavitch?”

Robby scowls. “‘Robinavitch’? I don’t think you’ve ever called me that before.”

“First time for everything.” You grimace, shifting from foot to foot, and snatch your backpack from your locker. “Can we, ah, go somewhere else?”

There are a ton of emotions flashing through his eyes. Concern, curiosity, nerves. But all he says is, “Yeah, of course.”

Robby leads you across the Pitt to his office, which is totally barren except for a stack of paperwork on the desk that he clearly has no intention of doing. He flips on the light, draws the blinds, and turns to you seriously. “Alright, sweetheart, what the hell is going on? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You stick close to the door and stare up at the ceiling tiles, wringing your hands. “Look. Okay. This is gonna be so horrifying, alright? So just…just don’t make fun of me too much. You can make fun of me a little, but not that much, because if you make too much of a thing of it I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again and-”

“Woah, hey, it’s alright.” Robby reaches out and touches your elbow, stepping closer to you until you look up at him. He cups your face with one of his agonizingly large hands and you’re so embarrassed it’s unbelievable. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

“God, please don’t be sincere,” you whine. “You can’t be sweet, sincere, cow-eyed, gorgeous Robby right now, okay? Because I’ll have to go jump off the roof if you look like you care about me when I’m about to say something as stupid as what I’m about to say.”

Carefully, he replies, “But I do care about you.”

“Okay. Fuck. Here goes.” You duck your head, lower your voice, and absolutely ramble out, “Trinity found your Tinder profile a few weeks ago and in one of the pictures it sort of looks like we can see the outline of your dick and she said it looked really big so then we all made a bet to see who could get a picture of it to prove that you’re, um, well-endowed, and we all put in a hundred dollars as a pool for the winner and I know- I know it’s so stupid and so, so wrong, but I could really use that kind of money but more importantly I definitely can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars right now because my bank account is overdrafted which is also mortifying in and of itself to tell you because you really shouldn’t be concerned with my financial wellbeing but the fact of the matter is that I-”

“Wait, wait,” he cuts you off, “you’re telling me that’s what’s been going on the past few weeks? My subordinates have been conspiring to see my dick?”

Reaching a new shade of effervescent pink as yet undiscovered by man, you squeak out, “Yes.”

And then he starts laughing. As you blush so hard that your entire body is burning, he absolutely cracks up – to the point that he’s hiccuping, tears falling, grabbing his stomach. Doubled over, Robby wheezes, “Christ, I was starting to worry I’d have to give Whitaker a talk about how nobody will judge him if he’s gay because he keeps ending up in the shower the same time as me and then running away when he realizes I’m naked. And I’ve been terrified that Jack and Mohan might be planning to invite me for a threesome the way she’s been loitering around me. Thank god.”

Shaky relief floods your body and you mutter. “That…wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I actually don’t know.”

After wiping an amused tear from his cheek, Robby reaches out his hand and commands, “Alright, slugger, give me your phone.”

Shocked out of your mind, you reach into your pocket and present it wordlessly. When you see that he’s going for his waistband, you turn around and cover your eyes like his dick might bite you.

Robby laughs again, this time at your obvious nerves. Not discomfort, though. Nerves. He chuckles, “You don’t get extra money for seeing it in person?”

Gnawing off your lower lip, you whimper, forgetting about the rules in the heat of the moment, “Nope.”

“I’m decent now.” When you turn back, he hands off the phone, screen still open. “Go get your money. Buy me a drink or something as my share of the spoils.”

Then you look at your phone. The syllable falls out before you can stop it. Shocked, breathless. Undeniably turned on. “Oh.”

You stare down at the picture with wide eyes. Your pupils dilate, your throat goes dry, and you can’t deny that heat and wetness collecting between your legs. Yeah, that’s a big fucking cock. Even soft, it has to be eight inches – but, like, real inches, not fantasy porn inches. And thick. Dennis may not have been far off base with his forearm comparison, given that he’s beanbole skinny. That whole ‘thick as a beer can’ thing you’ve read in tons of smut suddenly seems possible if Robby can get even thicker than that when he’s hard.

Jesus Christ.

Yeah, your dildo definitely doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter how much you’ve fantasized about it while using your toys.

Robby’s amused voice is a little rougher when he asks, “What was that, sweetheart?”

Your head snaps upward hard enough that you hope your neck will break and kill you. “Please don’t tell me I just said that out loud.”

Robby cages you against the door between his forearms. “You definitely did.”

Your eyes fall to his lips. “Robby, I-”

He presses your bodies together. Your chest on his chest. Your thigh slotted between his. The smirk he’s wearing is so hot you start to melt underneath it. You might have a picture of his dick, but he’s holding all the cards. Shit, you can feel his cock through his scrubs against your thigh. He’s not even hard and you can feel how big he is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’re done. You’re through. Stop the timer, pull the plug, call in the guard.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. With you unable to speak, Robby teases, “You what? C’mon, gorgeous, use your words.”

All you can do is whimper.

The sound you make is downright pathetic, but it only encourages Robby. His breath brushes your lips and it feels like he can see your heart beating in your neck. Then he presses his lips to the curve of your ear and murmurs, “God, I’m gonna have so much fun wrecking you.”

It takes you forty five seconds to breathe again. Finally, with Robby pulling back enough to allow you to think, you mutter, “Mel’s outside waiting for me to walk home with her.”

“Of course.” He pulls back the rest of the way, taking a deep breath. When he shakes his head, it’s almost in disbelief – and you realize he wants you. He presses a soft, knowing kiss to your forehead, strokes your cheek with his thumb, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And he unlocks the door behind you with his arm still around you, the sound shaking you from the stupor of his presence.

After practically sprinting to the hospital exit, you find Mel waiting in your usual spot under an overgrown oak. Gripping her arm hard, you whisper, “I’ve got the picture.”

Her eyes pop out of her head. “What?! Seriously?”

“Yes.”

You start walking, harsh and fast, toward your neighborhood, needing to do something to get this crazy energy out of your body.

She hustles to keep up with your pace. “How?!”

“I told him the truth.”

She squeals like a gossipping cheerleader. “And he took his…manhood out for you?”

“I turned around. He took the picture.”

“Wow. He must really be into you.” Then, catching your elbow to slow your walking, she lowers her voice and asks, “Are you going to send it to everyone?”

“I- I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and groan, “He was going to kiss me. After I told him. After he took the picture. He said- he basically said that he thinks about me, y’know, like that. So now sending it to the group chat feels like sending  – god dammit – it feels like sending my boyfriend’s nudes, okay? You were right.”

She gives a self-satisfied smirk. “I usually am.”

“But I really need that money, Mel. Like ‘won’t be able to pay my share of the rent’ need it.”

“Ask Dr. Robby for it.” She needles with a cute grin, “Clearly he’ll do anything for you.” At the entrance to your building, she pauses. “Seriously, though, you shouldn’t.”

“He told me I could.”

“Still.”

“I have to think about it.”

“Okay, I guess.”

The six of you sit side-by-side like kids in the principal’s office, cramped into the small office high up in the hospital’s tower. There’s an HR rep across the desk. Robby and Jack are standing behind her, trying really hard not to laugh at your dejected expressions. You can’t blame Mel for snitching about the bet, not when you’d ended up mortified and crying and confused in her arms after the whatever the hell that was with Robby last night. The moment you’d reached your apartment, it all washed over you and turned into a full breakdown of ‘what the fuck.’

When the rep finishes going through what feels like a prosecutorial rundown of charges, she asks over her shoulder, “Dr. Robinavitch, do you feel safe continuing to work with them?”

He outright laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. To him, this whole thing is a ridiculous inconvenience. “Yes. God knows I’ve participated in my fair share of similar betting pools downstairs.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she groans, already having nightmares about an avalanche of paperwork. She turns back to look at the rest of you. “Doctors, do you understand this was a massive violation of Dr. Robinavitch’s privacy?”

You nod solemnly, tears biting at your eyes. You’ve never been in trouble like this before and you absolutely hate the feeling of it in your gut. “I completely understand. I’m so, so sorry.”

Everyone echoes something similar – except Trinity.