I'm just a girl💅🏽

Months pass in the strange, quiet orbit the two of you have built around each other—an orbit that shouldn’t exist, by any logical standard, and yet holds with stubborn, gravitational certainty.

If anything, it’s defined by what doesn’t happen.

No confessions. No declarations. No lines crossed.

Just proximity. Just the slow, deliberate accumulation of presence.

If anyone asked you what Leon is to you, you’d probably say something like: a bad habit with excellent aim. And you’d say it with a straight face, maybe even a shrug, like it doesn’t matter.

It does.

You’re not dating. You’re not not dating.

You exist in a space so undefined it would make a philosopher give up and go lie down.

The routine forms quietly. Insidiously.

Sometimes he knocks. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes you come home and he’s already there, stretched out on your couch like he’s always belonged to the place—like he didn’t carve his life out of violence and contingency plans.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You unlock the door, shoulder aching faintly from a long day, and step inside. The air hits you first—warm, familiar.

Coffee. Gun oil.

A deeply concerning combination that your brain has decided now qualifies as home.

Leon’s boots sit neatly by the door. You notice immediately. Of course you do.

Your brain has learned the shape of his presence before your eyes even confirm it.

“Breaking and entering again?” you call out, voice dry as you shrug off your coat, letting it slide from your shoulders with a soft rustle.

From the living room, his voice drifts back, low and calm.

“You gave me a key.”

You pause in the doorway, leaning your shoulder against the frame.

Leon is sprawled across your couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loose against his stomach. He looks… relaxed. Which is still jarring, even now.

Like seeing a loaded weapon placed gently on a bedside table.

Safe. Temporarily.

“You look like hell,” you tell him.

He turns his head just enough to look at you, blue eyes sharp even through the exhaustion. One corner of his mouth lifts faintly.

“So do you.”

“I guess it comes with the job.”

You move into the kitchen, movements automatic, your body running on muscle memory and caffeine debt. You pour yourself water, noticing the faint tremor still lingering in your fingers from surgery.

Six hours. Three fractures. A face you had to rebuild from something unrecognizable.

You swallow hard, grounding yourself.

Leon watches you. You don’t need to look to know that—there’s a weight to his attention, steady and assessing, but never invasive. Like he’s keeping track of you without making it obvious.

Eventually, you drift back into the living room, dropping into the armchair with a quiet exhale.

“You eaten?” you ask, rubbing at your temple.

“Takeout’s in the fridge.”

You blink at him.

“Relax.”

He gestures lazily toward the kitchen, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—something almost cautious, like he’s waiting to see if he overstepped.

“I labeled it.”

You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself.

When you check, the sticky notes are exactly where he said they’d be.

Yours. Mine.

You stare at them for a second longer than necessary. Something about that—about him carving out space here, even temporarily—lands somewhere deeper than it should.

You come back and toss his container at him.

“You’re nesting.”

He catches it without effort, glancing up at you.

“Don’t ruin it.”

You sit cross-legged, eating slowly, watching him in your peripheral vision. There’s something disarmingly domestic about this.

Two people. Bad food. Worse TV.

Like neither of you has spent years wading through blood and things that shouldn’t exist. Halfway through, the thought slips out before you can filter it.

“You’ve been here three nights this week.”

Leon shrugs, but his gaze flickers toward you, quick and unreadable.

“Was in the area.”

“You live twenty minutes away.”

“Still counts.”

You narrow your eyes at him, studying his face.

He meets your look with that faint, crooked almost-smile—soft enough to be disarming, sharp enough to be intentional. You hate that smile. Mostly because it works.

Silence settles between you again. But it’s not the brittle, uncertain silence from before. It’s something softer now. Worn-in. Comfortable in a way that feels almost dangerous.

You finish eating, letting your head fall back against the chair.

Leon’s gaze lingers on you again.

“You’re staring.”

“Observing.”

“Same thing.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying your face more closely now, eyes tracing the exhaustion there—the faint shadows under your eyes, the tension in your jaw.

“You look tired.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Had a fourteen-year-old with a pit bull incident.”

Leon’s expression tightens instantly—jaw clenching, eyes sharpening in that way that says he’s picturing it whether he wants to or not.

“Bad?”

“Face reconstruction.”

A beat. “Jesus.”

You shrug, but it’s smaller this time. “Could’ve been worse.”

That lands between you. He knows what that means.

You rub the back of your neck absently, trying to work out the stiffness.

Leon notices. Of course he does. He pushes himself up from the couch in one smooth motion and crosses the room.

You track him with your eyes, something in your chest tightening slightly—not alarm, not quite anticipation. Something in between.

His hands settle on your shoulders. Warm. Solid. You go still for half a second. Then your body betrays you completely, tension dissolving under his touch like it had been waiting for permission.

“That’s cheating,” you mutter, your voice quieter now.

“You complaining?”

“Professionally.”

“Uh-huh.”

His thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of your neck, slow and deliberate. You feel his focus shift entirely to this—like he’s cataloguing every reaction, adjusting pressure without you needing to say anything.

You close your eyes. Which is a mistake. Because now all you can feel is him.

The warmth of his hands. The steady rhythm of his breathing behind you. The quiet, grounding presence that your body has started recognizing as safe.

Your brain, ever helpful, supplies commentary.

Great. You’re imprinting on a bioterrorism specialist. Fantastic.

When he finally pulls away, the absence is immediate. You glance back at him, something softer in your expression before you can stop it.

“Thanks.”

He nods once, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter that he just steadied something in you without even trying.

Later, in the bathroom, you catch his reflection in the mirror as you brush your teeth. He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that same quiet focus.

“Staring again,” you mumble.

“Observing.”

“Creep.”

His mouth twitches. “You gonna kick me out tonight?”

You pause, toothbrush still in your mouth, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

There’s something there. Not uncertainty. Something closer to… restraint.

“No.”

The word comes easier than it should. He nods once, like that settles something.

──────•✦•──────

Your bedroom has changed. Not dramatically. But enough.

There’s a second toothbrush now. A t-shirt that isn’t yours. A presence that lingers even when he’s gone.

You climb into bed first, the sheets cool against your skin. A minute later, the lights click off and the mattress shifts as he joins you. You feel it immediately—the warmth, the weight, the quiet gravity of him beside you.

He lies on his back at first. You turn onto your side. Your hand moves before you think about it, fingers brushing along his arm, tracing the familiar line of a scar.

His skin is warm under your fingertips. You follow the length of it slowly, mapping it out like you’ve done before.

“Where was this one?” you ask.

“Spain.”

“Of course it was.”

Another scar. Jagged.

“Claws?”

“Yeah.”

“Normal workplace hazard.”

His quiet chuckle vibrates under your hand.

Then his turn. His hand lifts, slower this time, more deliberate—like he’s giving you space to pull away if you want to. You don’t.

His fingers brush your sternum, then trace the faint scar beneath your collarbone. Small souvenir from the central line they placed at the hospital.

The touch is light. Careful. Reverent in a way that makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

A pause. “But I'd not recommend cardiogenic shock.”

His thumb stills briefly against your skin. You feel the shift in him instantly.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head to look at him. “You barely knew me.”

“Still counts.”

Your gaze lingers on his face—the exhaustion etched into it, the softness that only ever shows up like this, in the dark, when neither of you is pretending. It does something uncomfortable to your chest. So you deflect.

“Careful,” you say lightly. “If you start caring about my survival rate we might accidentally develop feelings.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Absolutely not.”

You shift closer. This part has become instinct. His arm slides around your waist immediately, pulling you in without hesitation. Your face settles against his chest.

His heartbeat is steady. Grounding.

For a while, neither of you speaks. Your thoughts drift—hospital corridors, fluorescent lights, blood on tile—

Then his hand moves through your hair, slow and absent-minded. Anchoring you back.

“You ever notice we never talk about what this is?” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

“And we’re both just… fine with that?”

A pause.

“Seems to be working.”

You let out a quiet breath. “God, we’re emotionally dysfunctional.”

“Probably.”

You smile faintly against his shirt.

“You know this would be the part in a normal relationship where someone says something stupid like ‘I think I’m falling for you.’”

His arm tightens around you—just slightly. “Yeah.”

Silence. You feel it there. The words. Heavy. Waiting. Neither of you says them.

Because saying them would make this real in a way that can break. And this—this fragile, carefully balanced thing you’ve built—matters too much to risk it.

So instead, you mutter: “Don’t steal the blanket.”

Leon exhales a soft laugh, his chin brushing lightly against the top of your head. “No promises.”

You settle closer, your fingers curling loosely into his shirt. His hand drifts across your back, slow, absent, grounding.

Outside, the city hums. Inside, it’s quiet. Warm. Temporary. And real enough to keep.

For now.

──────•✦•──────

Leon tells himself this is temporary. That’s the first lie.

He tells himself it every time he unlocks your door with a key he definitely should not have, every time he toes off his boots like he belongs here, every time he sets something of his down and doesn’t pick it back up when he leaves.

Temporary. Just until things settle. Just until you’re better. Just until he is.

The problem is, nothing about this feels temporary anymore. It feels… lived-in. And Leon Kennedy has spent most of his life in places that were anything but.

Some nights, he doesn’t sleep.

It’s not unusual. It hasn’t been unusual in decades.

What is unusual is that now, when sleep refuses to come, he doesn’t reach for a drink or sit in the dark with a loaded gun and bad memories.

Now, he turns his head slightly on the pillow and looks at you.

You’re asleep on your side, facing him, one hand tucked under your cheek, the other resting loosely between the two of you like you fell asleep mid-thought. Your breathing is slow, even, your face softer than he ever sees it during the day—no tension in your jaw, no sharp edge in your eyes.

Peaceful. It still throws him, sometimes.

That someone who’s seen what you’ve seen—done what you’ve done in your own way—can look like this when the world isn’t pressing down on you.

He watches your breathing first. That’s always the first check.

Steady rise. Slow fall. No hitch. No sudden tension.

Good.

Then your hands.

You’ve got a habit—fingers twitching when you dream badly, like you’re trying to grab onto something and can’t quite find it.

Tonight, they’re still.

Good.

Leon exhales quietly through his nose, some tension in his chest easing without him consciously deciding to let it go.

He shifts slightly onto his side, careful, controlled. The mattress barely dips. Years of moving quietly in hostile territory translate oddly well to not waking someone you… care about.

There’s a thought he immediately shuts down.

He props his head up on his hand, studying you.

Your hair is a mess—half across your face, half tangled in the pillow. There’s a faint crease on your cheek from the sheets. Your lips are parted slightly, breath warm against the space between you.

Domestic. The word sits strangely in his head.

Leon doesn’t do domestic. Leon does extraction points and contingency plans and “if I don’t make it back” scenarios.

And yet here he is. Memorizing the way your face looks in sleep like it’s something he might need later.

Which—his brain helpfully supplies—he probably will.

He reaches out before he can stop himself, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary, grazing your temple.

You don’t wake. You just shift slightly closer. Instinct. Trust.

His chest tightens. That feeling again. Annoying. Persistent. Dangerous.

He drops his hand back to the mattress, staring at the ceiling for a moment.

Get a grip, Kennedy. This is just proximity. Shared trauma. Mutual coping mechanisms that got a little out of hand.

That’s all.

──────•✦•──────

anymore. But when they do, they hit hard.

He wakes up fast, breath catching in his throat, body already halfway to reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. His muscles are tight, coiled, adrenaline spiking before his brain catches up.

Dark room. Familiar ceiling.

Not Raccoon City. Not Spain. Not—

“Leon.”

Your voice is thick with sleep, barely above a murmur. He stills. You don’t even open your eyes.

Your hand finds him in the dark, fingers brushing his forearm, then sliding up to his shoulder like you’re checking he’s actually there.

“You’re safe,” you mumble, words slurred slightly. “You’re okay.”

There’s no urgency in it. No panic. Just quiet certainty. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s already settled.

Before he can respond, you shift closer, pressing your face into the space between his shoulder and neck, your arm draping loosely across his chest.

Nuzzling into him like this is normal. Like he’s normal.

Leon exhales slowly, the tension bleeding out of him in increments.

His hand comes up, almost automatically, settling against your back. He can feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against him, grounding, anchoring.

“You didn’t even wake up,” he mutters quietly, voice rough.

A pause.

Then, sleep-heavy and unimpressed: “Didn’t need to.”

He huffs out something that might be a laugh.

“Right.”

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt.

“Go back to sleep.”

That’s it. No questions. No digging. No what happened? Just an expectation that he will be okay.

It’s… disarming. Infuriating, even. Because it works.

He doesn’t sleep right away.

But he stays there, listening to your breathing, feeling the warmth of you pressed against him, until the adrenaline fades into something manageable.

Eventually, his eyes close.

──────•✦•──────

Mornings are worse. Not because they’re bad. Because they’re good.

Leon wakes up first more often than not. Years of conditioning. Light sleeper. Always alert.

But here, the first thing he registers isn’t danger. It’s you. Usually half on top of him.

You have a tendency to migrate in your sleep—what starts as a reasonable amount of personal space ends with you draped across him like you’ve decided he’s a particularly sturdy piece of furniture.

This morning, your leg is hooked loosely over his, your arm tucked under his side, your face pressed into his chest.

He looks down at you. There’s a faint frown on your face, like even in sleep you’re mildly annoyed at something.

On brand.

He exhales quietly, one hand coming up to rest against your back.

He should move. He has things to do. Reports. Briefings. A life that exists outside of this apartment.

Instead, he stays. Counts your breaths. Feels the warmth of you. Memorizes it.

Again.

Because apparently that’s something he does now.

After a while, you stir. Your nose wrinkles slightly before your eyes even open.

“You’re staring,” you mumble.

Leon huffs. “Observing.”

Your eyes crack open just enough to give him an unimpressed look. “Creep.”

“Morning to you too.”

You shift slightly, but don’t move away. If anything, you settle more comfortably against him, like you’ve decided consciousness doesn’t change anything.

“Time is it?” you ask.

“Too early.”

“Helpful.”

He smirks faintly. “You’ve got drool on my shirt.”

You freeze. Then slowly tilt your head down.

“…I did not.”

“Left side.”

You immediately wipe at your mouth, glaring up at him. “Liar.”

“Worth a shot.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Just… ease. You push yourself up reluctantly, stretching slightly, your shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin.

Leon looks away. Immediately. Professional. Disciplined. Not at all because his brain froze for half a second.

You don’t notice. Or you pretend not to. Hard to tell with you.

You disappear into the bathroom, leaving him staring at the ceiling again.

This is fine, he tells himself. Completely under control. There’s a toothbrush in your bathroom that belongs to him.

That’s probably a problem.

You come back a few minutes later, hair messier somehow, scrubs half on, still tying your pants.

“You making coffee or are you just going to lie there having an existential crisis?” you ask.

Leon pushes himself up with a quiet groan. “Bold of you to assume those are separate activities.”

You snort. “Kitchen. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He moves through your apartment like he knows it. Because he does. Coffee grounds are in the second cabinet. Mugs on the left. You like it strong, no sugar.

He starts the machine while you lean against the counter, watching him with that same quiet focus he knows he uses on you. It’s… unsettling.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“Observing.”

“Same thing.”

“Mm.”

You don’t look away. Neither does he. There’s a moment.Quiet.Charged in a way that sneaks up on him.

This is the part where something usually happens. In other lives. Other versions of this. A comment. A shift. A line crossed.

Instead, you reach past him for a mug, your arm brushing his lightly. Accidental. Not accidental. Neither of you acknowledges it.

You take a sip of coffee, grimace slightly.

“Still terrible.”

“You’re welcome.”

You lean your hip against the counter, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you without touching.

Comfortable. Dangerous.

Leon watches you over the rim of his cup.

The way you move in his space like it’s yours. The way you’ve made space for him without ever saying it out loud. The way this has become something real without either of you admitting it.

He exhales quietly.

This is temporary, he tells himself again.

The lie feels thinner this time.

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You shake your head, but there’s a faint smile tugging at your mouth.

And Leon—

Leon looks at you and feels something settle in his chest that has no business being there. Something steady. Something warm. Something that makes leaving feel like a worse option than staying.

Which is new. Which is a problem. Which he absolutely refuses to examine too closely.

──────•✦•──────

Evenings settle differently.

Mornings have a rhythm. Nights have edges.

But evenings—those in-between hours when the world hasn’t quite decided what it is yet—those are where this… whatever this is… lives.

Leon notices that before he means to.

He tells himself it’s just timing. Just convenience. Just the overlap between your schedules and his increasingly questionable habit of showing up at your apartment like it’s an extension of his own.

It’s not. He knows it’s not. That doesn’t stop him from unlocking your door anyway.

Tonight, you’re already there.

He hears the TV first—some overproduced reality show bleeding through the walls, voices too loud, too dramatic, arguing about things that don’t matter.

Good. That’s the point.

He steps inside quietly, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, automatically scanning the space out of habit—windows, corners, sightlines.

Clear. Safe.

Then his focus shifts.

You’re on the couch, curled into the corner, one leg tucked under you, the other draped over the cushion. There’s a blanket half-falling off your lap, a mug balanced precariously on the coffee table, and your attention fixed somewhere vaguely in the direction of the TV but not really on it.

Your eyes flick toward him when you hear the door.

“You’re late,” you say.

Your voice is even, but there’s a slight lift to your brow—something that looks suspiciously like you noticed.

Leon shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it by the door like he’s done it a hundred times.

“Had to save the world.”

You hum, unconvinced. “Did it appreciate it?”

“Not even a little.”

That earns him the faintest smile.

He crosses the room, slower now, the tension he walked in with already bleeding off just from being here. It’s automatic at this point—like his body recognizes the shift before his brain catches up.

He sits on the couch beside you. Not too close. At first. There’s a beat.

Then you shift.

Not looking at him, not making a thing of it—just a subtle movement as you slide closer, your shoulder brushing his, your weight settling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Leon stills for half a second.

There it is again.That quiet, disarming trust.

He exhales slowly and lets himself lean back into it.

“Bad day?” you ask, eyes still on the TV.

“Define bad.”

“That bad, huh.”

“Yeah.”

You nod slightly, like that answers everything. It does. That’s the thing about you—you don’t press. You don’t ask for details he doesn’t want to give.

You just… make space.

It’s a foreign concept. And one he’s getting dangerously used to.

A few minutes pass in silence, punctuated only by the TV’s dramatic nonsense and the soft hum of the city outside.

Then you shift again. This time, it’s more deliberate. You tug the blanket up, then lean sideways, your head settling under his chin, fitting into that space like it was designed for you. Your breath brushes lightly against his collarbone through his shirt—warm, steady.

Leon’s entire body goes still. Not tense. Just… aware. Every point of contact suddenly sharp.

Your shoulder against his chest. Your hip pressed to his thigh. The subtle rise and fall of your breathing syncing gradually with his.

He hesitates for half a second. Then his arm comes up, settling around you. Careful. Measured. Like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to.

You don’t react. If anything, you settle more comfortably against him, one hand resting lightly against his ribs. Permission granted.

He exhales. The TV keeps playing. Something about betrayal. Or cake. Or both. He doesn’t register it. His attention drifts.

That’s the dangerous part.

Because when his mind isn’t occupied, it goes places he doesn’t particularly want it to.

Faces. Voices. People he didn’t get to in time. People he did get to, but not enough. The weight of it creeps in slowly, familiar and unwelcome, settling somewhere behind his ribs.

You notice. Of course you do. You always do.

Your fingers shift slightly against his side, a small, grounding pressure.

“I’m here,” you murmur.

That’s it. No questions. No expectations. Just a statement. Simple. Certain.

Leon huffs quietly, something almost like a laugh escaping him.

“Yeah,” he says under his breath.

He tightens his arm around you slightly, not even realizing he’s doing it.

The thoughts don’t disappear. They never do. But they dull. Soften around the edges.

Because you’re here. And somehow, that matters.

──────•✦•──────

It becomes routine.

The couch.The terrible TV. The quiet, shared silence. You tucked into his side like you’ve always been there.

Leon tells himself it’s just proximity. Humans are wired for it. Basic psychology. Nothing complicated.

Except—

There’s the other thing. The thing he definitely doesn’t think about. Except he does. Constantly.

Your hand.

The first time you do it, it catches him completely off guard.

You’re both half-watching something—some argument about a rose ceremony—and he’s halfway through mentally dismantling a past operation, replaying it in his head with that familiar, relentless precision.

Then your hand lifts. And your fingers slide into his hair.

Leon freezes. Not subtle. Not remotely smooth. Just… completely still.

You don’t seem to notice. Or you do, and you ignore it.

Your fingers move slowly, absent-mindedly, brushing through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that is—

He doesn’t have a word for it. Comforting doesn’t cover it. It’s… quiet. Safe.

Which is a deeply inconvenient sensation for someone like him.

His brain, ever helpful, immediately tries to reframe it. This is nothing. People do this. Normal.

Meanwhile, his entire nervous system is lighting up like a Christmas tree.

You shift slightly, still focused on the TV, your fingers continuing their slow, rhythmic movement.

Leon exhales.

And then—

God, this is embarrassing—

He leans into it. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. Except it is noticeable. To him. To you.

Your lips twitch faintly. He catches it in his peripheral vision.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“Don’t what?” you ask, tone innocent.

“Whatever that look is.”

“What look?”

“That one.”

You glance up at him briefly, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Your fingers don’t stop. If anything, they slow slightly, more deliberate now, nails lightly dragging against his scalp.

Leon’s eyes close for half a second before he can stop himself.

Fantastic, he thinks. You’re a stray cat now.

Leon swallows, his jaw tightening slightly as he looks back at the TV. This is… a problem.

──────•✦•──────

It happens again.

And again.

Always casual. Always like you’re not thinking about it. Like it’s just something you do.

Some nights it’s slower, your fingers barely moving as you drift closer to sleep, your breathing evening out against him while your hand stays tangled in his hair like you forgot it was there.

Those are the worst.

Because Leon sits there, completely still, not daring to move, not wanting to wake you, not wanting—

Not wanting to lose it.

Which is ridiculous. It’s just a hand. Just touch.

He’s been through worse. He’s been through everything.

And yet—

This? This quiet, gentle, completely unguarded thing? This gets to him in ways gunfire never has.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his arm around you as you sleep against him, your head still tucked under his chin. His hand drifts up your back, slow, grounding, mirroring the way you steady him without ever saying it out loud.

You make a soft sound in your sleep, something content, something small.

It hits him square in the chest.

Leon exhales slowly, staring at the muted flicker of the TV screen.

This is temporary, he tells himself again. The lie is thinner now. Barely holding.

Because temporary things don’t feel like this. They don’t settle into your bones. They don’t make you hesitate before leaving. They don’t make you stay.

He looks down at you.The way you fit against him. The way you trust him without question. The way you’ve carved out space for him in a life that had no reason to include him.

And for a moment—

Just a moment—

Leon lets himself feel it. The weight of it. The pull of it.

Something dangerously close to wanting more.

Then he exhales, slow and steady, pushing it back where it belongs. Compartmentalized. Contained. Controlled.

His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. His arm tightens around you just enough to keep you close.

The TV drones on in the background.

And Leon sits there, tangled up with you on a couch that’s starting to feel too much like home, pretending that what’s growing between you is something he can still walk away from.

Even as every instinct he has tells him—

He won’t.

──────•✦•──────

The engine hums low and steady beneath the hood, a controlled, expensive purr that Leon suspects is doing more for his nerves than he’d ever admit out loud. The Porsche eats up the coastal road in long, smooth stretches of asphalt, the kind that seem designed for people who are trying to outrun something they can’t quite name.

The city is long gone now—no sirens, no concrete canyon walls, no distant echo of chaos—and still, his grip on the wheel is just a little tighter than necessary.

He tells himself it’s the curves in the road. It’s not the curves in the road.

Beside him, you sit with your elbow propped against the door, fingers resting loosely near your lips, watching the ocean like it might run away from you if you stopped paying attention for too long. The late afternoon light spills through the windshield, catching in the strands of your hair that have escaped whatever loose attempt you made to tie it back this morning.

There’s something unfair about how calm you look. Not untouched—he knows better than that—but composed. Like you’ve stitched yourself back together so cleanly no one would ever guess how bad the damage had been.

He glances at you, quick, subtle, the way he always does—like checking a perimeter.

You don’t notice. Or you pretend not to.

“Y’know,” Leon says after a while, voice casual in that carefully constructed way of his, “most people do something a little more… festive for anniversaries.”

You don’t look at him. “You brought me to the ocean.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get you a cake. Or a balloon. Feels like I dropped the ball.”

That gets a faint huff of amusement out of you, barely there but real. “Next time we commemorate a bio-terror attack, you can spring for a banner.”

“Good,” he mutters. “I was worried there wasn’t a socially acceptable way to do that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches, and he counts it as a win.

Silence settles again, but it’s not empty. It never really is, with you. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled, which, for someone like Leon, is both a relief and a problem. Because it leaves too much room for thinking, and thinking is where things tend to go sideways.

Case in point.

He shouldn’t be thinking about forever.

He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about forever while driving a high-performance vehicle at speeds that would get a normal person arrested and a federal agent a very awkward conversation with internal affairs.

And yet.

It slips in anyway, uninvited, quiet and persistent.

The way you lean back into the seat just a little more when the road smooths out. The way you don’t flinch at every unfamiliar sound anymore, but you still, occasionally, glance toward exits like you’re mapping them without realizing. The way you let him exist in your space without question—your apartment, your bed, your life—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he belongs there.

That’s the part that trips him up.

Because he’s not entirely sure he does. He’s a government-issued problem with a badge and a body count.

You’re… you. You rebuild faces. You fix things. You make people whole again.

He breaks them, most days. Or at the very least, he walks straight into situations where breaking things is the only option left.

Objectively—and he uses that word very loosely, because his brain and objectivity have never exactly been on speaking terms—this should not work.

And yet.

You let him stay. You patch him up without complaint, even when he shows up at your door bleeding on your floor like some kind of stray you forgot to stop feeding. You laugh at his jokes—God help him, you laugh at his jokes—and occasionally, on nights when the world is too loud for either of you, you let him fall asleep beside you, your hand resting somewhere on him like a quiet, grounding tether.

It’s… something.

He just has no idea what to call it. And more importantly, no idea if you’d ever want it to be more.

Which is, he admits privately, probably stupid.

But in his defense, he’s been operating on a steady diet of worst-case scenarios since 1998. Optimism isn’t exactly his strong suit.

The restaurant he picks is small, tucked along the coast with wide windows that look out over the water. It’s the kind of place that tries very hard not to look expensive, which usually means it absolutely is. Warm lighting, low music, the faint smell of salt carried in every time the door opens.

He pulls your chair out for you without thinking. Old habits. You raise an eyebrow at him as you sit.

“Wow,” you say lightly. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘normal date’ aesthetic today.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he replies, sliding into his own seat. “I’m gonna ruin it by ordering something I can’t pronounce.”

“Please do. I’d love to watch that.”

“Cruel,” he mutters. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

“You mean the part where you drove slightly above the legal speed limit for two hours and made bad jokes?”

He considers that. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Dinner is… easy. Easier than it has any right to be, given the context of the day. You talk about work—your cases, some particularly stubborn reconstruction that required more creativity than it should have. He listens, genuinely listens, asking questions that are just informed enough to prove he’s been paying attention all along.

At one point, you catch him watching you.

Not in the quick, assessing way he does in the car. This is different. Still. Focused.

“You’re staring,” you say, not unkindly.

He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah. I know.”

A beat.

“Why?”

There are a hundred answers he could give. Most of them deflections. A joke, something dry and dismissive that would let him sidestep the actual question entirely.

Instead, he shrugs slightly, gaze dropping to his glass for a second before coming back to you. “Just… making sure you’re still here.”

You go quiet at that, something in your expression softening in a way that hits him square in the chest.

“I am,” you say.

He nods once. “Yeah. I know.”

But knowing and believing have always been two very different things for him.

Later, when the plates are cleared and the sky outside has shifted into that deep, endless blue that comes just before full dark, he leans back in his chair, watching you as you absentmindedly trace the rim of your glass with your finger.

And it hits him.

Not all at once, not like some dramatic, cinematic revelation. It’s quieter than that. Almost annoyingly so. A slow, steady realization that settles into place like it’s been waiting there the whole time.

He wants this.

Not just the good days. Not just the quiet nights on your couch or the dry banter over takeout containers. He wants all of it. The bad days, too. The ones where you come home exhausted and brittle, where he shows up bleeding and pretends it’s nothing, where the past creeps in around the edges and refuses to stay buried.

He wants to be there for all of it.

Forever.

The word sits in his mind for a second, heavy and unfamiliar.

Forever.

He almost laughs, because that’s… ridiculous. He’s not exactly built for forever. His track record with long-term anything is, at best, questionable.

And yet the idea doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels… calm.

Which is, frankly, more terrifying than anything else.

Because calm means it matters. And if it matters, he has to figure out how to say something about it, which immediately presents a whole new set of problems.

Namely: he has absolutely no idea how to do that without sounding like an idiot.

He can handle bioweapons, armed combat, high-risk extractions. Put him in front of you with something real to say, though, and suddenly he’s back to being a twenty-one-year-old rookie who can barely string a sentence together without overthinking it.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling quietly.

You notice. Of course you do.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “You’re doing that thing.”

He frowns. “What thing?”

“The overthinking thing. You get this look like you’re trying to defuse a bomb that may or may not exist.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “That’s… uncomfortably accurate.”

“So?” you prompt. “What’s the bomb?”

He hesitates.

There it is—that moment. The one where he could say something real, or he could do what he always does and dodge it.

His instinct is to dodge.

Naturally.

“Nothing,” he says finally, defaulting to safety. “Just thinking.”

You give him a look that says you don’t believe him for a second, but you let it go. “Dangerous pastime.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ve been told.”

You reach across the table then, almost absentmindedly, your fingers brushing against his before settling there properly. It’s a small thing. Casual. Familiar.

Grounding.

His hand turns instinctively, fingers closing around yours, rough calluses against your skin. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until it’s already happened.

And just like that, the noise in his head quiets.

He looks at your joined hands, then back up at you, something steadying in his expression.

He still has no idea how to say it.

No script, no plan, no smooth one-liner that’s going to magically make this less terrifying.

But for the first time, that doesn’t feel like a reason not to try. It just feels like something he’s going to have to figure out.

Eventually. Not tonight, maybe. He’s not that brave yet.

But soon.

Because as he sits there with you, the ocean stretching endlessly beyond the windows and your hand warm in his, the thought comes back again, quieter this time but no less certain.

He wants this.

And, for once in his life, that feels like something worth the risk.

Tonight he looked more alert. Sometimes, when he came in, he wore the world on his shoulders. At least tonight you were greeted with a semi-convincing smile.

“Dr. Robby,” you greeted. You’d stopped asking how his day was months ago.

“How has your shift been?” He asked you.

“Not bad, only have another hours or so before I clock out,” you replied.

The bar was slow tonight. Despite how abysmal the tips were, you preferred it slow. It allowed you to read, or grade, or write while patrons largely entertained themselves. Aimless small talk wasn’t your forte, though you’d certainly improved over the course of this job. Thankfully, the dive bar seemed to attract the kinds of people who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.

“Busy week?” He asked.

“No more than others. Want your usual?” You asked deflecting his question about your life outside these walls.

A few weeks ago, the last night Robby had truly been wasted (so much so, you cut him off) he’d caught you in a moment of weakness and you’d told him about your PhD work. Despite his normally depressive drunk state, he perked up and began asking you question after question. It seemed to raise his spirits, so you acquiesced assuming he’d forget by the next morning.

His brain was a steel trap, as evidenced by the fact he’d ask about your PhD, either explicitly or in a roundabout way the following half dozen times he came in. He rarely got shit-faced anymore. Most times, he tended to stay on the right side of tipsy. It certainly seemed like he was trying to have a better relationship with alcohol.

In fact, a couple visits previous, you and a coworker watched amazed as he flirted with and then subsequently took home a woman sitting next to him at the bar. It had been live texted in the bartender groups chat to a mixture of awe, surprise, and happiness. Dr. Robby was something of a local legend in his sad but overall non-troublesome behavior. He just liked to talk when drunk and you really didn’t like to talk to drunk people.

Bartending paid well, and needs must.

“Just a rum and coke,” he said settling in on his usual bar stool. It sat off to the side and gave the occupant an easy view of the bar, patio, and front door.

“Got it,” you replied ringing him up. “Tab?”

“Not tonight,” Robby said.

You hoped your surprise didn’t show on your face, but you knew you had a terrible poker face. Looks like the group chat would be getting new information on the bizarre man. Most of your coworkers liked Robby a lot, he was colloquially known as Sad Paddington Bear. Tipping well and not being a menace made him a perfect patron. You were just a little pickier than most, with your days being spent on campus with academics and undergrads—by the time you came to this job your threshold for unique characters had been reached.

Sometimes you felt bad for how unfriendly and uncurious you could be with patrons. Many of your regulars were fun to chat with. They had fascinating lives and stories. You suspected Robby would be one if he got out of his drink. But no one normal goes to get a PhD—including yourself—so you just did not have it in you for Robby’s particular brand of quirky.

“You look surprised,” Robby commented as he handed over his card.

“I don’t look like anything,” you attempted to lie.

Robby snorted, “Every thought you have is written on your face. It’s why I know you don’t like me.”

“I like you fine,” you replied sliding over the card and receipt. “You tip well, who wouldn’t like that?”

“So that’s why it always looks like you sucked on a lemon when I walked in?” He inquires signing the check.

“Maybe I just enjoy snacking on lemons,” you said moving behind the bar and beginning to mix his drink. You made a mental note to work on your ability to control your face. It really was a problem.

“I think that would be more peculiar than not liking me,” Robby told you, sliding the check back over.

He was one of three people currently sitting at the bar, so after you handed him his drink, you glanced at his receipt.

“Is tipping 100% trying to get me to like you more?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, taking a small sip. “Knew you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t like many people, Dr. Robinavitch. I fear you’re not unique. I’m very much the problem here.”

“And yet, for some reason I doubt that. You seem perfectly pleasant to me.”

You couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that his comment elicited. “Might want to get your eyes checked, if that’s what you’re seeing.”

“I see just fine. It’s reading that I need the glasses for,” he stated.

It was unnerving, being stared at by Robby. His eyes were a deep brown and they seemed to have the uncanny ability to stare through you. It made the hair on your neck stand on end. Being watched was fine by you. Lecturing in front of massive classrooms meant public speaking, being perceived, and observed phased you very little. Robby was not observing you. He seemed to be studying you, and that was more than a little uncomfortable.

“Whatever you say,” you replied a little uncomfortable.

“I’ll get you to like me,” he said, an almost charming smile graced his face. It still seemed a little sad.

“Or maybe you need to be okay with the fact you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m certainly not.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

“I think you overestimate yourself. I can’t believe you got that smoking hot woman to go home with you.”

“Paying attention to me, then?” He asked. Clearly, it was an attempt to sound suave, but it missed the mark and sounded cheesy.

“The group chat with all the bartenders was very proud of you.”

“And what about you?”

“I wondered if you were too old to get hard on your own and if you popped a sildenafil on your way out.”

“Ouch,” Robby responded but he didn’t sound particularly hurt.

Another patron walked in and you happily took the opportunity to leave the disconsolate aura Robby seemed to emanate around him. All too fast, the patron paid and you got them their drink. Your book was back by Robby. When you glanced at him, he had plucked it from behind the bar and was reading it.

“Have a sudden craving to learn about reform politics in the American southwest?” You asked.

“It’s a well written book,” Robby commented.

“It is, one of the better books I’ve read this semester.”

“I like your notes in the margin; lots of interesting thoughts and connections.”

“Uh-huh.” You gently took the book from his hands and was about to walk away when he asked with a forced causal tone,

“Do you still have that office on the third floor of the social science building?”

You paused. “Why do you know what floor my office is on?”

“You mentioned once your window looks over the duck pond and the statue of the naked guy with the sword,” he said. “Third floor lines up with that.”

You blinked. “I mentioned that months ago.”

He shrugged. “I remember things.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how to. Most patrons forgot your name by their second drink. Robby remembered throwaway comments at 1AM while half-drunk. It was certainly a little odd, but no one else in your life seemed to pay that much attention to what you said.

“So do you like it better there than your old one?” he asked.

You stared. “My…old one?”

“The one you hated because the fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. You said it gave you headaches.”

You let out a slow breath. “Why do you remember that?”

He took a sip as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were annoyed. You get more animated when you’re annoyed. It was interesting.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you said flatly.

He looked mildly alarmed. “Was that creepy?”

“Yes.”

He grimaced. “Okay. Sorry. I just…listen.”

“To everything.”

“Well, yeah.” He hesitated. “You’re…” He trailed off.

“I what?” you asked cautiously.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not about to break or some shit, like I’m not some sad old man. You don’t like me enough to coddle me.”

You almost said you do think he’s sad, but stopped yourself. Something about the way he stared down at his drink made you uncomfortable. Apparently your stare and subsequent silence elicited a change in tactics.

“So,” he said, brightening with forced cheerfulness. “Conference are coming up, right? You said you hate them. Are you going to that one in—Chicago? MPSA?”

You frowned. “How do you even know when MPSA is?”

“You were complaining about airfare once.”

“That was in February.”

“It was a compelling rant.”

You gave him a look. “Robby. I don’t even tell my friends this stuff.”

He blinked. “We could be friends?”

“Don’t make this weird.”

He deflated slightly but nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “I just, like talking to you. Makes it easier to not get drunk.”

You froze, not sure what to do with that.

He immediately panicked at your silence. “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to pry, I swear. Just, I like knowing how your brain works.”

“You say that like it’s a normal thing to say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

He considered that. “Oh.”

You shook your head. “Robby, I’m not that interesting.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, almost offended. “You’re the most interesting part of my day.”

He realized what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like he wanted to catch the words and shove them back in.

You stared at him.

He took a quick, embarrassed sip of his drink. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“I really doubt that,” you said.

He groaned quietly into his glass. “I’m going to die alone.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“Statistically accurate,” he muttered back.

Despite yourself, you snorted. “There’s no statistically valid way you could even determine that. It would be based on superficial evidence and the endogeneity would render the model completely pointless.”

He looked up, “What is endogeneity?”

“I am not giving you a stats lecture. Aren’t you a doctor. Shouldn’t you know stats?”

“No. I do calculations for drugs and chemical reactions to drugs. I don’t deal with probabilities. At least not like you do.”

“So how do you read case studies or evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch. If you don’t understand stats then how do you know if the research paper you’re reading is bullshit?”

“Well, it got published didn’t it?”

You felt your eye twitch. “I’ve never been more concerned for the medical profession than I am at this moment. This is why you guys stole “Doctor” from us, because you wanted to appear more like experts.”

“I think we had the title first.”

“I think you should check your facts. Academics were called doctor during the Middle Ages. Medical professionals started using it when they also spent time grave robbing.”

“You’re very passionate about this,” he commented.

“Yeah well,” you took a breath. “Respect is important.”

“So should I call you doctor?”

“I’d have to defend my dissertation first.”

“What’s your dissertation about?”

“Do you want another drink?” You asked ignoring his question.

“Nope,” he replied. “What’s your dissertation about?”

Letting out a harsh breath you said, “Local interest groups and how to encourage people to get involved in local politics.”

“Sounds fascinating,” he said.

“It does not,” you laughed.

“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t find interesting,” he shot back.

“You would be the first non-political scientist to find anything I do interesting.”

“Their loss.”

You stared at him and he held steady under your gaze. Normally, he’d cringe away. According to your students, you had a severe look that would render anyone hesitant and nervous. But Robby idly sipped his drink and kept looking back at you.

“You’re so weird,” you settled with saying.

“You’re not the first to say and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

With narrowed eyes, you turned and began cleaning up your station. You really just wanted to go home.

-- -- --

You were off this week, trying to meet a couple of important deadlines. It meant most evenings were spent on campus in your cramped but homey cubicle staring at numbers you could barely differentiate anymore. In high school you would have given anything to not do math, now you coded complex statistical models and calculated matrix algebra and derivatives. High school you would be devestated.

But current you, the one who was currently sitting in a too-cold-office space with a sweatshirt and a blanket, was fascinating by the results of your field experiment. It’s why you didn’t notice a group text erupting on your phone.

Priya: Sad Paddington Bear came in and asked about our favorite grumpy PhD student.

Rachel: he looked so sad when we told him she was off this week. apparently our girl has an admirer.

Priya: HOLY SHIT!!! He’s flirting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Again!!!! He’s failing miserably and she seems charmed by it.

Oliver: I can’t believe I’m not there for this. Tell me everything!!!!!!!!

Rachel: she’s probably in her forties if I had to guess. he asked her name and if he could buy “the most beautiful woman in the bar” a drink. it was painfully cheesy

Oliver: did it work?????

Rachel: they’re talking rn!!!!!!!!!!!

Priya: I still can’t believe he has game.

Tanner: Hello all, this group chat is meant for work conversation only.

Priya: Fuck off, Tanner.

Rachel: fuck off tanner

Oliver: you’re a kill joy, tan

Rachel: THEYRE LEAVING TOGETHER. I REPEAT. THEY ARE LEAVING TOGETHER. SPB FUCKS!!!!!

Tanner: I am amazed Sad Paddington Bear has it in him. Guess he cannot count on impressing our grumpy coworker.

You: Fuck off Tanner, you dickhead.

Tanner: Case and point

Oliver: really changed your tune about the group chat there now that we are discussing how Paddington Bear fucks.

Tanner: It is work relevant.

You grumbled at your phone and tossed it in your backpack so it wouldn’t taunt you. So what if you were once again faced with the reality that Robby had game? You didn’t like Robby. He was sad and weird and paid way too much attention to you. Though, the attention he paid didn’t feel creepy so much as intense. He remembered things about you that most of your closest friends couldn’t recall. Not that you blamed them, you just lived in a niche world.

Robby fucking was in no way relevant to the edits you were making to your research nor did it help ease the exhaustion settling on your shoulders. You hadn’t been fucked well basically since you started the PhD program four years ago. It was an itch no one had been good enough to scratch. You briefly wondered if Robby was good in bed; probably not, you decided.

-- -- --

Robby was already at the bar when you clocked in. You were covering for Priya who went home sick, so it was only a couple hours until last call. Robby stared blearily at his empty cup; he didn’t even notice you walk in. Glancing at his tab you saw he had far out ordered his new normal. He was sitting four double gin and tonics deep; a large number for someone whose tab was only opened a little over an hour ago.

“You’re here,” he said syrupily. Robby never slurred, but he did manage to sound sleepy and sickly sweet at times.

“What happened to a healthier relationship with alcohol?” You asked sliding a glass of water with a straw in front of him and taking the mostly empty G&T away.

“I was drinking that,” he grumbled.

“I’ll take if off your tab,” you replied gesturing to the water.

He leaned down and took a drink from the straw. For some reason straws always got the drunk people to drink water. You likened it to a baby with a pacifier. Robby looked particularly sad tonight. You hoped he wasn’t going to talk your ear off. You weren’t sure how to square the man who took home, by all accounts, absolute bombshells, when he was now wasted on G&Ts in front of you.

“You’re my favorite,” he said. He took another drink.

“I’m literally the meanest person here,” you responded. “You have got to fix your self esteem.”

“Esteem is fine,” he replied.

You snorted. “People with healthy self esteem’s don’t gravitate towards people that are mean to them. I thought you said you were seeing someone professionally.”

“Stopped,” he mumbled.

“Healthy.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his grin was goofy but his eyes were sad.

“Uh-huh,” you knew you sounded unconvinced.

“Do you know what my favorite thing about you is?” Robby asked apropos of nothing.

“No, and I don’t really care,” you sighed, as you began washing cups. You wished he didn’t insist on sitting by the good water spout so you could dishes in peace.

“You don’t lie to protect anyone’s feelings.”

That wasn’t exclusively true. You were far more tactful with your students than adult men at a bar you worked at to make your car payment hurt less.

“Not anyone here, that’s true,” you said.

“I lie all the time,” he announced. “I’m good at it to.”

“What do you lie about?” You asked disbelievingly. Immediately you wished you hadn’t said anything.

“That I’m fine,” he sighed. “I’m not fine. As demonstrated by the fact I’m shit faced on a Tuesday at…” he looked at his watched for longer than a sober man would need, “nine-twenty-seven pm.”

“No offense, Robby. If that’s what you’re lying about, you’re a shit liar.”

“No one else seems to have picked up on it,” he grumbled.

“Don’t you have friends or family?”

“Parents died when I was little. Raised my Bubbe, grandmother. Was the only person to sit shiva for her when she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you replied. “It must have been lonely to grieve like that for her.”

“You know what sitting shiva means?”

“I have met a Jewish person, before yes. I do live in Pittsburgh, you know,” you replied.

“You’re full of surprises,” Robby declared.

“I certainly am not,” you scoffed. Robby just shrugged and went silent. Eventually he said,

“All of her family had already passed and then it was just me. Sitting in the empty house watching distant family members and friends I barely knew putter around while I sat and stared. Seven days of nothing.”

“What about your friends?”

He just shrugged.

“Surely in your many years on this earth you’ve picked up a friend or two.”

“Sure, but I’m great at pushing them away. After Adamson died, after I all but killed him, there was no one willing to put up with me.”

“Adamson?”

“Mentor.” Robby said. “Incredible man. Changed the way I looked at the world. Showed me how to be a good doctor and good man. I think I’ve lost both since he passed.”

“How did he die?” You asked, quietly.

“COVID. I made the choice to take him off the ventilator because someone younger needed it. She died, too. Some fucking doctor I am,” Robby said acidicly. It was a tone of voice that surprised you.

“What a goddamn bitch of a situation,” you told him. “I’m sorry you were put in that position.”

“Maybe if I had been a better doctor…” Robby trailed off.

“What? You could have bare knuckle boxed death and won?” You asked, leaning a hip against the bar in front of him. “Way I see it, instead of death taking them easily, it had to fight you tooth and nail for it.”

“Still won.”

“Always will in the end,” you replied shrugging.

“Then maybe there isnt a point.”

“To being a doctor?” You asked.

“That, or keeping going. What’s the point if we all die?”

“Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“You sound like Jack.”

“Friend?”

“We used to be close,” Robby mumbled.

This was certainly more desolate that you really had the energy for.

“Dude,” you said before you could stop yourself. It was really none of your business. “You seem to be moderately intelligent, so you should know that you can stop pushing away your friends. I’m sure it’s not easy but it’s not a fact of life. Take some agency instead of letting things just happen to you.”

If anything he curled in deeper to himself and you immediately felt a wave of guilt and worry wash over you. When Robby got like this you always had half a mind to call in a welfare check on him when he got home. Maybe you shouldn’t be kicking a man while he’s down.

“See,” he said, a thick emotion in his voice. “No coddling from you.”

“Give me your phone,” you said.

He handed it over without question.

“Give me the password and someone to call for you.”

Robby gave you his four digit code. And said, “Jack, I guess. Don’t think he’s working tonight.”

You scrolled through his contacts (most of which had the Dr. prefix attached to them) and hit call. Almost immediately the phone picked up.

“You good, brother? You don’t normally call this late,” a deep male voice said.

“Uh, yeah. Not Robby. I’m a bartender at Solomon’s on tenth. Robby’s…” you weren’t sure how to say it, “not good? I managed to get him to give me your name. You able to come grab him?”

“Is he okay? Physically?” The man, Jack, asked. You could hear rustling on the other end and a metallic click before hurried footsteps.

“Yes, physically he’s fine. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going home alone,” you replied. Turning away from Robby so he could see your mouth or hear you—though by the distant look in his eyes you doubted he was listening. “He’s talking a lot about Adamson and death. He is pretty wasted.”

“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “I know it’s not your job, but can you try and keep him there and mostly alive? I’m like twenty minutes away.”

“I can do that. I’ll try and sober him up some.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said.

You hung up and disappeared in the back where you knew the staff kept a shitty water kettle for the coffee part of Irish coffees. You quickly grabbed some fries from the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. When you came back, Robby was slumped against the bar.

“Rise and shine, sad boy. You need to eat and drink this,” you said placing the food and coffee in front of him. The water was almost empty so you refilled that as well.

“I’m good.”

“Eat the fries and drink the fucking coffee,” you snapped. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You don’t like me,” he shot back.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like you to want you to be okay,” you replied flicking his forehead lightly.

“Asshole,” he grumbled sitting up and taking a sip of coffee. He coughed at the bitter taste.

“Sorry we don’t have anything good.”

“Probably for the best.”

You continued working while keeping an eye on Robby. He drank the coffee and ate the fries, slowly he was looking a little better when the door opened and a sturdy man in a US Army sweatshirt limped in. He had close cropped grey and silver hair. His facial expression was frantic and worried, but relaxed when he spied Robby stooped at the bar picking at the last couple fries.

“You look like shit,” you heard the man say.

“Normally that’s her line,” Robby said loosely. He lazily pointed at you. There wasn’t a legitimate reason you could avoid the pair, so you walked over.

“You’re the one that called?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” you replied introducing yourself.

“Oh, you’re that bartender,” Jack realized.

“Which one?” You inquired.

“He likes you.”

“He shouldn’t. I’m mean.”

“He’s fucked up that way,” Jack said. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”

“Just doing my job,” you said.

Jack snorted. “It’s not. Can I pay out his tab?”

“Don’t worry about it, the system will close it out,” you replied. “Just get him home safe.”

“Will do and thank you again,” Jack said pulling Robby to his feet. The pair ambled out into the chilly winter air and you couldn’t help but feel the lack of Robby’s presence haunting the edge of your bar.

-- -- --

It had been over two months since you’ve seen Robby. Most of you didn’t think about him. Regulars disappeared all the time. Regulars who seemed one bad day away from throwing themselves in the river also disappeared but you were hopeful his water logged body wouldn’t be found based on Jack’s presence. You had a sneaking suspicion that Robby’s view of his friendship was muddied by his lack of self esteem. If Jack wasn’t a friend you weren’t sure what else he could be.

Campus was close to the major hospital in the area. It was a good thing too, since the thin sheet of ice that coated all the sidewalks had sent many an undergrad to the clinic with a twisted ankle. You were hesitantly walking down a set of concrete steps after your lecture when an undergrad rushed by you and knocked you over.

You felt your feet fly out from under you and the hard crack of icy concrete on your elbow and you slid down the stairs. There was a distance “Sorry!” as the undergrad ran off.

“Fuck,” you managed trying to sit up. Your vision swam and you felt something warm and stick on the side of your face.

“Holy shit,” a voice said. You recognized her as one of the students from your class. “Professor? Are you okay?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to sit up again.

“Okay, maybe don’t do that. Your head is bleeding a lot. Ryan! Ryan, call 911. I think she needs an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

You started to take stock of your body now that the initial shock of the fall had worn off. Your leg was curled awkwardly under your body and with a heave, you managed to get it in front of you. Your legs felt fine, though there was a rip in your favorite pair of pants and blood seeping out of a gash in your leg. Trying to move your left arm sent nauseating pain through your body, so you kept it firmly tucked against you. With your non injured hand you tried to feel for whatever wound was on your head.

“Okay, definitely don’t do that,” your student said. “You’re covered in dirty ice, you’ll give yourself an infection. Ryan went to grab someone from the department too.”

As if on cue, you heard the slamming of footsteps behind you and the familiar voice of the graduate program director going, “Oh fuck. Are you all right?”

You were lying flat on your back in the icy concrete. In what world were you all right?

“The ambulance is here,” another voice said. The cloudy afternoon was beginning to get dimmer. Fuck, your head hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to close your eyes for a minute.

The next time you came to, it felt like the world was moving. There were bright lights, loud voices and an incessant squeaking that made you want to cover your ears. Slowly, the rest of your body came back into focus and you heard a familiar voice say,

“Any LOC?”

A female voice behind you answered, “She’s been in and out since we picked her up. Oriented at first but lost consciousness before we got there.”

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” you hissed, very much not fine.

“I’ll take grumpy and incorrect over unconscious,” the voice said. “Okay, roll her to the bed and we’ll transfer on three. One…two..three.”

For a moment you felt yourself lift and then land on a less comfortable bed. The surface was harder, covered with that weird hospital paper, and colder than the gurney. Your eyes were still closed, but the lights above you were so bright you could feel them—white heat buzzing against your eyelids like someone pressing flashbulbs to your face.

Then came the hands.

One on your wrist. Another pushing up your sleeve. Cold pads sticking to your chest, your sweater no longer covering your tank top. Fingers checking your jaw. Gloves brushing your ribs. Something tight wrapped around your arm. Something else snapping against your ankle.

Too much.

Too many.

Your skin crawled under every point of contact. You tried to jerk away, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“This is worse than falling,” you said, and even you could hear the pitch of panic creeping into your voice. “Seriously—stop—just—”

“Mel, keep her talking and calm,” a voice said somewhere near your head. You knew that voice. You just couldn’t get your brain to land on the name.

“Hi there,” a woman said gently from your right. “I’m Mel. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”

Hospital. Right. You knew that. But it didn’t help. The beeping. The fluorescent hum. The rustle of paper gowns and gloves. Every sound was too loud. Every light was too sharp. Every hand on you felt like sandpaper over raw nerves.

“I want people to stop touching me,” you groaned, trying to pull your arm in, but someone grabbed your wrist before you got far. The movement sent agony lancing up your arm and you gasped, vision flashing white. “Fucking—ow—stop, stop—”

“Okay, arm fracture, careful,” Mel warned the nurse.

But the hands didn’t stop. They shifted instead—someone pressing down on your shoulder, another holding your chin steady as a light was shined in your eyes. You recoiled instinctively.

You hated this.

Too many people, too close, pinning you to a table like you were something to be restrained and examined. Every nerve ending screamed. Every second of it made your heart slam against your ribs, desperate for space, for air, for control.

“Hey,” Mel said softly, noticing the way your breathing hitched. “You’re safe. I know it feels like a lot. We’re just getting your vitals and making sure you’re stable.”

“This is not stable,” you snapped. You could hear yourself starting to spiral but couldn’t stop. “This is the opposite of stable. Get your fucking hands off—”

You heard your name.

Your eyes dragged to the sound.

Robby.

Standing at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, eyes on you. He looked, your sluggish brain struggled for the right word, not bad. He wore dark scrubs, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Everyone seemed to be responding to him. You closed your eyes as the room began to spin.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Even as your chest heaved and your hands balled into fists.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he said, voice even. Almost detached. “They’re doing their jobs. Let them get what they need, and I’ll make them back off.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he didn’t get to manage you. You wanted to shove every hand away and rip off every wire and bolt out of the room. The panic sat high in your throat like you were going to choke on it.

The lights were too bright. The voices were too loud. The touches were too much.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and hated how small it sounded.

“We’ve got you,” he said. “Just breathe.”

You inhaled shakily.

Hand rested on your ankle. The room was still chaos. The light still pierced through your eyelids. Everything was too much, but if you focused on the warm hand that settled on your bare ankle it was almost bearable. Gritting your teeth, you tried to block out everything else except his touch. When you were more coherent, you would find the irony of relying on Robby amusing.

“Mel, give me next steps,” he said, hand still in place.

The doctor stood on your right, her tone soft and low—surprisingly rich, like honey poured into warm tea. “Head lac needs irrigation and staples. Bleeding’s controlled. Pupils equal, reactive, but she’s photosensitive. GCS is fourteen—dropped once en route but came back up. Left arm—obvious deformity, likely distal radius or ulna fracture, maybe both. Possible sprain or hairline fracture in the lateral malleolus on the left ankle—she’s guarding it.”

“She guarding everything,” one of the nurses muttered, adjusting the leads stuck to your chest.

“No shit,” you snapped. “Maybe stop poking me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Mel hummed, sounding amused rather than offended. “Conversational. Good sign.”

“She’s always like this,” Robby said, almost under his breath.

You glared at him. “I am not.”

His mouth barely twitched. “CT ordered?”

“Waiting on transport,” Mel said. “Do you want C-spine? She denied neck pain, full range of motion at the scene.”

Robby glanced at you again, his eyes scanning your posture. You realized he was checking the subtle ways you moved—or didn’t. “No collar yet. If her pain spikes or she reports new symptoms, we’ll immobilize. For now, keep her semi-upright so she doesn’t pass out.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you muttered. “I’m not a mannequin.”

“Unfortunately,” Robby murmured, dry.

Before you could tell him to fuck off, Mel leaned closer, casting just a little shadow over your face—mercifully blocking the light. Her voice was gentle but matter-of-fact, her cadence a little off in a way that made you think she thought carefully about each word before she spoke. “We’re going to clean your head wound. It might hurt. We’ll be as quick and gentle as we can. Okay?”

Mel was easily becoming your favorite person in the room. She clearly outlined her actions and didn’t attempt to sugarcoat or mollify.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Just…please don’t surprise me.”

“I will do my best,” she said seriously, and you believed her.

An alcohol pad touched the edge of the gash at your temple and you jerked instinctively. Pain flared hot, crawling behind your eye.

“Shit—fuck—” you hissed.

“Almost done,” Mel promised, calm as ever.

Hands were still on your arms, wrists, shoulders—but the one on your ankle grounded you. You focused hard on that one, because if you let yourself feel all the others, you were going to come out swinging.

Robby’s thumb moved—just slightly. The smallest shift of pressure. The subtlest reminder to keep you in your body and not desperately trying to escape.

“Transport ready?” he asked without looking away from you.

“Any minute,” someone said from the doorway.

Mel finished cleaning. “She’s going to hate the staples.”

“She hates everything,” Robby said.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you let me sleep again,” you mumbled.

“No sleeping,” he warned automatically.

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever met.”

“Get in line,” he said. His tone was flat, but something deep in it—something only someone who had listened to him talk for hours in dim bar lighting—sounded faintly relieved.

You sucked in another breath, trying to brace yourself for whatever fresh hell came next.

And then you heard the gurney being unlocked again.

The CT was better than the trauma room. It was dark. The nurse gave you earplugs and a warm blanket. You were still dizzy and in a lot of pain, but even without Robby’s hand, you felt like panicky.

The nurse took off all your jewelry and removed everything from your pockets. She started an IV in your arm that you barely felt. She rarely spoke unless informing you what was coming next. Despite the loud humming of the machine, you preferred this to everything else.

Eventually the machine began, you moved back and forth through the machine. With your eyes closed and earplugs in, it was easy to let your body calm down.

By the time the test was done and you were wheeled back into the ER proper, you were given an actual room and no longer in the trauma bay. Mel let you keep the earplugs. A new nurse, or maybe a previous one you snapped at, helped you change into a hospital gown and graciously let you keep you underwear on. Small victories.

Mel came back with Robby and slowly stitched your head wound while Robby looked at your leg.

“What happened?” He asked softly. You were calmer, more coherent now.

“Someone knocked me over on some stairs. Gravity did the rest,” you said. “Sorry that I was such a bitch before.”

“You’re fine,” Robby said at the same time Mel replied with,

“You were a bit mean, but it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”

“Dr. King,” Robby sighed. He was about to say something but your giggles stopped him.

“Dr. King?” You asked.

“Call me, Mel.”

“Mel, I think you’re my favorite doctor. Please apologize to all the healthcare workers I was mean to, for me. I know they were just trying to help.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Mel said kindly. “I’m going to put in an order for pain meds and follow up with Ortho. Want me to finish her leg, Dr. Robby?”

“I got it, Mel. Check on South 15 for me,” he directed.

“Got it,” she replied leaving.

“I can dim the lights and use a head lamp if that would be easier?” He asked quietly. “It’s going to take me a bit to stitch this.”

“That would be helpful. My head is throbbing,” you replied.

Robby nodded and clicked off the lights before he washed his hands and gloved up. He slid on a dorky looking headlamp with magnifying glasses on it. You wanted to make a joke but a wave of nausea slammed into you at the sight of the open wound on your leg.

“I need you to stay still,” Robby said softly.

“Sorry, sorry. I looked too closely at my leg. I think I’m going to puke,” you gagged.

He slid over to the cabinet and pulled out a barf bag. You clutched it against your mouth breathing deeply with your eyes clenched closed. Eventually the nausea passed and you thankfully didn’t throw up in front of Robby.

“Do you need anything?”

“You’re being too nice to me, considering I called you a bad doctor,” you replied instead of answering.

“Water? Juice?” He asked ignoring you. Normally that was your move.

“Water, but I’d prefer the leg to be stitched first. If I open my eyes and see it, I might pass out again.”

“So you’re able to explain nuances of statistics and political socialization, but blood gets you?” Robby asked. You felt the pressure of the needle and pull of the thread, but nothing hurt.

“Not blood, blood is fine. The giant open wound on my thigh gets me. I shouldn’t be able to see my own muscles,” you said gagging again at the thought.

“I’ve never seen you break your composure. Even earlier when you were having a hard time,” Robby replied almost sounding amused. “It’s nice to know you’re human, too.”

“When have I ever appeared not human?”

Robby snorted. “I really don’t think you know how people perceive you.”

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back.

Robby let out a humorless chuckle. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Are you…okay?” You asked.

“Getting there,” he said.

He was silent for a minute and you thought that was the end of his statement. It was more than what you thought you’d get. Instead, Robby took a breath and continued,

“That night, Jack, he took me to a treatment facility. I was there for a week and I’ve been doing therapy and group twice a week ever since.”

“Good for you.”

“Apparently a lot go healthcare providers got fucked by COVID,” Robby said conversationally.

“If I got fucked by COVID, I can only imagine you did,” you said humorlessly.

“I owe some of it to you,” he said after a bout of silence.

“What in the world could I have done? I’m just your mean bartender.”

Robby chuckled. “True, but having a stranger you want to like you, call you pathetic and tell you to get your life together…well, I guess it was the kick I needed.”

“So does that mean you admit you have friends now?”

“Yes,” Robby sighed. You smiled.

“Good. I’m glad you’re no longer sad and morose haunting the end of my bar.”

“Instead you’re terrorizing my ER,” he commented. Your eyes were still closed but you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Your ER?”

“I’m the chief attending,” he replied.

“No shit,” you said. “Why would you care if I liked you when you’re impressive and shit.”

“Impressive and shit?”

“Answer the question.”

He sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that one. Anyways, about done with your last stitch.”

You didn’t push, but there was something odd in his voice. “Can I get those pain meds now?”

“Sure thing,” he said warmly. “Your leg is covered if you want to open your eyes.”

You did and there was a low light in the room, but the bright fluorescents were off. Robby smoothed the gauze over your thigh and you felt his warmth even through the latex gloves. He smiled at you as he departed. Shortly thereafter, a nurse came in with pain meds and sleep over took you.

The next time you saw Robby you were still a little high on pain meds which is what you’ll blame for asking,

“Do you still pick up women now that you’re not a drunk?”

“Christ,” he said. He had just entered the room to check on your wound. “Warm a guy before giving him the inquisition.”

“I’m just curious if you’re still a slut now.”

“I wasn’t a slut then,” he protested.

“See I thought it didn’t happen much because it never happened on my shift. But I compared notes. You picked up a lot of women.”

“It was a normal amount,” he defended.

“Sure,” you drawled.

“I might have been a little slutty,” he acknowledged.

“You have hidden depths. I think we misjudged you when naming you Sad Paddington Bear.”

“Sad Paddington Bear?”

“It’s what the bartenders call you. Although maybe we should have called you a sad gigolo.”

“You’re very nosy on pain meds,” he said.

“I really am. Haven’t been on them before. Lot nicer than feeling all the cuts and scraps on my body.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Stiff, sore, probably embarrassed when my heads back on normal.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Robby replied with a hand lightly resting on your knee. He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand.

“When can I leave?” You asked. “I want to be in my own bed.”

“You’ll need another neuro test before I feel comfortable letting you go,” he said. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Friend? Family? …Partner?”

“I’ll call a friend. Family is in a different state. And no partner. Who knows, maybe I’m a slut too,” you said.

You watched his lips quirk up. “You don’t like people enough to be a slut.”

You snorted. “That is so accurate. Having someone sweaty uselessly humping me is so boring.”

“Uselessly?”

Once again, you’d like to thank the pain meds for your loose lips. “Let’s just say, it’s been a real lack of skill in my bedroom from other humans. My vibrator? Astounding. She does great work.”

Robby cleared his throat as color washed over his cheeks. “Right, well—“

“If you’re a slut, it stands to reason that you probably wouldn’t be useless,” you thought out loud.

“Okay, looks like we should dial back the pain meds,” Robby said.

“So you are useless?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he stated.

“Absolute babes went home with you apparently more than once. That must mean something,” you mumbled.

“You’re killing me,” Robby groaned.

“Where do you pick up women now that you don’t drink.”

“It’s really none of your business,” he tried to say. You continued talking,

“Coffee shop? I feel like you’d have a coffee shop you go to now.”

He did have a coffee shop he went to now and he didn’t like that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly while on pain meds.

“Look, I think we’re off track here,” Robby tried again.

“You’re hot, you know that?”

Robby cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I think I’ll send Mel in.”

“I’m just going to keep talking like this. Because for the first time in my life I cannot figure out how to shut up,” you stated. Distantly, you knew you’d be horrified by this later. But it wasn’t later. And the words kept coming.

Robby sighed and sat down next to you. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“That’s fine. Your prerogative.”

“So it seems we’re at an impass,” he stated.

“Apparently,” you said. “Although, I do have something to confess.”

“Is it going to make me uncomfortable as your current healthcare provider?” Robby asked tiredly. You snorted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I don’t like you as a drunk, but as a doctor dealing with me on pain meds, I find you surprisingly charming. Long suffering, for sure, but charming too.”

“That is the meanest compliment I’ve received,” Robby half laughed, disbelievingly.

“It wasn’t meant to be mean!” You protested. “God these meds are fucking with me.”

Robby patted your hand and said, “Once the meds wear off and we check your brain again, I’ll discharge you. I…I am going to write down my number and if you feel comfortable, I just want you to let me know you’re okay.”

“Is this how you picked up the women?” You asked conspiratorially.

“No,” he said. Then almost to himself, added, “This is such a strange version of you.”

“Oh I know. I’m going to be mortified tomorrow.”

Robby snorted. “I’m putting my number in your discharge paperwork, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Robby. I think I might sleep again.”

“Probably a good call for both of us.”

-- -- --

It was two days post-discharge when the memory of your pain‐medicated encounter with Robby came swimming back.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned.

You were sitting on your couch with your leg propped on pillows and your arm in a sling, still in ratty pajamas you hadn’t changed out of since getting home. A dull ache radiated from every bruise and stitch, and the concussion made the world feel slightly tilted. But none of that compared to the slow, creeping horror pooling in your gut as you remembered exactly what you’d said to him.

Are you still a slut?

My vibrator does great work.

You're attractive, you know that?

You dragged your one good hand down your face and wished you could legally induce a coma. For your entire life, you had always been a little socially awkward. Most of the time your sense of humor never quite lined up with everyone else, your grasp of small talk was a battle fought for in awkward silences. Years of forcing yourself to get better at talking finally made you comfortable, but now you wanted to melt into your couch never to see another person again.

“Who was that?” you whispered to no one.

Part of you, the delusional part, hoped maybe you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Then you glanced at your coffee table. The discharge folder sat there. Hesitantly, you opened the folder and tucked under the business card for the hospital was a Post-It with a phone number and one line written in neat block letters:

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. —R

“Nope, it was real,” you muttered. “Kill me.”

You tossed the folder back on the table and stared at it like you were afraid it would explode. There were two choices now: one, fake your death or two, be an adult and text the confident and normal version of Robby who had put up with your drug addled word vomit. Option one was very tempting.

You spent the rest of the day alternately sleeping and cringing. Every time you drifted off, your brain generously replayed another snippet of the conversation in 4K quality. It was easy to remember his hand on yours, the way he so effortlessly kept you calm and from panicking. You even recalled his panicked look when you asked him if he was still a slut. Groaning you wondered if you could smother yourself with a pillow. But he had been so kind; his kindness was the only reason you hadn’t absolutely lost your shit.

(Realistically, you knew Mel would have been able to calm you down, but still.)

You stared at your phone.

“You should text him,” a traitorous part of you whispered.

“Absolutely not,” the rest of you replied.

You sat with that for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then an hour.

You almost threw a pillow across the room. “Goddammit.”

You grabbed your phone.

Fine.

You’d text him.

One simple, neutral message.

Something mature, like: thanks again for your help.

Something that did not reference slut discourse or vibrators or the fact that you maybe, possibly, kind of liked him.

You typed:

hey. i lived, thanks for the stitches i guess

You stared at it.

You deleted “i guess.”

You added:

and sorry if i was weird. pain meds are evil.

You hovered over “send” for a solid sixty seconds.

Then, daring to breathe, you hit send.

Three seconds later, anxiety punched you in the throat. You threw your phone on the chair next to you hoping you wouldn’t hear it if it buzzed with his response. Painfully, you stood and limped over to your tiny kitchen. Making tea with one hand took double the time it did with two, it meant you were busy for double the time it would have normally distracted you for. Perhaps, you could still unsend the message. You checked the clock. Five minutes had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t respond. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe—

You heard your phone buzz. Fuck. For a moment you stared at the chair, and slowly limped over to it, grabbing the offending device and terrified to see the response.

Finally, you grabbed it.

Robby (unknown number):

Hello. I’m glad you are safe. How is your pain level today?

You glared. Of course he was more normal than you were in this situation. That really annoyed you. He was meant to be the one who was awkward and cringey. You eased back onto the couch with your tea and wrote out:

headachy and sore. the stitches itch, too.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Robby: Are you having any new symptoms? • Worsening headache • Dizziness • Nausea • Vision changes • Difficulty focusing more than before

You rolled your eyes.

You: you text like a web-md checklist

Robby: That is perhaps the rudest thing you could say to a doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

You: yeah, im fine. thank you for your concern Robby. stitches are driving me crazy tho

There was a longer pause this time. Then:

Robby: I’m glad you’re better. Have you eaten today?

You: none of your business (yes, a friend brought me soup).

Robby: Sounds like you have good friends. I’m glad you’ve eaten. A good diet and sleep are your best healing assets right now.

You: best healing assets?

Robby: Was that inappropriate?

You: no you just sounded like a dork

Robby: Seems to be something I frequently deal with around you.

You: are you blaming me for your inability to talk to women?

Robby: I can talk to women just fine. Something you have already established.

You: touche. so it’s just me?

Robby: I think it is.

You: do you still think i don’t like you? is that why you’re so weird?

Robby: Partially

You: and the other part?

Robby: I’ll plead the fifth, that. Your stitches should be ready to come out in a week or so. If you don’t want to go to the doctor, I can take them out for you. If you want, that is. No pressure.

You: technically pleading the fifth is only something you can only do when dealing with the government, but i’ll allow it since you were very kind to me when i was an absolute nightmare on pain meds. and that would be very appreciated. ill buy you a coffee as a thanks. and i won’t be mean

Robby: You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.

You: was that a joke?

Robby: Yes, evidently not a good one.

You: i am impressed, nonetheless.

Robby: Please keep me updated on how you’re feeling.

You: i make no promises. im terrible at texting

Robby: I’ve noticed. There has not been a single capitalization this whole time. You’re getting a PhD.

You: if you think about it, getting a phd is really the dumbest thing you could do, so i would argue it’s in character.

Robby: We’ll agree to disagree there.

Texting with Robby was strange. It was strange to communicate with someone you once dreaded seeing. It was very weird for him to offer to take out your stitches for you, saving you a trip to the campus clinic or urgent care; neither option seemed attractive to you.

The next week and a half passed like molasses. Each time you thought your body had improved enough to do an extra chore, or your brain had healed enough to open your laptop, your body aggressively reminded you that rest was still required. Thankfully, a few days into your boredom inducing bed rest, the TV became a viable option again assuming you kept the brightness down and the volume at a tolerable level.

Every so often you would text Robby an update or he would ask for one. You found yourself looking forward to the messages. Not drunk and seeking mental health help, he actually was funny and the maudlin angst had been replaced with the occasional dark joke. One time he sent you the middle finger emoji and you were unironically proud of him.

It wasn’t until the fifth day on bed rest did the occasional text turn into something more.

You: what do i do if the stitches are red and kinda making me nauseous?

Robby: Nauseous because you have a weak stomach or because you think it’s an additional symptom?

You: unclear, kinda been sick all day but i’ve also had a bitch of a headache too

Robby: I’m going to video call. I want to see the wound.

You phone rang a moment after you liked the message. Robby’s face appeared and it looked like he was at home. It was instinctually to search his background looking for any hint of his history that he hadn’t already poured out to your at the bar. He seemed to be sitting on a couch or chair, and behind him was a wall full of vinyl records. There was soft lamp light and the faint hum of music in the background.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” you told him wincing.

“I could have ignored your message,” he replied simply. You wondered if there was ever a world where he would ignore someone who needed him.

“I’ll owe you a whole meal when this is over,” you told him.

“You’re way too poor for me to take you up on that,” he replied, making you snort.

“That is unfortunately correct. Still, I’ll figure out a way to repay you,” you told him.

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks and you couldn’t figure out why he seemed flushed by your words. (Later, upon reflection you would hear the double entendre, but frankly, that was his problem not yours.) Clearing his throat, he said,

“Aim the camera at your wound, please.”

“Okay, I can’t really look at it, so you’ll have to tell me if my camera work is off,” you said.

You moved your phone so it reflected at your lap and the ratty cotton shorts you’d been living in. They barely covered any of your leg, which was useful when you had to change the dressing on your wound. Before it started turning red and weeping, it wasn’t that bad. Now, just looking at it made you sick.

“Can you turn on your phone flash light or make it brighter?” Robby asked.

“Sure thing,” You said, turning on your phone’s flashlight.

“Is it warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it throb?”

“No,” you replied.

“Are you running a fever?”

“How the fuck would I know?” you asked.

“Do you not have a thermometer?” he asked. For the first time, you heard a hint of exasperation in his voice. It made you smile.

“Maybe? My mom sent me a care package when I got the flu a few months ago. Let me see,” you told him, turning the phone back to your face.

You eased off the couch and limped to your kitchen where you shoved the box your mom had sent. Propping up your phone against the kitchen backsplash, you rummaged through the box and to your surprise, found a thermometer. It was the basic kind you put under your tongue.

“Gotta love a woman who can’t express her love with words and instead sends a care package to her adult daughter in her thirties,” you said, popping the cap off the thermometer and sticking it under your tongue.

You hadn’t glanced at your phone since aiming it at your leg in fear you’d see something that would make your stomach churn even more than it already was. Now, propped up, you could see that Robby slid on his reading glasses and to your shock and horror, he looked hot. So attractive in fact, you almost let the thermometer slip out of your mouth.

His rugged, slightly scraggly beard was reminiscent of how you’d seen him at the bar, but this time it was due to him rubbing his hand through the hair as he waited for you to measure your fever. Something about the addition of the glasses brought into focus how his narrow face was actually quite enticing. You briefly wondered what his beard would feel like between your legs.

“Christ,” you said without realizing that he could obviously hear and see you.

“Are you okay? You seemed freaked out,” Robby replied. “Is your temperature high?”

Thankfully, the thermometer beeped loudly, giving you a chance to pull it out of your mouth and look at it. “99.6.”

“Not too bad. You sure you’re good?”

“I am a bit freaked about the leg,” you said. It wasn’t a lie, but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. You briefly the revisited the idea of smothering yourself. What happened when you hit your head that made you think Robby was attractive?

“It certainly looks inflamed. I would do a good clean and put some antibiotic cream on it.”

“And what if cleaning it makes me gag?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to amputate,” he said.

You stared at him. “I’m annoyed that I found that funny.”

“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”

“Well, the annoyance won out in the end.”

Robby snorted. “Do you need me to come over and help clean it?”

“I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, I don’t think I’ve annoyed my friends enough about this yet. Why bother the very nice doctor when I could bug my friends?”

“So I’ve graduated from Sad Paddington Bear to very nice doctor?”

“Congratulations. It does not come with a pay increase. But what can you do? The economy is in shambles.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I want you to send me an update on your leg tomorrow, please. If it gets worse you’ll need to go to urgent care.”

“Ugh, anything but that,” you complained. “It’s terrible there.”

“And yet so much better than sepsis,” he replied.

“I dunno, juries out,” you grumbled limping back to the couch.

“How is your head?”

“Hurts and I can barely do anything. I can watch TV if I don’t look directly at the screen, so that’s something. Mainly listening to audiobooks of shit I’ve already read.”

You settled back onto your couch and buried yourself back under the covers you had created your nest from. The view of your camera caught the warmth of your couch and some of the quirky decor including the art print of a woman leading a man on a leash with “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” painted above it. Angling the camera away from the slightly inappropriate art work, you felt better with the section of wall that was now showing. It was a corner of your diploma and photo from a christmas party with your friends. Much more appropriate.

“What have you been listening to?”

“A lot of comedy and re-listening to my favorite book series. My entertainment is purely escapism since I spend most of my day reading, writing, or doing math about politics,” you told him.

“You’ll have to send me suggestions. Nothing I’ve read recently has kept much of my attention,” he replied.

You then delved into details of your favorite book series. The conversation spiraled from books to television to the records Robby had on current rotation. More than that, he asked questions about your PhD, hesitantly, and you answered. It didn’t feel like a weird overreach anymore. Robby really was intelligent and normal when not drunk or tipsy. You almost felt proud of him. By the time the phone call ended, you felt calmer about your leg and less worked up over the boredom.

You chose not to think about it too much.

-- -- --

When the stitches were due to come out, you almost didn’t text Robby. It felt like an imposition. Over the past day or so you felt tremendously better. Your head was no longer one overstimulation away from a migraine, you could feel your brain fog lifting, and movement didn’t hurt much. Everything was still a little sensitive, but the real annoyance was how bored and pent up you were. Still, the relief from getting the stitches removed almost didn’t beat the feeling of taking advantage of Robby.

Robby: Can I come by after my shift ends to take out your stitches? I want to look at everything and make sure it’s healing well.

You: you don’t have to but yes please if i think about having thread in my body too long it kinda freaks me out

Robby: Please send me your address. I’ll be by around 7:30 or 8:00pm.

You: you text like an octogenarian. here’s my address.

Robby: Octogenarians don’t text.

You: tell that to my grandma. she’s a whiz with those me-mojis or whatever the fuck they are.

Robby: That is not a real thing. I think you’re messing with me.

You: i am not. but regardless. see you tonight. and thank you again!

Robby: It really is not a problem. I want to do this.

You tried not to let that go to your head. It was weird someone liking you the way Robby did. Most people, even romantic prospects tended to tolerate your rough personality and busy schedule. Your friends were a niche group of individuals far more focused on their careers.

This was new. This wasn’t bad.

At 7:45 you heard a knock at your door. Slowly, only due to your leg—not anything else at all, you made your way to the door. You had slightly tidied up throughout the day. Being couch bound had made your living room a bit of a war zone. Now you had your laundry going and you’d even managed to load your dishwasher.

Opening the door to Robby was strange. You had seen him in exactly two places and now he was walking into your apartment. He even walked like a new person now. He didn’t slouch or slump or plod. He still had abysmal posture, but there was a surety that had replaced the downtrodden-ness of his person.

He wore dark cargo pants, a black scrub top with a navy blue long sleeved shirt underneath. Said shirt was pushed up to just below his elbows and your eyes focused on his forearms before finally stepping back and letting him into your space.

“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked.

“I don’t drink anymore,” he said.

“Congrats. I don’t drink at all. I have about five flavors of sparkling water and generic sprite,” you replied, shutting and locking the door. “I also make a mean hot chocolate.”

“I’m good for now,” he said. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Shouldn’t that be your call?”

“I just need to wash my hands,” he replied, shrugging. His hands were in his pockets.

“Then let’s do the living room. I’m still a little sore,” you told him. “Kitchen is right there. I even have out my Christmas hand soap.”

You pointed at the kitchen in the very open concept front part of your apartment. There was a small hallway just to the right of your front door that held a small hallway where your bathroom, washing closet, and bedroom door opened.

Your living room was a surprisingly decent size for your rent. It was big enough for a couch, bookshelves and your desk. Your kitchen was narrow, and looked even more so with Robby’s broad frame standing in front of your sink. He thoroughly washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.

Sitting on the edge of your couch, you watch as he pulled over his backpack and grabbed a smattering of tools. There were scissors, hemostats, and various cleaning wipes and creams.

“Can I sit here?” Robby asked pointing to your coffee table. It was one of the few expensive things you owned.

“Yeah, she’s study enough,” you replied.

Robby sat down. Your shorts were plenty short and you found yourself curious how he was going to do this. He seemed confident and self assured. Dr. Robby was a man who wasn’t cowed by his snarky and too-mean bar tender.

“I’m going to slightly readjust you and put your leg on my lap, is that okay?” Robby asked sliding on his ready glass.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. He glanced up at your tone and lightly put a hand on your knee.

“Don’t panic. This will be over quickly.”

Interesting, he read the slightly shocked and a tiny bit horny reaction you had to worried. You couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Not trusting your voice, you just nodded at him. He gingerly lifted your socked foot and put it in his lap. The fabric of his pants was scratchy against your skin, but you could fill the heat of his legs burning through.

“This has healed well,” Robby replied. He’d donned gloves at some point after putting your leg in his lap and was manually inspecting the wound. You stared up at the ceiling mostly to keep from seeing the stitches but an added benefit was not seeing Robby.

“Oh yeah, this looks great. You should be fine after we get the stitches out,” he said. You just hummed not trusting your voice.

The sensation of removing the stitches far outweighed any pleasantness from having Robby’s hands on your skin. You tried to focus on way his hand gripped your thigh or the way you could feel his stomach against your foot. Instead when you felt a thread pull through you shuddered and tried not to gag.

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I need you to finish this as quick as possible,” you said.

“Yes ma’am.”

He continued his ministrations and you desperately tried to focus on the subtle smell of his cologne. Or the growing yearning in your stomach for him to push you down on the couch and fuck you within an inch of your life.

That had been a startling realization but one that felt like it was always meant to happen. Another thread pulled through your skin and you heard yourself whine sharply. Not even horniess was getting your through this.

After the last thread was pulled from your leg, resulting in a twitch at the awful feeling, Robby took off his gloves and began putting his tools back in the backpack. Your leg was still in his lap.

“I was going to order dinner, if you want to stay,” you heard yourself say. “I can even watch a full episode of TV now.”

Robby snorted. And then said, “I would love to stay. Mainly to make sure you don’t look at your leg and pass out.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

"You didn't look down once that whole time," he said.

"And therefore, didn't pass out."

You managed to open your phone and scroll through the different food options. Your stomach was in shambles from the feeling of getting stitches removed, so picked the deli down the street. Handing the phone to Robby you had him pick his meal.

When he handed the phone back, he had already ordered and paid with his card details. You scowled at him.

"This was meant to pay you back for your kindness."

"It would feel unethical. I know how much grad students makes."

He had since moved to the opposite corner of the couch. From your propped up position, he looked a little tired, but more than that he looked amused. He was laughing at you. It ranckled you. But it also made you a little happy: sad, drunk Robby would never have laughed at you.

While waiting for the food, you both chatted about his work, your students, how taking time off has put you seriously behind and your unread emails are closer to 1,000 than not. Once the food arrive, you both tucked in.

Eventually, Robby asked,

“What’s the hardest thing about the whole PhD thing?”

It felt like a natural question from the previous conversation, so you didn't think twice about answering it.

“Having to not take criticism personally. Anything I finish, make progress on, or whatever gets critiqued and criticized and studied until it feels absolutely useless. But that’s just how it works—it’s how we make sure our research is the most accurate and representative of the world,” you said shrugging. “What about being a doctor? What’s the hardest thing about that.”

“Oh that’s easy, not being able to save everyone,” Robby told you.

“Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult to contend with.”

“So does no one tell you “good job” or encourages you?”

“Not in so many words. One time I had a bit of a breakdown and planned on dropping out. My advisor said that would “be a waste” so it’s not like people are needlessly mean.”

“You make so much more sense now,” Robby said shaking his head.

“The fuck does that mean?” You said lightly kicking his thigh with your good foot. He grabbed your ankle and stretched it out over his lap. The movement made you tense but, frankly, you wanted this to continue so you forced yourself to relax.

“You’re one of the most tightly wound people I’ve ever met,” Robby laughed.

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” you grumbled. Hesitantly, you stretched out your bad leg and crossed it over your good one still rest on Robby’s thighs.

“Perhaps that’s why I know,” he said. His hand rested on your ankle and you tried not to stare at the way his hand dwarfed your not-small ankle.

“And what would the good doctor recommend for that? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like I can call up my parents and ask them to say they’re proud of me and I’m doing a good job.”

“Someone should,” he said quietly. His thumb began to circle the bone of your ankle.

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

Robby was silent for a moment before saying, “I think you’re very impressive. I think you work very hard. And I’m really honored to know you.”

For an awful minute, you thought you were going to cry. “Knock it off.”

“Make me.”

“If you don’t I’ll make you talk about something even more uncomfortable,” you threatened.

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll take the chance,” he laughed. Robby hand drug up and down your leg. You knew it wasn’t smooth—your injury having made sure you missed your monthly waxing appointment—but he didn’t seem to care. Frankly, you refused to let yourself care, even if it danced in the back of your head.

“Brave considering you think I’m mean.”

“You’re not mean,” Robby said, looking over at you.

“Not what you used to think,” you commented.

“True, but I know you better now. You’re just blunt. It’s nice when you get used to it.”

You snorted. “You absolute liar.”

His hand landed on your knee and reached down to flick it. He caught your wrist before you could smack him. Eyes boring into yours, Robby said,

“I’m serious. I think you’re amazing.”

“You do huh?” You asked.

“Clearly.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it? I’m not good at schooling my features. You must know how I’m feeling.”

In an instant, Robby’s expression shuttered. “You did pick something uncomfortable.”

“So either this is a personal thing or I am way worse at reading you than I thought. I’m not wildly inclined to believe the latter since my feet are in your lap and I got a special house call for something I could have gone to the clinic for.”

Robby sighed and looked away from you. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Do I get let in on what the personal thing is?”

“I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it. Because you’ll win,” he murmured.

“If it’s not dumb, I won’t. I’m not a starry eyed romantic, Robby. Sometimes people that are attracted to one another shouldn’t do anything. Just because I want you to fuck me into my mattress and maybe also go on a date, doesn’t mean I’m going to do something bad for me or my goals. No offense, you’re not more important than finishing my PhD,” you told him.

He smiled ruefully. “I just am not good enough for you.”

“Oh, that is dumb,” you replied.

“Or maybe you just don’t know how impressive you are,” he challenged.

“Maybe,” you acquiesced. “But maybe not being “good enough” for someone is an archaic measure of comparability and I get to decide what is and is not good for me. Now, if you don’t feel ready for a relationship after everything, that’s different. But if you’re just worried about being…depressed or mentally ill, join the club then.”

“There’s also the age gap,” he added.

“I’m an academic. I’ve seen far less ethical relationships than a decade and some change. Not to mention you weren't my dissertation advisor,” you told him.

“For my peace of mind I'm going to ignore that last bit. And try closer to two decades,” he said.

“I’m an old man at heart,” you said back. “Doesn’t change the fact I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“I really don’t want you talk me into this,” Robby said quietly.

“Then you need to either tell me you don’t want this, which I’ll respect or you need to get out of your own way. I’m in favor of the latter.”

“Can I ask something first?”

“Always.”

“What changed for you? You really didn’t like me.”

“Valid question,” you said. He still had a grip on your wrist. Gently you pulled out of his grasp and wrapped your hand around his. “I am so picky about people. I always have been. But even more than that, no one normal does a PhD and I deal with those freaks all day. By the time I got to the bar, I was over dealing with everyone, not just you. Frankly, drunk you was a lot. But no one is their best self when they’re drunk. Sober you? He’s still awkward, a little earnest but very charming. Funny and confident too.”

“You are very different than when you’re at the bar,” he said.

“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Robby. I like you. I think you’re very attractive and getting to know you has been fun and I hate getting to know new people. If you’re amenable, I would really love for you to fuck me into my mattress tonight.”

“You’re still injured.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t a yes.”

“There’s one more episode of Bake Off before I’m caught up. I’m going to lay back down and if by the end of the episode you’re still undecided or the answer is no, I’ll respect that. But don’t take yourself out of the game just because you’re nervous that you’re not good enough of whatever.”

“Okay, yeah,” Robby replied softly.

You released his hand and he placed it back on your legs. Pressing play, you settled back to a prone position on the couch. The distracting pressure of his hands on your legs meant that most of the episode passed without you taking in too much of what was happening.

Periodically, you glanced over at Robby. He seemed deep in thought. His brow was furrowed and while he faced the TV, he seemed to stare at nothing. Sometimes his fingers would trace a pattern on your calves and then go still. At one point, you saw him stare at you from the corner of your eye, in a reminiscent way to how he used to watch you while he was wasted. Instead of feeling annoyed, you settled more deeply into the couch and held out your hand for him without looking. He took it.

The episode ended and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. No one liked being rejected and you hoped that Robby got out of his own way. You wanted him. You knew he wanted you too. It was torture to not crawl into his lap and kiss him within an inch of his life.

“Before you tell me,” you said. “I just want you to know that regardless of your decision, I am proud of the work you’ve put into yourself. And I’m not fibbing when I say you’re incredibly attractive.”

“You are a lot nicer than your give yourself credit for,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Then what was that?”

“Honesty, dick head.”

He snorted. “My head still isn’t fully on straight.”

“Neither is mine.”

“Sometimes I have really bad days.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes I can be mean, too.”

“Join the club.”

“But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want this,” he breathed.

“Help me sit up,” you said grabbing at his arm. He helped you move into a sitting position, your arm and leg still a little sore. When you were next to him, you kept your legs draped over his and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes with conditions,” he told you.

“Ugh,” you groaned leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still healing. I’m not going to fuck you into the mattress tonight.”

“But Robby,” you whined. “I just know you’re so good at sex.”

A surprise laugh erupted from him. “Thank you. I’m still not going to fuck you into the mattress. I will however, if you want, if you feel comfortable and up for it, I am more than willing to make sure any humping isn’t…I think the word you used was, useless.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you would talk me out of it,” he sighed.

“Wanna see my bedroom?” You asked grinning.

“You look very proud of yourself,” he grumbled, pulling you into his lap.

“I’m not joking when I say it’s been years since I’ve had good sex. I just have a good feeling about this.”

“Because you saw me being a slut?”

“Nope, because you’re a doctor and I heard you went home with the same person more than once. That doesn’t happen unless you fuck.”

“You’re so strange,” he laughed, dipping his head closer to yours.

“Good. I don’t want you under the impression I’m normal.”

“Never a risk, trust me,” he laughed.

His nose bumped your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. The press of his lips was electric. You grinned and twisted your head to press your lips against his. It was exactly how you hoped it would be. His lips were soft against yours, but each movement decisive. His hands, so warm and large, held you on your waist and the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by the beard,” you replied.

“I oil it,” he replied placing kisses down your neck.

“Hot,” you replied, sounding strangled as his sucked gently on your pulse point. You felt goosebumps erupt along your back.

He laughed and his hand that rested on your thigh squeezed. You wished he’d move it up, maybe press against your already throbbing core. Instead he massaged your leg and continued his ministrations against your neck.

“Christ,” you hissed when he nipped at your skin. “Already so good.”

“You’re so responsive for me,” he said. “I’ll bet you make beautiful noises.”

“You’re more talkative than I guessed,” you replied.

He pulled back and you huffed, already missing the contact. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“You’ve said a lot tonight,” you told him, pulling his face back to yours.

“That you’re smart and impressive. That you’re a good researcher,” he said before wrapping a hand around your neck and kissing you harshly. “Since no one else seems willing to tell you, I will. You’re incredible.”

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered.

“Too bad,” he replied.

“Can we move this to my bedroom?” You asked, hoping to distract him.

“Please.”

He helped you stand and took a quick look at your leg. His thumb was gentle as he caressed the red, puckered line on your thigh. Placing a gentle kiss on it made a well of emotion rise to your throat. His hands gripped your waist and he stared up at you from the couch.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered.

Caressing his face you said, “You’re going to give me an ego.”

“Someone has to,” he said placing a kiss on your T-shirt covered stomach.

“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, pulling him up.

“How’s your arm?” He asked, following you through your short hallway.

“A little stiff, but mostly healed.”

“Please promise me that you’ll say something if you’re uncomfortable,” he asked quietly.

“Pinky swear,” you said stopping in front of your bedroom holding out your pinky to him. He laughed, shaking his head, and wrapped his pinky around yours.

Thankfully, your bedroom was mostly clean. There was some laundry waiting to be folded. It was small enough that it was only a couple steps until Robby was prodding you to sit on the bed.

“Can I undress you?” He asked.

“I’m not exactly wearing much,” you said smiling.

“I know, trust me,” he grumbled, grabbing your leg and rubbing his hand up the skin.

“Will you take your shirt off?” You asked still grinning up at him.

“Anything you want,” he said.

Leaning back on the bed, resting on your elbows, you watched as he flushed. He was large in your tiny bedroom. He reached behind him and in one fell swoop, pulled off his scrub shirt and undershirt.

“That was hot,” you said eyeing him.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing in between your legs.

You couldn’t help but run your hands up his torso. Dark hair dusted his chest and down his stomach. It led down to the waistband of his pants. Even his body hair was soft. Without a shadow of a doubt, you knew he oiled this as well. Something about the intentionality of that action made you clench.

Lightly raking your nails down his stomach, you watched as his muscles twitches. His shoulders, just out of reach, were broader than you expected. With ease, you unbuttoned the cargo pants and slid them over his waist.

“I seem to recall trying to undress you,” he said, stepping out of his pants and socks all at once.

“I got distracted,” you saying eyeing his boxer briefs. He was only half hard and already straining against the fabric.

“Maybe I want to be distracted,” he replied tugging at your shirt. You lifted your arms for him, so your T-shirt could be pulled up over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra since being couch bound, so he had an immediate eyeful of your tits. “You’re stunning.”

“Yeah? Prove it?,” you goaded.

He huffed a laugh and pushed you back on the bed lightly, before pulling off your shorts and underwear. He kneeled down on your floor and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Already so wet.”

“Wetter than I’ve been in a long time,” you told him. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I want to touch you,” he breathed.

“Please,” you begged. “I want you to touch me so bad.”

In a move that would live in your brain for the rest of your life, Robby stuck two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he ran them up and down your slit. The first finger that slid inside you felt foreign. It had been a long time since anyone had pressed into you. When Robby added his second finger you couldn’t help but gasp out a moan.

“You open up so pretty for me,” Robby breathed. “You’re so good.”

His words did something to you. You knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Shame no one else is willing to get on their knees and worship you like you deserve,” he continued softly. He pressed soft kisses up and down your thigh. “Such a beautiful pussy should be kissed and praised.”

The sound you made when Robby began sucking on your clit in earnest was more of a squeal than anything else. It felt like every nerve was focused on the feeling in between your thighs. His fingers worked in and out of your slowly and with a firm pressure that you felt deep in your stomach. His tongue and mouth were far more impressive than you could have imagined.

“Oh my god, you’re so good at this. What the fuck,” you whined, burying your fingers in his hair. You wanted him pull him closer and grind on his face, but his grip on your hips kept you still.

At some point he added a third finger which made you release a choked laugh. With your good leg, you threw it over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move deeper and hit your g-spot more effectively. The sensation of him between your thighs was overwhelming and you felt your legs trembling just slightly.

You braved a look between your legs and saw him staring up at him. Even without seeing his face, you knew he was grinning at you. Apparently, Robby was a smug bastard in bed. A particularly strong suck had you arching off the bed calling Robby’s name.

“Stop, stop,” you breathed lightly pushing him away. “I can’t cum twice and I want to come on your cock.”

Robby pulled away from your pussy and was drenched with your fluid. He looked proud of himself when he said,

“You really do make the best noises.”

“You really are good at eating a girl out,” you said breathing heavily. “When I am healed I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick.”

Laughing, Robby stood (his knees let out a massive crack that had you giggling), and laid down next to you in the bed. His hand trailed up your stomach before cupping your tit in his hand. Even if you weren’t particularly sensitive on your tits, having his hands on you was a mesmerizing feeling.

You hummed at his touch and pulled him over into a kiss. Your hand ran up and down his side until your fingers slid under his boxer briefs. Unsurprisingly, he was hot and heavy in your hand. He wasn’t quite as big as you feared, but you were glad he slid that third finger inside you.

“You’re so hard,” you said in between kisses.

“We have to talk over this before we start,” he replied pulling back and removing your hand from his underwear.

“Ugh,” you groaned. “You and your consent and safe sex.”

“Would you rather me force you down and fuck you?” He asked unimpressed.

“Maybe not tonight but we should table that idea for later,” you replied rolling on your side to look at him. His ears were bright red at the thought.

“I think you might kill me.”

“Pity, this is a lot of fun.”

He laughed pulled you on top of him. You laid half on him, your head pillowed on his chest. Even though you desperately wanted to know what he felt like shoving his cock in you, cuddling with him was certainly very enjoyable in itself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Arm is a little sore. Leg doesn’t hurt. Emotionally, doing great. You?”

“My knees will feel that tomorrow, but I’m also good. Feeling quite amazing, in fact.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” you told him pressing a kiss on his chest.

“I think we both know that I can’t say no to you.” He sighed. Then said, “I’m clean, I get tested regularly. Haven’t had sex since my last test. Happy to show you.”

“I trust you. I haven’t had sex in well over a year with anything other than my vibrator and was good during my last wellness exam.”

“I can’t wait to see you use this vibrator,” he said. “Watching you fall apart is so beautiful. I want to turn your brain off.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“If anyone could, it would be you. I just don’t think my brain ever turns off. Rather annoying.”

Robby’s hand traced light trails up and down your back making you shiver.

“Guess we’ll see.”

“If you take that as a challenge it won’t be sexy,” you complained. “I don’t care about my brain turning off. I care about this, us, feeling you finally fuck me.”

“Finally, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an IUD, there’s condoms in my side table, there’s nothing stopping us,” you complained poking him.

“You’re injured. There’s a lot stopping us.”

“If you bail on me now because you’re worried about hurting me, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Trust me,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One taste of you was addicting enough.”

“As much as I want to see you, if I’m on my stomach on the bed, there’s not much of a chance to hurt myself,” you said.

“I like that,” he said.

“I want you on top of me, though,” you grumbled. “And then when my leg and arm are healed I’m going to ride you like a bronco, I swear to Christ.”

“Whenever I imagined this, I have to be honest, this is exactly how I thought you would be,” Robby laughed as he kissed the top of your head. “So stubborn and smart. The best ideas.”

“Robby,” you warned.

He noticed you never truly told him to stop, and you were not someone who shied away from voicing your opinion on something. He slid out from under you and opened the drawer of your side table. There was a nail file, some tissues, a rather sleek looking vibrator, and a small box of condoms. They were barely within their expiration window. He wondered who you bought them for.

Once he slid the condom on, it took a minute for the two of you to find a position that was comfortable. The two of you propped your hips up on some pillows and you reveled in the feeling of Robby’s body hovering over your own.

The first slide of cock against your folds made you whine. When he finally pushed in, you gasped and clenched at your sheets. He was big and from this position, he was firmly pressed on your g-spot. The feeling of him fully sheathed in you made you released tension you had no idea you held in your body.

Hovering over you, caging you with his body, made your nerves dance and tingle. It was not a surprise to you that you liked a man that could push you around, but the feeling of Robby pressing his weight down—even partially—confirmed what you suspected: you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“You feel so good around me,” Robby groaned in your ear. “You’re so good for me.”

“Just like that,” you moaned as his slowly pistoned his hips.

“Yeah? Take it. take what I’m giving you, sweetheart. I want you to know how amazing I think you are.”

Each thrust from Robby sent delicious tingles through your body. He braced his forearms by your head and you felt his chest press down on your back. The pressure of him made you groan into the bed. His mouth was by your ear. You could hear each breath, moan, and gasp he let out.

“Don’t muffle those pretty sounds. I want you to fall apart. Let go for me. Be my good girl,” he murmured.

Tomorrow you could be embarrassed by the way your body reacted to Robby calling you good girl, right now you couldn’t hide the tremor it sent through you. Your pussy clenched around him tightly.

“Good girl does it for you?” He asked. You could hear his smile.

“Fuck off,” you grumbled. He slowed in you until he was just lightly grinding against you, making you whine.

“As much as I love your attitude, that isn’t nice. Don’t you want to be good for me? Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I make you feel.”

And suddenly you realized why Robby was so successful with women he slept with. His whispered commands against your ear sent you to another stratosphere. You were confident this man could make you erupt with the power of his words alone.

“You feel so good, Robby,” you panted, trying to grind back onto him but in this position you had no leverage. “You’re so big and I want to feel it forever. Your pressed against me so well and it’s making me crazy. I don’t want this to end.”

“I’m so proud of you for using your words, sweetheart. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please,” you whined.

His hips began to move again and you released a punched out groan at the renewed friction.

“Feel it,” he commanded. “Feel me inside you.”

“So good,” you mumbled.

“Not as good as you are. You're perfect. Made for me. Made for me to slide into. Made for me to ravish and worship. Every sound you make. Every twitch and tremor. I’m memorizing it. Archiving it. I want to watch you give into the pleasure.”

“Ah, your dirty talk is insane,” you told him as he began to thrust into you more earnestly.

“You bring it out of me sweetheart. You make me crazy. So pretty, so young, so smart. And you’re letting me fuck you. I want you to feel as lucky as I do.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the sounds of his hips slamming against yours and his quiet pants against your ear. You wrapped you hands around his wrists that were pressed above your shoulders. It was an awkward position, but you needed to hold onto him. Each thrust of his hips and press of his body made soft groans erupt from your mouth. You found yourself wanting to be more vocal for him.

“You’re so perfect under me,” he grunted. “You fit me so well. Such a good girl for me.”

“Fuck,” you hissed. Your body clenched so tightly even Robby’s pace faltered

“Are you getting close, sweetheart?” He almost cooed.

“Yes, please keep going just like that,” you mumbled against the pillow.

“Ah-ah, I want to hear you,” he said, redoubling his efforts.

“Please, Robby,” you said louder. “Keep going. I want to cum on your cock.”

“Do you need me to touch your clit?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

You were sure how he managed to hold himself up and also snake a hand under you to rub two thinking fingers along your clit. Frankly, it was none of your business, because the sharp increase in pleasure make your hips buck. Being caught between Robby’s pistoning hips and deft fingers was getting you closer far faster than you expected.

“Jesus Christ, I’m getting close.”

“Yeah? C’mon, then, be a good girl. Cum on my cock for me. I want to feel you clench around me. I want to feel you lose control because of me.”

“Robby,” you whined.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He asked. You could hear the breathlessness in his own voice as his hips became a little more frantic.

“Yes,” you moaned.

“Say it.”

“I want to be a good girl for you,” you cried. In this moment you would have done anything he asked you.

It was only a few strokes of his cock and fingers before you felt your body tighten and sparks fly. It was a slow build up at first, it almost crested gently. But once the orgasm hit, your muscles locked up and each continuing rub of his fingers and movement of his hips overwhelmed your body until you were shaking underneath him.

“Such a good girl,” he growled in your ear as he managed to hold back his own orgasm. “Squeezing me so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy.”

It was another two thrust before Robby buried his face in your neck with a long groan, as he lazily fucked you through his own orgasm. Goosebumps erupted down your back as his beard almost tickled you. For a minute, he was sheathed deep inside of you, blanketing your body with his own.

It felt luxurious.

(It felt safe)

You wouldn't have admit that last part out loud, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that Robby’s arms would be a safe place to fall. For more than a few minutes, you soaked in the presence of another person against you, appreciating the feeling of his body heat, the scratch of his hair, the puff of his breathing. It was so human and so monumental.

When he went to move, you whined and halfheartedly managed to pull him back down against you, resulting in his deep chuckle. Some of his weight on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your middle and began to place featherlight kisses along your shoulder making you shiver against him.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Same,” you sighed, fully blissed out. “I just want to stay like this for a minute.”

“As long as you want, sweetheart,” he said, continuing his kisses. It almost tickles and you can’t help the shudder that travels from your neck through your hips.

“Sweetheart, huh?” You asked. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re not very nice to yourself.”

“I’m just well aware of how I come across.”

“I really don’t think you are,” he said frankly. He placed his lips against your ear and whispered, “You don’t seem to know how every time you walk into a room, you absolutely own the place. Or how everyone turns and listens when you talk. You’re competent and commanding, and more than that you're kind.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Am not.”

“Don’t know what planet you’re living on, but you go out of your way to make sure bar patrons get home safe, you cover shifts when it’s inconvenient, and you called Jack even when you didn’t have to. I owe you a lot for that.”

“You would have been fine,” you protested weakly. “I’m just being a good community member.”

“I don’t know if I would have been. And sweetheart, being a good community member is being kind,” Robby said.

“I just don’t believe you,” you finally said.

“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do. Just like I’ll keep telling you how brilliant you are and how amazing you are. And maybe one day, I’ll hear you say it back.”

“Doubt it.”

“I believe it enough for the both of us,” he said kissing your cheek.

He slowly peeled himself away from you, and almost immediately you missed the weight and warmth. You heard him dispose of the condom and wander into your bathroom. At some point you needed to move, but frankly, you were still boneless after a good fuck and even better orgasm. Feeling the bed dip at Robby’s arrival, you felt him gently run a washcloth between your legs. It was intimate and caring in a way you were unfamiliar with. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat feel scratchy.

“Let me help you readjust,” Robby said, after finishing. You heard the washcloth tossed into your laundry basket.

You let Robby ease you off the mound of pillow propping up your hips. The bad leg was a little stiff, but not painful as you rolled over on your side. It’s the first time you caught a glimpse of Robby. His skin was still flushed and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. There was a crooked smile on his face as he leaned over and kissed you.

It was his eyes that caught your attention the most. They always held emotion. You had noticed the pain and heartbreak all those nights at the bar. Now, however, slowly laying down next to you, his eyes were soft, creased with a happiness that seemed to be foreign on his face.

“I’m glad you let me talk you into this,” you admitted.

He shifted so you were wrapped in his arms, chest to chest, nose to nose. The blankets were still kicked to the end of the bed, but neither of you felt cold. Brushing you nose with his, he said,

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. This was very nice. Memorable. I can confirm that you do fuck. And you fuck well,” you announced.

Robby chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Was that all this was? A fuck?” His voice was vulnerable.

You knew the question was coming, which is why you didn’t stutter over your answer,

“Depends, on if you plan to keep your promise of reminding me how great I am all the time.”

“I think it’s something I could make time for,” he said grinning.

-- -- --

More of an author's note: I can't remember if I saw the sad paddington bear thing on tumblr or not. If I accidentally stole this from someone let me know and I'll tag and credt. I just couldn't find anything when I looked.

Jenny clenched her jaw and bit down on a string of curses that nearly escaped. God, I hate him, she thought. Not really. Maybe a little. It was complicated. Everything about him was complicated.

Captain John Price was both maddeningly attractive and, as she came to realize over time, flat-out infuriating. He was seemingly immune to the basic laws of human decency or mercy, existing in a realm where empathy and kindness were foreign concepts. He didn’t smile unless it was right before he made you suffer, a smirk that promised a world of pain just around the corner. He didn’t raise his voice unless he knew it would hit you like a punch to the gut, a calculated attack designed to strip you of whatever self-respect you had left. His words were razor-sharp, delivered with precision, leaving a sting long after they were spoken.

And he didn’t need to say a word to bring you to your knees. One look was enough to make you feel like you’d disappointed God Himself. It was in the weight of his gaze, the way his eyes locked on you with a knowing intensity that seemed to read your every weakness. There was no escaping it. No hiding. When he looked at you, you felt exposed, vulnerable—like he could see straight through to the very core of your being.

Yet, despite all this, despite the frustration, the irritation, and the resentment that built up inside her every time he was near, Jenny couldn’t help but be drawn to him. And that, perhaps, was the most infuriating part of it all.

His voice was deep, rough—like a bear’s growl laced with gunpowder—and his eyes were like rifle scopes: cold, focused, and impossible to escape. And somehow, the bastard made a tactical vest look like it belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine.

Not that she noticed.

When he’d introduced himself to their group on day one—“I’m the bastard who’ll make sure you survive.”—she thought it was just military theater. A performance. A scare tactic. But no—Price was a man of his word. He’d taken “bastard” as a job title and lived it like a creed. It was as if the moment he’d delivered that, he’d decided the simple statement gave him free rein to say whatever the hell he wanted and be a complete bastard about it.

And he absolutely delivered on that promise.

Now, as she dangled from the rope, hands raw, muscles trembling like jelly, and sweat dripping into her eyes, she could almost hear him looming in her subconscious, arms crossed, disapproval radiating like a heatwave, saying the things he probably wanted to say but couldn’t because of HR regulations or the Geneva Conventions.

"Your ass is so big, Hannes, it’s got its own gravitational pull. No wonder it’s dragging you down!"

She almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she rolled her eyes at her own brain. Thanks for the support, imagination. You're a real peach.

"Hannes, we don’t have all bloody day!" Price roared from below, his voice like a pissed-off bear growling from the depths of a cave. It was the kind of tone that made you feel like you were about to be torn apart, piece by piece, just for breathing too loudly.

She twisted her neck just enough to glance down—not looking all the way, because if she looked down, she’d lose whatever illusion of stability she was clinging to. And the last thing she needed was to fall to her death with her dignity already hanging by a thread.

“HANNES!”

“I’m trying, goddammit!” she snapped back, breathless, sweat dripping into her eyes—then immediately caught herself, gasping out the word like it might save her life: “Sir!”

Then it happened.

She lost focus for a split second—just one—and that was all it took.

Her grip faltered, sweat-slick palms slipping off the rope like it had suddenly turned to oil. Her weight shifted awkwardly, one foot failing to catch the next knot in time. Gravity didn’t hesitate. It yanked her down like a jealous lover.

Her eyes flew wide with terror. The scream rose, sharp and startled, but died just behind her teeth— thank God. The last thing she needed was to serenade the camp with a sound that could be mistaken for a frightened squirrel.

She was falling.

It was horrifying how quickly the body remembered it was fragile. The air rushed past her ears. The rope spun out of reach, taunting her. For the briefest moment, time slowed, stretching long enough for her brain to flash every dumb decision she’d made that morning, including skipping breakfast and forgetting her gloves.

Then—impact.

She hit the inflatable cushion with a hard, jarring thud, the kind that rattled her spine all the way up to her skull. The surface compressed beneath her like a disgruntled marshmallow—enough to save her bones, but not her dignity. For one fleeting second, she thought maybe she'd bounce gracefully, like those stunt professionals in action movies.

She did not.

The cushion launched her sideways with all the grace of a sack of potatoes fired from a catapult. Her limbs flailed uselessly midair before gravity claimed her a second time. She hit the ground with a dull, embarrassing whump, face-first into a patch of grass and dirt that felt far too smug about it.

The wind rushed out of her lungs on impact. Her nose got a mouthful of grass, and her cheek was immediately introduced to a half-buried rock. The world tilted, her ears rang, and for a moment, she lay there blinking into the soil like it had betrayed her personally.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Not because she was hurt—though everything hurt—but because her pride needed a moment to process the public execution it had just suffered.

Tom appeared out of nowhere, panting like he’d run a marathon through a hedge backwards. His fatigues were smeared with mud, flecks of grass clung to his sleeves, and there was a comically large green smear across his forehead—evidence that he, too, had made an unscheduled appointment with the earth not long ago.

“James! Are you okay?” he gasped, crouching beside her like she’d just taken a bullet.

Jenny peeled her cheek off the ground with a slow, sticky sound that felt more degrading than painful. She turned her head just enough to glare up at him through a tangle of hair and grass, her expression a perfect storm of exhaustion, disbelief, and deeply personal betrayal.

“Peachy,” she muttered flatly, spitting out a blade of grass that had taken up residence in her mouth. “Absolutely thriving.”

With a dramatic sigh, she flopped onto her back and stared up at the sky—blue, cloudless, smug. Even the birds seemed judgy.

Somewhere nearby, Price’s voice cut in—low and rough, but mostly unforgiving “…and that, cadets, is what happens when you stop thinking and start daydreaming.”

Jenny winced. “Tell me he’s not smug right now.”

Tom gave her a helpless shrug, brushing dirt from his knee like it was a lost cause. “He’s Price. I think that’s his resting state—smug and slightly disappointed.”

Jenny let out a strangled groan and threw an arm over her eyes, blocking out the sun and her dignity. “God, I want a vanilla cupcake and a new spine.”

“Add earplugs to that list,” Tom muttered, squinting at the rope wall like it owed him money. “Because I think we’re going again. Soon.”

Jenny didn’t budge. “He’ll have to drag my corpse.”

Tom snorted. “He might. And then he’ll critique your corpse’s form—‘Hannes, even dead, your posture’s an insult to this unit.’”

“‘You’re a soldier, not a sack of potatoes,’” Jenny added in her best gravelly Price impression, still flat on her back. “‘Fix your rigor mortis.’”

That earned a half-choked laugh from Tom, which he immediately regretted, clutching his side. “Ow. Okay, no laughing. Muscles are angry.”

They both lapsed into a winded silence, the kind where breathing felt like an act of rebellion. The grass was cool against their overheated skin, the breeze mild, uncaring. Around them, other cadets groaned, limped, or lay in similar states of physical and emotional ruin.

Price made them climb the rope three times each. Not once did Jenny or Tom manage to even get close to the top. They were, without a doubt, the worst performers in the squad. Even the scrawniest kid in the group had managed to get to the top at least once. But Jenny and Tom? Zero for three.

And it was starting to feel like a cruel joke.

With every failed attempt, every bruised ego, and every aching muscle, Jenny’s dream of becoming a real soldier—a warrior who saw battlefields, not just barracks—seemed to slip further and further from her grasp. It wasn’t just the physical failure that stung; it was the constant reminder that she didn’t belong here. Raised like a delicate flower, sheltered in a world of gentle expectations, she'd never done anything remotely close to physical exertion. The most strenuous thing she’d trained for in her life was a waltz. And now? She was being asked to climb ropes, crawl through mud, and endure endless obstacles while her soft, curvaceous body seemed like it was built for... well, luxury lounging rather than military warfare.

And it wasn’t just the ropes. No, that day felt cursed. The universe itself seemed to conspire against her, throwing every painful task imaginable her way. She had moments when she wanted to throw in the towel, scream, and just walk straight out of the camp—preferably to the nearest spa, where she could sip overpriced water and get a nice cucumber facial. She fantasized about the peaceful mountain runs of her past, long stretches of cool air, with nothing but the soothing sound of her own breathing and the occasional chirp of a bird. At least there, the earth didn’t judge her every step. She could sprint to her heart’s content without the threat of tripping over herself, or worse, rolling into a patch of mud that somehow got all over her.

Her life had once been about balance—elegance, grace, and poise. Now? Now it was about gripping ropes with her sore hands and struggling to look somewhat competent while being covered in dirt and looking like she had just crawled out of a swamp.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the muddy mess that awaited her. A mud crawl. The worst kind.

Her fellow recruits were barely fazed by the ridiculousness of the day. Meanwhile, Jenny was stuck trying to suppress the urge to break into an impromptu ballet routine, just to remind herself that, yes, she was once capable of looking graceful in a pair of heels. Now? She was lucky if she could stay upright for longer than 10 seconds without slipping into a mud pit.

"Come on, Hannes, stop sulking!" she told herself, forcing a smile as she watched the others trudge ahead, their muddy feet squelching with each step. She could practically feel the dirt beneath her fingernails as she hesitated at the edge of another obstacle. "Just keep moving, keep moving, and pretend you’re having the time of your life."

It was a little easier said than done. She took a step forward, mentally preparing for another round of humiliation, when her foot slipped.

"Great," she muttered, glaring at the ground beneath her. Maybe the mud’s trying to tell me something.

The sound of Tom’s voice, not too far from her and coated in mud, cut through her thoughts. "Keep it moving, James. Or you’ll end up stuck. You’ve still got a long way to go."

The irony wasn’t lost on her. She gave a half-hearted laugh and muttered under her breath, “Yeah, that’s the problem. The way... so many ways, none of them comfortable.”

The muddy path stretched on, the slippery surface beneath her feet threatening to pull her under with every step. The ground seemed to soften, making each step feel like a battle against quicksand. She pushed through, the squelch of mud growing louder with every movement, until she reached a particularly nasty section. Here, the muck deepened, turning into a large, brown puddle. Above, there was a dense web of barbed wire, crisscrossing like a jagged maze. The sharp edges gleamed menacingly, almost daring anyone to try and navigate through it. The wire seemed to hover ominously above the muck, creating an additional layer of danger to the already treacherous path Jenny had to navigate.

Jenny peered at it, her stomach turning. She could barely see the bottom, but what she could see looked... well, like a whole lot of mud.

With no other choice, Jenny steeled herself and began to lower herself into the muddy pit. The thick, viscous muck clung to her body as she sank deeper, the cold slime seeping through her clothes and making every movement more difficult. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she kept going, pushing herself to move despite the weight of the mud dragging at her limbs. Every step felt like a battle, each inch she descended into the pit a reminder of how much further she still had to go. The stench was overpowering, a mix of earth, decay, and something fouler that smelled... strangely familiar.

“Why do I smell pee?” she mumbled, a slight whine creeping into her voice as she kept her head high, staring at the disgusting brown water. Her nose scrunched in disgust. “What kind of torture is this?” she thought, almost wishing she could just turn around and head back to the barracks.

Just as she was about to take another hesitant step forward, something unexpected happened.

Her foot missed the bottom and sank into the muck, disappearing for a moment into the depths of the brown slush. For a few long, agonizing seconds, she felt herself being sucked deeper, her body fighting against the suffocating grip of the mud. It clung to her like a vice, dragging her down, and for a moment, Jenny thought she might actually go under.

She gasped for air—just a little too deep—and the dirty, foul-smelling water surged into her mouth.

She started hacking and coughing, eyes stinging, mouth filled with the taste of swamp water. Her lungs burned from the effort, but it wasn’t just the physical discomfort that stung. It was the sense of utter failure, the reminder that she wasn’t cut out for this life.

"Ugh, that is vile," she muttered under her breath, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

But, of course, Price—with his uncanny, almost supernatural ability to detect the faintest whimper or complaint—was right there.

"What was that, Hannes? You want a bubble bath with that mud?" he roared, his voice as rough as gravel and twice as unforgiving.

Jenny clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might crack a tooth, fighting the urge to scream. As if the swamp didn’t threaten to swallow her whole, the humiliation was enough to make her wish for an escape—preferably one that involved not drowning in this hellhole. But if she didn’t drown from the muck, she might just drown in shame. And at that point, it almost felt like a mercy.

Tom wasn’t faring much better. A few yards in front of her, he stepped out of the puddle and flopped over a low beam with all the grace of a dead fish, letting out a strangled grunt as he hit the mud with a loud splat. Jenny would’ve laughed if she hadn’t just swallowed half a swamp and was busy trying not to drown in her own humiliation.

They scrambled on, their bodies protesting with every step—soaked, sore, and only one sarcastic Price comment away from a collective breakdown.

By the time they reached the tire sprint, Jenny felt like her legs had turned into soggy linguine. Every step felt like dragging two wet bags of cement behind her. She tried to lift her knees high, to keep the rhythm, but her coordination had long since packed its bags and fled the country.

One misstep was all it took. Her foot caught on a stray wire running across the ground, and before she could react, her balance shifted, sending her tumbling forward. She crashed shoulder-first into a tire, bouncing off it like a pinball—rolling to the side in a flurry of mud, limbs everywhere.

Price didn’t even yell this time. Worse.

He sighed.

It was a long, drawn-out sigh, thick with disappointment, like a father who’d just realized his kid had failed at the most basic task for the hundredth time. That sigh wasn’t just the sound of frustration—it was the sound of his soul being slowly drained. Jenny could almost feel the weight of it pressing down on her chest.

Her cheeks burned, her heart hammering in her chest like a jackhammer. Great. She had officially gone from being a recruit in training to the squad’s walking tragedy. She glanced at Tom, who was now trying to get up from his own tire collision, his face mirroring her own silent misery.

“Come on, Hannes,” Price finally muttered, his voice low, like he was speaking to a misbehaving pet. “You’ve got more in you than this. Or at least, I thought you did.”

Jenny gritted her teeth, pushing herself off the ground, her knees threatening to buckle under the weight of it all. Every movement felt like it had the power to break her in half. But she couldn’t— she couldn’t give in. Not now. Not in front of him.

Tom shot her a look as he stood up, wiping mud from his face, a dry humor flickering in his eyes despite everything.

“I hope we never do this torture again,” he muttered.

Jenny nodded weakly, forcing herself into a stand, though every muscle in her body screamed in protest.

The rest of the day felt like an eternity, each minute dragging as if time itself had conspired to stretch out the agony. The tasks seemed endless—more obstacles, more drills, more sweat, more pain. Jenny’s body ached with every movement, her muscles screaming in protest, but it was her mind that was the most exhausted. By the time the final bell rang, signaling the end of their daily torment, she could barely keep her eyes open, let alone keep her body moving. The weight of it all settled heavily on her chest, suffocating her as she stumbled toward the finish line of the day.

When Price finally gave the order to break formation, it felt like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater for too long. It was more than just a command—it was a lifeline. Jenny didn’t hesitate for a second. She shot forward, her legs aching from exhaustion, but the promise of the shower ahead made her move faster, her pace frantic. She needed the water, the feeling of it washing away the sweat, the grime, and, most of all, the weight of the day. She needed to feel something other than the dull pain and the overwhelming exhaustion.

Tom was close behind her, his presence a small comfort in the midst of her chaotic thoughts. They entered the showers together, along with a few other recruits who were just as eager to get some relief. Tom picked a stall with a resigned sigh, closing the door behind him. Jenny chose the one beside him, but for a moment, she didn’t bother to undress. She turned on the water just enough to wash her face and hands, letting the cold stream hit her skin with a jolt, sending shivers down her spine. The contrast between the cold water and the heat still radiating from her body was almost too much to bear. She needed the chill to clear her mind, but all it did was heighten the physical exhaustion that was already consuming her.

The sound of water cascading between them was the only thing that filled the small space, its rhythmic flow almost hypnotic. There was no conversation, no attempt to break the silence that hung thick between Jenny and her thoughts. The water, cold against her face and her hands, served as a momentary distraction, a gentle contrast to the chaos that had preceded it. But no matter how much she tried to focus on the water, the tension lingered—wrapped around her like a constant, nagging presence.

Her body was a map of pain, each bruise and ache seemingly amplified by the emptiness of the moment. It was as if everything outside of the shower had disappeared. The usual noise of the barracks, the chaotic energy of the recruits—it was all gone. Just her, the water, and the steady rhythm of her breathing. She closed her eyes and stood still, letting the water flow over her, trying to wash away the frustration, the bruises, the overwhelming tension.

Minutes passed, but it felt like time had slowed to a crawl. Jenny barely noticed the sound of footsteps echoing outside the shower room at first, only realizing the others had begun to finish up. The voices of her fellow recruits drifted in the air, muffled by the thick walls of the shower stall.

Their laughter, their chatter—it all faded into the distance, leaving her and Tom alone in their respective silence.

And then, as if breaking the spell, a soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

"You coming to eat?" Tom’s voice, muffled but familiar, reached her ears.

She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see the movement. "No, not hungry. Just want to stay here, take a long shower, and... lick my wounds," she said, the words tasting bitter as they left her mouth.

There was a pause, and then she heard Tom’s voice again, his confusion obvious. "Wait, what? Didn’t you shower yet?"

Jenny froze, the question hanging in the air like a weight. The cold water on her face felt suddenly too hot, too sharp. Her pulse quickened. She quickly turned away from the door, even though he couldn’t see her, trying to regain her composure. "Uh… no, actually, I’ve been washing my clothes," she replied, hoping the lie would sound plausible. "Now I’m washing... the rest."

She slapped a hand to her forehead, mentally berating herself. Nice one, Jenny. You’ve totally sold it. But, as always, Tom took the bait without question, his usual obliviousness a comfort in its own strange way.

"Well, alright," he said, the lack of suspicion clear in his voice. "I’ll save you some chicken for later and bring it to your dorm. It’s wednesday, after all."

Jenny felt a small rush of relief, and her lips tugged into a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Tom. You’re a real friend."

He chuckled in that easy, carefree way of his, and the sound brought a flicker of warmth to her chest. Without another word, he shuffled off, his wet slippers squeaking on the tile floor as he left her alone.

Jenny stood there for a moment, her hand still resting on the shower door, listening to the soft sound of his footsteps fade away down the hallway. Once she was certain the coast was clear, she cautiously opened the door, glancing out into the empty hallway. It was silent. She stepped out of the stall, moving quickly and quietly as she placed her clothes by the door, ensuring they would be within easy reach when she was finished.

With a deep breath, she began to peel off her damp clothes, the fabric sticking to her sore skin as she moved. Every action sent a wave of pain through her body. She could feel the bruises, the cuts, the aches, and the exhaustion that had settled deep into her muscles. Each movement, no matter how small, felt like an effort. Her body seemed to be betraying her at every turn, but there was no room for weakness—not here, not now. She had to keep going.

Jenny stepped into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her. For a moment, she just stood there, letting the water soak into her skin, her mind momentarily blank, her body aching with the kind of weariness that only the most brutal days could bring. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the thoughts that clung to her—thoughts of the fight, the humiliation, the pain. For now, all she wanted was to feel clean, to wash off the physical and mental exhaustion that had built up over the day. And maybe, just maybe, find some peace in the simple act of letting the water flow over her.

As Jenny lathered the soap over her body, the warm water mingling with the suds, her mind inevitably drifted back to the events of the day. Her muscles still ached, each movement a reminder of the grueling training, but it was the memory of Price that kept resurfacing, uninvited and stubborn, like a shadow she couldn’t shake off.

God, that man drove her insane. She gritted her teeth as the thought lingered. He made her furious—every bit of him, from the way he commanded the room to the smug look on his face.

Jenny muttered under her breath, "Hannes here, Hannes there, ugh!" Her hands waved in the air, the frustration clear on her face. She hated the constant reference to her last name, how it seemed to follow her like a shadow, a reminder of things she’d rather forget.

It didn’t help that she was incredibly attracted to him. Not at all. She wanted to hate him—she really did—but every time she thought of him, every time his voice echoed in her head, it made her blood run hot. The thought of his deep, commanding tone sent a shiver down her spine. She froze under the water, eyes squeezing shut in disbelief.

"I can't believe I just shuddered at the thought of his insults... his insults," she muttered to herself, a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

But it wasn’t really the insults, was it? No one could possibly feel turned on by being called every humiliating name he’d thrown at her. No. It was his voice—the tone of authority, that deep, rumbling growl that sounded like it belonged to an animal, primal and... too damn commanding.

Jenny slapped her hands over her face, trying to shake off the thoughts. "No, no, no, don’t go there, Jenny. Don’t even think about it," she whispered to herself, her mind desperately trying to wrestle back control. The last thing she wanted was to fall in love with a man. She was here to be a soldier, to keep her focus sharp and her emotions on lockdown—far away from anything that might lure her into becoming a wife, locked in a gilded cage, wrapped in bubble wrap like she was made of glass, and destined to churn out kids. No. She couldn’t afford to fall in love. Even the slightest flicker of attraction she felt was a mistake, and she wished, more than anything, that Price had been an old man with a beer belly and a permanent scent of cheap whiskey—anything but... well, whatever the hell he was.

Nanami is greeted with the picture of domesticity when he opens the front door to your shared home. There you are, flitting about the kitchen and the dining room like a hummingbird as you set the table.

A deep inhale through his nose tips him off that you’ve made his favorite for dinner. He really is lucky.

He drops a quick kiss on your forehead and reaches for the plates you’re holding to set them on the table himself.

“How was work?” You ask, bringing over a pot from the stove. It was the last thing you needed for the table to be set.

“Long day.” Nanami pulls your chair out for you to sit before you can even think about touching it. Never too tired for manners, that one.

His lips press softly against the skin below your ear as he scoots you forward. “Better now.”

It stirs something up inside you. Deep in your stomach. Right between your thighs. A feeling that used to come regularly, multiple times a day even, before Nanami got so wrapped up in his work.

Neglected isn’t exactly the word you’d use. No, you’re not some stray alley cat abandoned and left to fend for itself.

You’re Nanami’s wife.

The woman he used to fuck within an inch of her life whenever and wherever she so damn pleased.

Your body autopilots itself while your mind replays all the ways he used to have you. He has to call your name twice to pull you out of your reverie.

“What’s on your mind so badly that’s keeping you from your dear husband?” Nanami teases before taking a bite of his meal.

The longing you feel for the old days of your relationship must be written all over your face, you’re sure of it. Just in case… candidly, you answer

“You.”

“Oh.” He chuckles. “You really love me th—”

“—You inside of me.” You tack on in the middle of his sentence. He wasn’t getting it.

His silverware clatters against the plate, dropped in shock. Nanami was completely accosted by your candor to say the least. It had been a long while since he heard you speak like that.

A slow smile stretches across his face before answering, his voice raspy with unmitigated desire. “I forgot how filthy your mouth can get, Tsuma.”

“I’d love to show you whenever you find the time for me.” Maybe neglected is the word you would use because what you just said definitely comes from a place of hurt masked by lust.

He’s at your side now, holding out his hand to help to stand up from the table. “How about I pencil you in for right now?”

“Oh? You’re not too busy?” You fold your arms across your chest, a subtle refusal to his upturned palm.

Sensing that this is no longer a fun game between you two, instead a serious discussion, he cups your chin and brings your face toward him.

“Never. I’m never too busy for you.”

Your gaze softens at the conviction in his voice, eyes fluttering closed in an effort to stop the tears before they come.

“I miss you, Nanami.” You whisper around the lodge in your throat, meeting his gaze again.

His heart nearly cracks right down the middle at the tears threatening to spill over your lash line. He pulls you up out of your seat to his chest and wraps both arms around you tightly.

“I miss you too.” He kisses the top of your head over and over in an attempt to soothe you.

“You work too much.” Your words come out muffled with your face buried in his chest but he can just barely make them out.

“I do it for you.” Nanami insists, cradling your precious face in his hands. “Don’t you like being taken care of? Having nice things?”

“I’d rather have you. Don’t you get that?” You pout. Maybe you are being a brat but you miss the early days, when he used to spoil you in other ways, too much to care.

“I know you only work so hard so that you can take care of me. I get that and I appreciate it, honest.” Now your hands cradle his face. “But you work so hard that you don’t get to take care of me.”

Nanami’s face falls in understanding. What good is all the money he brings in if this is how you feel at home all day without him?

“I’m sorry.” He swallows thickly.

“Don’t be sorry just be here. Okay?”

His lips find yours under the light of your chandelier and it feels like he finally came home.

“I’m here.” Nanami rasps, growing hungrier with each kiss against your mouth. You come alive under his ministrations, that long awaited passion like kindling to the fire inside of you burning for him.

You meet his mouth at every opportunity, groaning when his tongue finds its way past your lips to dance with yours.

Insatiable can barely describe the two of you. Hands all over one another… groping, squeezing, trying to learn the language of each other’s bodies all over again.

Nanami leans against the wall bringing you with him, raising your leg up to his hip so he can grind his hard bulge right up against your center. The friction is searing against your aching clit and you love it.

It’s like how you used to be when you couldn’t get enough of each other.

“I need you.” You pant, canting your hips against him in time with the rhythm he’s set using his bruising grip on your thigh.

“Right here?” Nanami is fully aware that you’re both still standing in the dining room, only steps away from the bedroom.

“We never used to care where we were before,” Your voice comes out light and breathy.

“That’s..” His head flings back with a groan. “That’s true.” Those breaths come out in harsh puffs now, Nanami’s forbearance waning with each harsh drag of your clothed pussy across his cock.

“Mm. You bought the damn house.” With a sultry whisper your breath fans over Nanami’s lip as your hand gently clutches his throat. “You can fuck me in any room you please.”

Under your palm you feel the vibrations from the growl building in his throat. It’s all the notice you get before he swings you around and slams you into the wall, careful to hold your head when doing so.

“Look who’s ready to play…” Your soft giggles reach his ear in a taunt. The look he gives in return sends a chill running through your body.

Oh yes, Nanami came home.

“You always get exactly what you want don’t you?”

“Only because you give it to me.” You lob back at him.

“So spoiled. Tell me..” His nose trails up the side of your neck until he reaches your ear. “What does my needy fucking girl need?”

This. Exactly this. Everything you’ve been missing.

“These pants off, for starters.”

Nanami unbuckles the belt holding his slacks up with a quickness you hadn’t seen since his sorcerer days. His fingers reach for the tie around his neck but you quickly intercept.

“No, nono… the suit stays on.”

His smile is wicked. “Whatever you say, Tsuma.”

Nanami’s hands fall from his neck and instead work to free his length from his briefs, slowly stroking it up and down while he sizes you up.

“I’ll keep the suit on for you but these,” He hooks a finger into the seat of your panties and tugs them to one side, “These stay over here.”

He cups the backs of your thighs and lifts you up to his waist. You grab onto him as he languidly feeds his cock into you.

“Uhn. Yeahhh, that’s it… Fuck.” His forehead rests against yours after bottoming out. You clench around him so spastically he has to focus on not blowing his load inside you.

It’s been so long since you felt the fullness of him inside you. The memories don’t do what you’re experiencing right now any justice. In a silent agreement, you two savor this together, neither of you making any sudden movements.

Without saying it you both know exactly what the other is thinking: It’s been too long.

“Nanami.”

“I know.”

Your breathless plea spurs him into action.

He gives you a couple of deep plunges, dragging himself along every ridge, all the way out then all the way back in, nailing you to the wall behind you. Your feet aren’t on the ground to brace you so all you can do is hold onto him and take it. It’s pure bliss.

You love how disheveled he looks fucking up into you in tandem with him pumping you up and down by your hips. The blazer, the vest, the tie, all of it clothing your salaryman. So prim and proper until he feels the heat of your wet cunt.

It’s romantic how quickly you two fall into sync, right back into your old rhythm. You’d be more embarrassed about the loud squelching noise that comes with each thrust if it didn’t turn you on so much.

“You’re so good for me baby, so good f’me.” Nanami’s words slur like he’s truly intoxicated. You know he’s pussy drunk when his usually taciturn temperament is gone with the wind.

The tip of his cock slams against that perfect spot deep inside of you so deliciously, repeatedly, that it may as well be a shot of whisky injected directly into your bloodstream. Suddenly you’re a little inebriated too.

“Don’t stop.” You beg. As if he was planning to.

No, he’s a man on a mission now. His wife wants to cum? He’ll make her cum.

It’s not long before the Spanish Inquisition comes. “Missed me inside of you like this? Hm? Fucking this pussy ‘til you gush around me?”

Drilled with questions and drilled with cock. You can barely keep up with either. You babble and it’s barely intelligible. Oh my god this and you feel so good that amongst a sea of cries in his name.

“Fuck, I feel you clenching. You wanna cum?” Your eager nods encourage him to speed up. “Yeah you wanna cum all over your husband’s cock?”

“Yesyesyesyes, yesssss.” Your drunken drivel spills out without much command from your brain at all.

“Show me how much this pussy missed me, Tsuma.”

Your fingers rake through his blonde tresses, gripping tightly for purchase when you finally cum on Nanami’s dick after so, so long.

You’re not entirely sure but you think your mouth meets his for a sloppy kiss that’s all tongues and spit while he fucks you through it.

Somehow he’s still holding you up, still pounding relentlessly. God you love him and his determination.

“M’not gonna stop baby don’t worry. Not done with you yet.”

One orgasm has never been enough for him. Nanami won’t stop until you’re spent. He lets one of your legs fall to bring two fingers to rub on your clit in slow circles. Even his pace slows, so gentle now that you can’t help but focus on every little sensation he brings you.

“Is this how you touched your pussy when I wasn’t here to do it for you? Hm? Am I getting it right?”

You wanna clamp your legs shut from the onslaught of pleasure but of course he won’t let you. Short breaths fall from your O shaped mouth as another orgasm quickly builds.

“All for you… All for you.” Nanami mumbles into the crook of your neck in between sucking the slightly salty skin into his mouth.

You clutch his head there, your anchor to the land of the living, when your second orgasm tears through you something fierce.

Your soft moans are his favorite song. He can’t believe he let himself go without this for as long as he did. Never again.

Nanami can’t fight the way your vice grip on him makes him feel any longer. And frankly, he doesn’t want to.

“M’gonna fill you up just like I used to.” He promises and kisses you until you’re lightheaded. At the same time, he shoots a sticky hot mess between your folds with a satisfied groan.

The two of you pant into each other’s mouths trying to catch your breath. And then the breaths turn to laughter when you realize you’re still in the dining room.

Your other leg gets carefully placed back on solid ground.  Nanami keeps his hands on you to balance you. You need it because they’re pure jello right now in the best way.

When you look to him, you see he’s still not quite had enough and neither have you. There’s still so much lost time to make up for.

When you’re confident you can walk without your legs buckling like a newborn foal, you head to the bedroom.

“Again. This time with just your tie on.”

You don’t need to look behind you to know that he’s following you. Of course he is.

Nanami is always happy to oblige his wife.