crumbs.

You knew, from a logical standpoint, that gradual changes were the hardest to recognize. That time passed, things changed, and often people are none the wiser until the change is pointed out to them, or something suddenly brings it into sharp focus.

But you weren't sure how you didn't notice how Alec's nights grew sleepless, how he grew restless, how he spent more and more time away from home -- away from you.

No one told you Alec was withdrawing. You were left to realize that on your own one rainy summer day.

You stood at your kitchen window, watching fat droplets hit hard against the glass. You should've been doing dishes, but all you could do was watch the rain and think how oddly appropriate it was for the weather to mourn the death of a child.

Suddenly the door slammed open, and with a startled squeak you turned to see Alec angrily pacing across the room.

"Babe --" you started after him.

"Not now!" came his ever gruff voice, plagued no doubt by the horrible case he had to work. It stung, that he'd reply to you so angrily, but you said nothing. That was something he had to work through.

You, on the other hand, had rain to observe.

It was some time later -- at least ten minutes, but maybe more, maybe even an hour -- that you felt his arms wrap around you, a gentle yet lightly prickly kiss pressing into your shoulder.

"I'm sorry I snapped," he said. You didn't look at him, but you leaned your head against his in acknowledgment. "The Latimer case is just... but that's no excuse to treat you poorly. And my hours... and the surgery... I just haven't been fair to you lately."

You watched water roll down the window thoughtfully. "Surgery?" you asked quietly. He'd been working this whole time, surely it was something minor. A root canal or something, maybe?

"My heart surgery. To put in the pacemaker...?"

He pulled away to look at you, to take in your horrified expression.

"Ah. I didn't tell you."

"No, you didn't," you growled as you turned out of his grasp, moving to the other side of the room. "How do you forget to tell me something that important, Alec? You... you could've died, and I'd have never known! At least, not until I got a call from the hospital by a nurse who's too overworked to care!"

He sighed, turning to face you and leaning back against the counter. "I'm sorry, darlin'."

"Sorry? You're sorry?"

"As a matter o' fact, I am," he replied, easily, calmly.

For some reason that broke you. "Fuck you, Hardy," you managed through a collection of half sobs and half giggles.

"Ssh, darlin'," he cooed as he came over to you, pulling you into a soft embrace.

You clung to him tight, unwilling to let him go now that he was back -- not just physically, but actually mentally present with you as well.

"Please don't go back to the office," you begged his shirt quietly after a long stretch of silently holding each other. "Please."

"Darlin', I have to --"

"The case will still be there tomorrow. You're not gonna solve it tonight even if you do go back. Just... please. It's one night."

He sighed into your hair, arms squeezing you gently. "I can't --"

"That's bullshit, Alec."

Another sigh, and his hold on you loosened just a bit. You thought he was going to let you go, but instead you heard yet another sigh, this one defeated. "Fine."

Your heart fluttered ecstatically, but you dared not overwhelm him with your joy. "Perfect," you said as you pulled away, stepping in the direction. "First things first, you need some fucking sleep."

He followed you dutifully as you pulled him to the bedroom, got undressed and slipped under the covers with you. Held you close as the two of you stared up at the ceiling and listened to the rain.

"What would you have done," he started, breaking the silence carefully, "if I had died?"

"Torn my heart out and sewn it into your chest myself, if it meant you'd go on."

"I'm worth that much to you?"

"Oh, no, you're worth much more to me... but my heart is the most I can give you, the only thing I can give you... and you have all of it."

Silence stretched on. Worry started to eat at you, until --

"You have all of mine too... but there's something else you could give me, y'ken."

"What's that?"

"Your hand?"

You suspected you took his meaning, but his hand in yours, fingers brushing where an engagement ring was sure to go, really sealed it.

The sound of a gentle alarm was the first thing you registered blearily opened your eyes. You were about to groan in annoyance, but your partner, Alec, immediately leaned over to a nearby side table to turn it off, followed by kissing the top of your head to soothe you. Sighing contently, you nuzzled back into his shoulder, enjoying the soft cotton of his t-shirt and breathing in his scent.

He sigh softly, rubbed his eyes and then propped himself up on his elbow to see you from a better angle.

“Darlin’,” he raspily started, raking his lanky hand through your hair to rouse you, “we hafta head up to work early today, remember? Got some evidence to sort out.” There was a hint of a smile in his voice while gazing down at his drowsy partner, but he would never admit it.

Groaning, you nuzzled your face further into his shoulder and tightened your grip around his torso.

“Alec…” You whined, holding out the “e.” He let out a deep chuckle at your desperate efforts, shaking his head to himself.

“Hey, love, look at me.” He softly insisted, before tenderly reaching for your chin and guiding your face towards his with his thumb and pointer finger.

Slightly squinting at the abrupt change of lighting, your eyes slowly adjusted and focused on the dashing face of your partner. His practically glowing brunette locks were messy and falling in his face, causing him to run a hand through it consistently. His eyes were the color of chocolate and honey, even more so with the slight sunlight hitting them, and they were gazing at you like Alec had just found a rare and precious diamond. Reaching out slightly, you brushed your thumb against his stubble near his lip.

“Hi.” You breathed dreamily, still not fully conscious. Alec’s lip ticked up in a smile.

“Alright. If ya get up right now, I’ll take ya out for dinner after we get off- that new steakhouse ya mentioned. My treat, o‘course.”

“Oh?” You questioned in amusement.

He kissed the tip of your nose. “Yep. We can stop by here after work so ya can get dolled up. I’ll even wear that sweater ya got me fer Christmas.”

“The light pink one?!” You exclaimed, eyes lighting up.

Rolling his eyes, playfully responded, “Yes, love.”

You quickly but passionately kissed him in appreciation. “Wow. Suddenly I’m not tired anymore.”

“Good. Now you can get up. Go on, then.” He smirked and motioned with a flick of his head.

You kissed his forehead one last time before gleefully swinging around your legs to the edge of the bed and standing up and stretching.

Before disappearing into your shared bathroom, you called out, “I’m gonna tell Ellie about this and ruin your moody reputation!”

“Don’t you dare!” He called out from the bedroom in fake anger, his accent coming out more with the volume of his words.

Popping your head out of the bathroom before closing the door, you locked eyes with Alec and expressed, “Love you, Alec.”

Alec woke up with the morning sun streaming into his bedroom. He was feeling a bit dizzy from Ellie's birthday party the night before. He shouldn't have been drinking this much, considering his health, but the wine Ellie brought was so good. Good enough that he didn't refuse when, a little later, someone offered him a shot of tequila.

He suddenly realized that there was something on his chest, and in fact, he wasn't in his own bedroom. He looked down to see a storm of hair he knew, memories of the previous night flooding his mind.

"Shit," He grumbled.

You sighed as you were woken up by the person in your bed. You were still half asleep and looked up at your bed companion.

"Mornin', sir," you mumbled, laying your head on his chest again.

The hamster in your head sped up a bit on its wheel and your mind caught up to what was happening. Your eyes widened in shock, you quickly sat up, almost falling off the bed, and covered your naked body with the blanket.

"Ha-Hardy?!" You gasped. Your body was covered in hickeys and bites, and Alec felt a little proud that he still had it in him.

"Yeah..." He mumbled, feeling the effects of last night's drinking getting to him.

"I, uh... We... What happened last night?" You asked, feeling a dull headache that had only gotten worse when you had gotten up so quickly.

"I... Uh, I think we had..." Alec murmured, unable to look at you, even though he wanted to look at your body covered in his marks once more.

"I mean, we definitely do. Do you remember... any... you know, details?" You asked, also unable to look at him. You felt embarrassed that you had slept with your superior. At the same time you couldn't deny you had always found Hardy really attractive. Deep inside you, there was a small spark of pride that you had managed to get him into bed. Too bad you were both drunk as hell.

“Yeah…” Alec nodded awkwardly, looking anywhere but at you. “You?"

"I remember most of it," You replied, biting your lip as your head was flooded with memories of how you two held hands as you walked back to your place, laughing like a couple of teenagers. God, it was probably the first time you had heard him laugh and it was quite nice.

Now you both sat in an awkward silence, not entirely sure what to do, what to say. You felt that your night together had changed something irreversibly in your relationship and it made you feel anxiety gripping your stomach, which together with the hangover made you want to curl up into a ball and fall asleep for the next few days. Preferably right next to Alec, you were surprised to discover today that he was incredibly comfortable to cuddle.

“Do you want breakfast?” You asked quietly, breaking the silence suddenly. Hardy looked at you in surprise.

“I don’t think I could eat right now.” He said uncertainly, looking at you sheepishly. “But I’ll take some water if I can.”

"Sure, yeah, sure." You nodded, realizing that Alec was most likely in the same state as you right now. You stood up with a quiet groan and, still wrapped in the blanket, headed to the kitchen.

You returned carrying two glasses of lemon water in your hands, struggling to carry them and keep the blanket on you. Alec, noticing your difficulties, stood up, taking one glass from you. He hadn't bothered to get dressed, so now you could admire him in all his glory. You couldn't stop your eyes from wandering down, but you quickly looked away. You tried not to think that this had been inside you only a few hours ago.

“Sorry,” Alec mumbled, noticing your discomfort and placing his already empty glass on the nightstand, then picking up his boxers from the floor and slipping them on. "I mean, you saw everything last night anyway, eh?" He tried to joke while awkwardly scratching his ear.

"Yeah, but this is different, I guess... We're sober and... I don't know..." You mumbled just as awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. "Anyway, how are you feeling now? Water with lemon usually works better for a hangover." You changed the subject, forcing a soft, friendly smile.

“It’s not great, but it’s not terrible either,” Alec mumbled awkwardly, smiling back. That clumsy little smile he always gave you, which you found somehow cute.

“Good. Cool.” You nodded, clearing your throat, a cumbersome silence falling between you. You both looked around the room, avoiding each other's gaze. You both felt stupid, unspoken words hanging between you.

"I should probably go home." He finally broke the silence. You looked at him, feeling a bit disappointed, though you didn't know what you were actually expecting.

“Yeah, I guess.” You sighed, still sipping your water, not knowing what else to do with yourself. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

Alec glanced out the window and grimaced at the bright sun and cloudless sky, which irritated him more than usual. He agreed to your suggestion, and after only fifteen awkward minutes, you were left alone in your house. Just you, the unbearable hangover, and the overwhelming feeling of shame and anxiety. Not to mention the rather unpleasant soreness when you walked or sat down.

Your mind wandered between memories of last night, all the stupid things you said while drunk, and potential scenarios for seeing Hardy tomorrow at work. You wondered how you'd be able to look him in the eyes in front of all your coworkers and not think about the way he looked at you from between your thighs, while his lips and fingers... you sighed longingly, covering your face with your hands. You have to stop.

You spent the rest of the day feeling like complete garbage and trying to get yourself back into shape.

***

"How was the rest of your weekend?" Ellie asked as soon as she got to work. There was something strange about her smile, but you couldn't tell what.

You were already standing in the kitchen, making yourself a cup of coffee.

"Good morning to you too." You replied, glancing at her. She leaned on the counter next to you and looked at you with a smile. "It was hard, I shouldn't have drank so much." You shrugged.

"Yeah? Is that all you have to say?" She raised an eyebrow, staring at you intensely. "Because, you know, I saw you leave my party with Hardy. You didn't even say goodbye." A cold shiver ran down your spine as you realized what she was implying. Only now did you realize that even though in that moment you felt like the whole world didn't exist outside of the two of you, it, actually, did exist and saw the two of you together. You hadn't thought about it, and you hadn't discussed the official version. Hell, you hadn't discussed anything at all. You weren't sure if it was okay to admit to your friend that you'd slept with your subordinate.

"I said goodbye to you, you were just too busy with Beth to notice me." You reminded her, crossing your arms over your chest. "And yes, I left your party with Hardy. My place is on the way to his, we were going to take a taxi together." You explained, though Elie seemed unconvinced.

"Really? Because I know from reliable sources that you walked together, no cab," she said, and you mentally scolded yourself.

"God, is this an interrogation? Yes, we decided to walk because the weather was nice, and the walk sobered us up a bit." You said, this time not straying too far from the truth; the weather was nice and the walk really had made you sober up. Enough to remember everything, even the feeling of his fingers inside you or his lips on your neck.

"And just like that, you went back to your homes, huh?" As Miller kept asking, an uncomfortable tension rose in your stomach.

"Of course, what else would we do?" You raised your eyebrows, hoping you were convincing. "You don't think he's that kind of man, do you?" It was true; if you hadn't experienced it yourself, you would never have believed Alec Hardy was capable of it.

Ellie looked at you with narrowed eyes, as if trying to find the truth. "Sure." She sighed and moved towards her desk, pausing for a moment. "By the way, I think a mosquito must have bitten you on the neck. Near your ear." she stated, pointing to the spot on your body where you had a hickey you'd completely forgotten to cover with concealer.

You felt a blush creep onto your cheeks and you quickly covered the mark with your hand.

You tried to focus on your work, you really did. But your gaze kept drifting to Alec's office, and your mind back to the memories of your night together. You wondered what he was thinking. He barely left his office all morning, except for that one time when he went to get himself a cuppa and muttered an awkward hello to you without even looking at you.

He didn't even glance in your direction once. You knew Alec had a tendency to lose himself in work, but at the same time, it didn't seem sincere this time.

"You're staring," You heard Ellie's voice from behind you. "More than normal."

"I'm not staring!" You protested, returning your gaze to your monitor. "What do you mean, more than normal?" You asked after a moment, this time glancing at Ellie with a frown.

"You stare at him a lot. Ever since you started working here," she remarked with her classic cheerful smile, looking as if she knew something you didn't.

“That’s not–” You thought for a moment. “Okay, maybe sometimes. I'm manifesting that he'll send me home early." You half-jokingly grumbled, hoping she won't read more into it. Even if you were staring at him, so what? It means absolutely nothing.

"Sure," she nodded, rolling her eyes in amusement. "You're both acting strange today, but it's nothing, right? It has nothing to do with you walking back from my place together?"

You covered your face with your hands and let out a muffled scream. “What the hell you want me to say?” You breathed, looking at her annoyed. “Yes, I slept with Hardy. Yes, it was great. Now he’s ignoring me, I think.”

“Wait, you actually shagged him?” She asked so loud that most of your coworkers turned to look at you. Ellie was looking shocked, like she was expecting you’ll say something else.

“Louder, I’m not sure the whole Broadchurch heard you.” You sibilated sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “What did you think we did that night?” You muttered quietly, feeling eyes staring at you.

"I thought you were just making out, not that you went all out," she explained in a hushed voice, looking at you with something that looked like a mixture of surprise and smugness. The smile on her face was terrifyingly huge, as if she was delighted with this information. "And you say it was great?"

"Ellie..." You warned her, scowling. You didn't like how she reacted. How pleased she was. "I don't want to talk about it. And neither does he, apparently."

As if on cue, you heard Hardy's voice calling your name. You looked up, and he was standing in front of his office, staring at you. His face was as grim as ever, but his body language held a hint of nervousness. God, did he just hear what Miller said? Is he mad at you for telling her? "We're dead..." You whispered to Ellie, not taking your eyes off him.

“Come with me. Now,” he said to you, nodding towards the exit. You swallowed and stood up, following him like a lamb to the slaughter.

You walked in silence through the police station corridor, not even looking at each other, until Alec finally opened the door to one of the interrogation rooms and motioned for you to enter.

"What did you say to Miller?" He asked, closing the door behind you and crossing his arms.

"Nothing, she figured it out herself." Technically, you weren't lying. "She saw us leaving the party together, and now you're acting weird. It's hard to hide something when you're working with detectives."

He hummed in dissatisfaction. "But what exactly were you talking about?" He kept asking, standing with crossed arms, but still avoiding looking directly at you.

“Not much. She pressured me, so I admitted she was right and that it was great.” You sighed, shrugging, and sat down on the edge of the table. “Sorry. Do you regret it?”

"I—" He hesitated. "You were drunk, and I had sex with you. Of course I regret it. I can't shake the feeling that I took advantage of you." He confessed quietly, and you looked at him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. You couldn't believe what he had just said.

"What the hell, you were drunk as well." You reminded him, putting your hands on your hips. "Now I feel like I took advantage of you because I don't regret what happened at all."

“What?” For the first time since your night together, he actually looked at you.

"What you heard. Sorry, but I liked it and I don't regret a thing. If that means anything, you were great.” You shrugged and headed for the door, but Hardy grabbed your wrist. You looked at him, your eyes met, and once again you felt as if the world had stopped, as if there was nothing beyond the two of you. You stared into his beautiful brown eyes, and realization hit you like a train. You'd always thought he was handsome, but maybe there was more to it than just superficial attraction. Maybe Ellie was right, and you subconsciously stared at him almost every day.

You wanted to say something, but the words caught in your throat, and all you could do was stare at him with your mouth open slightly. To you, it was like a scene from some romantic movie, where nothing existed but the two main characters about to declare their undying love for each other. If someone walked in on you now, they'd see two idiots staring at each other with their mouths slightly agape, like fish out of water.

Alec cleared his throat and let go of your wrist, looking away. "This isn't the time or place for this..." He grumbled, more to himself than to you. You blinked, looking at him confused.

Now it was your turn to stop him, grabbing his wrist. "If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have let you kiss me. And I wouldn't have invited you over. Damn, I almost dragged you over. If anyone took advantage of anyone, it was me." You said, biting your lip. You could feel the blush creeping up your cheeks.

He looked at you for a moment and you were sure he would rip his hand from your grip and walk away without a word, leaving you there.

"If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have kissed you. Or let you drag me into your bedroom." He replied and smiled softly, making your heart flutter. "And for your information, I liked it too."

"Yeah? Would you like to do it again? Only maybe sober and with some dinner beforehand?" You asked, surprising even yourself. What the hell are you doing, why are you asking your supervisor out on a date?

Hardy looked surprised as well, looking at you with a slightly raised eyebrow, and you began to mentally prepare yourself for rejection.

"I'd love to," he replied, clearing his throat and shyly looking away.

“Really?” You asked, unable to contain your smile and hopeful tone.

"Yeah," He nodded and you couldn't help yourself, you moved closer and kissed him gently on the cheek.

He looked at you in surprise and cupped your face in his hands, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "Don't get used to it, we can't get distracted at work," he grumbled, and you nodded with a wide smile.

A/N: Let me know if I messed something up, English is not my first language. Also, this was only supposed to be a one shot, but I started thinking about a potential second part, let me know what you think.

And at the Pitt, you don’t have room for softness.

Jack Abbot notices everything about you. The way you triage with incredible efficiency. The way you steady shaking hands without making a show of it. The way you don’t flinch when someone yells.

He’s never noticed you squint.

Until today.

It happens mid-shift. A trauma rolls in, fast and loud and chaotic, and you’re at the bedside for nearly an hour straight. The air is dry. You blink too much. Your vision starts to blur at the edges. By the time you step out into the hall, your eyes are burning so badly you can barely keep them open.

You duck into the staff bathroom, hands braced on the sink.

“Not now,” you mutter.

The contacts have shifted and one is definitely torn. You recognize that scratchy, wrong sensation immediately. After washing your hands, you take them out carefully, blinking against the sting. The relief is instant—but so is the realization that hits you a second later.

You don’t have spares.

“Great,” you sigh, staring at your blurry reflection.

For a second, you consider just powering through it—squinting your way through the rest of the shift and pretending the sting in your eyes isn’t driving you insane. But you know better. You won’t last an hour like this, and the last thing you need is to misread a chart or medication label because you were too stubborn to grab your backup.

Which means leaving the safety of the bathroom.

You dry your hands slowly, take one last look at your unfocused reflection, and step back into the hallway. Without your contacts, everything feels slightly off-kilter—the lights too bright, the edges of people and gurneys a little too soft. 

You keep your gaze down as you walk toward the lockers, hoping no one stops you on the way.

When you get to the lockers it is mercifully empty. You crouch in front of your locker, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag until you find the hard case tucked into the side pocket. In it, wrapped in an old cleaning cloth, are your glasses.

You hesitate again before unfolding them.

They’re simple, with thin metal frames, a little too big for your face, the kind that make your eyes look wider and a touch more exposed. You slide them on and blink a few times as the world snaps back into sharp focus. The clarity is immediate, almost jarring.

There’s a small mirror on the inside of one of the lockers. You glance at yourself, head tilting slightly as you take in the difference. 

You look… different but not worse. Just less guarded somehow, like a layer you didn’t realize you were wearing has been peeled back.

You exhale slowly, straighten your shoulders, and throw the ruined contacts into a nearby trash bin, slide the glasses on, and step back into the chaos of the floor.

It takes exactly thirty seconds.

“Oh my God,” one of the nurses says dramatically. “You wear glasses?”

A couple of heads snap up from charts. Someone actually leans closer, squinting at you like they’re trying to confirm it’s really you.

Shen swivels in his chair, openly staring. “Wait, hold on. Since when have you been hiding these? This is a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?” You repeat flatly.

“Yes,” he insists. “We work twelve-hour shifts together. I thought we told each other things.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we focus on the patients instead of my face?”

“Sorry,” another nurse chimes in. “You just look… adorable.”

Adorable.

You groan. “If anyone says the word adorable again, I’m transferring departments.”

Ellis smirks at your irritation. “Noted. Adorable is off the table. We’ll workshop alternatives.”

There’s laughter. A few exaggerated double takes. Nothing malicious—just the kind of teasing that happens when something shifts in a place that rarely changes.

You try to brush past them, pretending none of this is getting to you, but the teasing follows like a wave. It isn’t cruel. It’s just new and impossible to ignore. And in a place where everything is routine and muscle memory, new stands out.

You adjust the bridge of your glasses self-consciously, wishing your face didn’t feel like it’s under a spotlight.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air that has nothing to do with Shen or Ellis or any nurse.

You glance up almost immediately.

Jack is standing at the end of the nurses’ station with a chart half-lowered in his hand. He isn’t laughing or smirking or joining in. He’s just staring, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to recalibrate something he thought he understood.

His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to recalibrate something. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“What?” You ask when you get closer, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “It’s just…” he trails off quietly. “I—”

His jaw flexes. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before he says something sharp or carefully controlled—but this isn’t sharp. It isn’t controlled, but instead stunned.

“You look…”

Your stomach flips despite yourself. 

“Different?” You offer, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

His gaze softens, and the shift in it makes your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Different.” A small pause stretches between you before he adds, lower, “Good different.”

The hallway noise seems to dim at the edges. Someone wolf-whistles from behind you. “Oh, he likes it.”

You feel heat climb all the way up your neck. “Can we not do this right now?”

But Jack doesn’t break eye contact, and that’s what makes it unbearable. 

Later, when the rush finally ebbs into something manageable, you find a computer at the end of the nurses’ station and start charting. The department hums around you—monitors beeping, phones ringing, Shen arguing with pharmacy over speaker—but it’s background noise now. 

Your glasses have stopped feeling foreign on your face, though you’re still hyper-aware of them every time you glance down at the screen.

You don’t notice Jack approach until the chair beside you scrapes softly against the floor.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits—not across from you or at the next computer, but right next to you.

“You don’t wear them often,” he says after a moment, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the two of you.

You keep your eyes on the screen, pretending your pulse doesn’t immediately spike. “No. Contacts are easier.”

“For who?” He asks mildly.

“For me.” You huff a quiet laugh. “I get less comments about my sight—or lack thereof—this way.”

He hums at that, but he doesn’t look away. You can feel his gaze tracing over your profile, lingering at the bridge of your nose, the way the thin frames rest against your cheeks. It makes your fingers stumble over the keyboard.

“They suit you,” he says finally.

You snort softly, trying to deflect the sudden tightness in your chest. “That’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

The words land heavier than they should. You glance up at him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s closer than you realized, one arm resting along the back of your chair, his knee angled slightly toward yours.

“I like seeing your eyes like this,” he continues, voice quieter now, steadier. “They look bigger.”

Your heart stumbles. “They’re the same eyes,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “But now I get to see them clearly.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily someone could glance over and notice the way he’s looking at you.

Your glasses slide slightly down your nose when you look back at the screen.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches up. There’s a split second where his hand hovers, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers gently nudge the frames back into place, the touch light and careful.

It’s brief, but it lingers.

“You should wear them more,” he says quietly.

“So the entire department can keep bullying me?” You let out a small, shaky laugh. 

He almost smiles, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Let them,” he replies. “Gives me an excuse to stare.”

“You stare anyway,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, pulse ringing in your ears.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or caught. Just nods once, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

And the way he says it makes you think maybe the contacts weren’t the only thing that shifted today.

No two days in the emergency department were ever the same.

Some nights were quiet, with only a couple of patients coming in with fevers or coughs. Other nights were utterly chaotic, ambulances rolling in back-to-back, alarms blaring, doctors and nurses moving like a storm through the hallways.

But one thing never seemed to change: the patients who thought the emergency department was the perfect place to find a date.

You learned that lesson after just a week of working in the ED.

It didn’t matter if someone had a broken arm or had suffered a heart attack; some men still found the energy to wink, grin, or make comments that made your skin crawl while you were trying to work. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it wasn’t. And there was no running away when you were their doctor.

So you developed a plan.

When you transferred to PTMC and started working the night shift, the solution became routine. You weren’t married. But a simple ring on your finger changed everything.

It wasn’t flashy, just a simple silver brand that lived on your left hand whenever you had to work a shift. Most people assumed it was a wedding ring from a happy marriage, and you let them think that. In reality, it had cost ten dollars from an online store.

But it worked.

Some patients would never see you as their doctor, someone who had spent years in med school at the top of their class. Instead, they only saw a pretty woman standing close enough to flirt with.

However, when was there a ring on your finger? Suddenly, you were someone’s wife.

So the comments stopped. The winks. The “you got a boyfriend?” question. Everything disappeared. Apparently, being someone’s wife made you off-limits in a way that simply saying no never did. Like you were someone else’s property, it made them hesitate. Stupid, but the logic worked, so the ring stayed.

If any of your new co-workers noticed it, they never mentioned it or just assumed the obvious. Except Jack.

Jack Abbot noticed everything around him.

It was a habit from years as an army medic and now attending in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city. Jack didn’t just see charts and symptoms. He saw the small things, the way someone held their shoulder, the slight limp in their step, the tremor in their hand.

And he noticed your ring. Not only because he was staring, but also because it was always there. You had a habit of twisting it when charting. It tapped against the counter when you were thinking. It left a bump under your gloves. It was a small detail, but Jack’s brain catalogued it anyway.

You were still new, and the few details that Jack knew about you had him intrigued: married, new to the hospital and worked well under pressure. And then there was something else he couldn't quite place, the pull he felt towards you.

This night shift had started like any other, chaos in bursts but slowed at times. You were tucked into your usual rhythm, moving between patients, checking vitals and charting. 

It wasn’t until the trauma phone went off that it paused your movements.

“Level two trauma, motor vehicle collision," Lena shouted as she answered the call. “Five minutes out.”

Your adrenaline spiked, and Jack was already moving, tablet in one hand, gloves snapping as he prepped for the incoming patient. You were paired on this trauma together, moving almost instinctively as a team.

The patient arrived bloodied, unconscious, and chest rattling with each forced breath. You slid the IV line into the patient’s arm while Jack called out instructions for the rest of the team. 

Jack’s eyes were everywhere at once, vitals, monitors, and the team's movement, but his gaze happened to flick across your hand. And that's when he noticed. Your ring. It wasn’t there.

A small detail that others would have overlooked, but made him pause for a fraction of a  second. A movement he couldn't afford in a place like this. He didn’t realize until now how much he had noticed it, how automatic it was to look at you during shifts and see that silver band wrapped around your finger. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.

Jack quickly turned his focus back on the patient, but the details lingered in his mind.

Minutes passed in a blur of intubation, transfusion, chest compressions, and desperate interventions. Despite the skill and precision of the team, the injuries were too severe.

The patient coded. The monitor went flat. Time of death was announced.

You stepped back, heart sinking, and Jack’s hand went to your shoulder, not to blame, but to ground you as the weight of loss pressed down on the team. Sometimes, despite doing everything right, it wasn’t enough.

By the end of the shift, the ED was quieter than usual. The hum of machines, the footsteps of staff cleaning up, and the weight of loss hung heavy in the air. Jack glanced at you while filling the final chart, noticing that your finger remained bare.

“Are you going out too?” He asked. Shen had suggested that everyone go out for a drink to cope, and no one seemed to argue.

“Yeah… I could really use a drink.” Your hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and something softer, harder to define. “Yeah… me too,” he muttered. The unspoken weight between you decided for you.

There was a bar a few blocks down from the hospital where everyone gathered after shifts. It was louder than usual for a weekday, the low thrum of music and conversation filling up the air. It had discounted drinks and dim lighting, a place where no one asked the doctors or nurses what had just happened when it looked like they had been through hell. 

Jack was sitting in a booth near the back with John, nursing a half-finished beer. His scrubs had been swapped for a dark jacket, but exhaustion still lined his face.

John exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Hell of a shift.”

Jack nodded once, staring at the condensation on his bottle. “Yeah.” Silence followed, heavy but not awkward. The burden of the night weighed on him.

His eyes drifted across the bar and landed on you. You were on a stool near the counter, chatting with one of the nurses, a drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual, slower, the kind that came from alcohol loosening the edges of the hard night.

His gaze dropped to your hand once again.

Still no ring.

“Hey,” John said, standing and grabbing his empty bottle. “I’m getting another. Want one?”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly. “I’m good.”

John nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Jack leaned back in the booth, letting his eyes wander again. They found you on your way over, movement slightly unsteady, yet deliberate.

“Hey, Doc,” you muttered, sliding into the seat across from him, sighing softly as your forearms rested on the table.

“You okay?” he asked immediately. It wasn’t unusual for Jack to see his coworkers like this after a shift, but he still wondered if this was normal for you.

You huffed out a small laugh that didn’t sound very amused. “Define okay.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, the tired eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the weight of the night still sitting on you.

“Rough one,” he said finally.

Your gaze dropped to the table. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar filled the silence.

“I kinda like this part,” you admitted quietly.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “The bar?”

You shrugged, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger. “Yeah… not why we’re here, exactly. But the team gets together. Feels… lighter. Less like you’re carrying it alone.”

He softened. He’d seen too many new doctors burn out trying to carry everything. He understood.

“At my last hospital,” you continued, your voice a little looser from the alcohol. “Everyone just… went home. Pretended nothing happened. But here you guys carry the wins and the losses together.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It helps.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly as you took another sip. Even in your tiredness, there was a warmth to you now.

For a second, Jack just studied you again. The way the tension slowly left your posture. The way you still looked tired but lighter now that the shift was behind you.

Then his eyes drifted back down to your hand. Bare,

He hesitated before speaking. “So… everything alright at home?”

You blinked up at him. “At home?”

Jack nodded subtly toward your hand. “You usually wear a ring.”

You stared at him, surprised. Then laughed, soft, tipsy, a little embarrassed. “Oh my god… alright, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

Jack’s brow lifted.

“What?”

You held up your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly.

“It’s fake,” You leaned back in the booth a little, clearly amused. 

“…Your ring is fake?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink before explaining. “Patients, some of them get… handys. Especially at night. You say no, you ignore them, but it doesn't always work.”

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. Yeah. He’d seen that.

“So I bought a ring,” you continued, tapping your bare finger. “Ten dollars online. Suddenly, I’m someone’s wife. The flirting stops. It’s like magic. Stupid, but it works.”

Jack studied you quietly for a moment. It wasn’t the confession itself that caught his attention; it was the way you said it so casually, as you’d simply adapted to the world instead of letting it push you out of a job you clearly loved. 

“That’s… actually pretty clever,” he admitted.

You grinned. “Right?”

Jack’s gaze lingered, softer now. “So the husband doesn’t exist.”

“Nope.”

Jack smiled into his drink, a warmth threading through him. Somehow, hearing this made him admire you more.

“Well,” he said casually, taking another sip of his beer, “if you’re going to invent a husband…”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by where this was going.

“…you should at least give the guy a decent name.”

You laughed softly. “Oh yeah?” you asked. “What would you name him then?”

Jack pretended to think about it for a moment, leaning back in the booth.

“Hm.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. His gaze met yours, something teasing sparking there.

“Jack,” he said.

You blinked.

“Jack?”

He shrugged lightly, a small grin forming.

“Sounds reasonable.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing, the sound warmer this time.

“Wow,” you said. “That’s bold.”

Jack lifted his bottle slightly, clearly enjoying himself now.

“Just saying,” he replied. “If you’re going to make up a fake husband, you might as well pick a good one.”

You shook your head, still smiling into your drink.

“Careful, Abbot,” you said lightly. “People might start to think you’re volunteering.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.

“Would that be so bad?” he asked quietly.

The question hung between you for a beat before the noise of the bar swallowed it again.

The next shift felt strangely normal after the night before. 

Did you drunkenly flirt with a fellow attending? Yes, but did you regret it? Nope.

The ED hummed with its usual controlled chaos; it almost felt strange that the world kept moving after a shift like that. You were currently charting at the nurses’ station, twisting the silver band on your finger without really thinking about it.

“Nice to see your husband’s back.”

You looked up. Jack was leaning against the counter across from you, tablet tucked under his arm, the corner of his mouth curved in that quiet, knowing smile.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Are you really going to start with that today?”

“Of course,” he said, a small, confident grin tugging at his lips. “I’m hoping to get an audition to play him.”

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated.

“What?” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to invent a husband,” he continued, voice low and teasing, “someone has to audition for the role. And I think I’d be perfect.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, maybe,” he admitted, “ but if I'm going to audition for the role properly.. I should probably take my lovely wife out… maybe for dinner or coffee sometime. To make sure I'm playing the part right.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the smoothness of it. “Jack Abbot, are you asking me out on a date?

Jack’s grin widened, confident but teasing. “Call it a test run. Coffee after shift, and I can show you my best husband skills.”

You felt a blush creep up your neck and laughed softly, shaking your head. “I… Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Good, I’ll see you later, wifey.” With that, Jack left the nurses' station, heading into a patient room.

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.

The moon had already ascended above the Last Light Inn when Rolan burst into one of its unoccupied rooms. The tiefling looked frantically across the humble, crammed lodging - he must be absolutely sure there was not a single soul here to disturb him.

The chances of anyone occupying this area were slim to none. Hidden neatly on the inn's top floor, the dusty room only contained the most basic necessities: a flimsy wooden chair, a low cupboard, and a small but neatly made bed.

Wheezing heavily, Rolan locked the door behind him. Back pressed against it, he slowly descended on the floor. The tiefling drank heavily tonight, overjoyed by the rescue of his brother and sister from the Moonrise Towers earlier. But no amount of cheap wine could drown his insatiable hunger.

Evidently, something else mercilessly bothered Rolan - his lustful thoughts of Tav.

A single, humorous interaction with her turned the wizard into a bumbling, aroused mess of a man desperate for a release. He fought the feeling throughout the night, seeking distractions in meaningless small talk. But it was all in vain - Rolan was about to succumb to his primal needs.

Vision blurred, the tiefling murmured, "What a pathetic display," imagining how flustered and eager he must've looked at this very moment. His golden eyes glimmered wildly, fueled by the thrill of erotic fantasies that overcame him. Rolan began quickly unlacing his trousers, accepting that he must take care of his needs. Right here. Right now.

Enveloped by lust, the tiefling's mind drifted to the final conversation with Tav while his trembling hand was freeing his aching flesh.

It happened during a small celebration for the captives' return - Tav approached Cal, Lia, and Rolan. Being in a rare playful mood, the wizard greeted her with a sarcastic drawl, "I thanked you once already, don't be greedy."

A soft chuckle left her lips when Tav replied, "And if I ask nicely?"

The look she gave him after - a little challenging, a little coy, paired with that beautiful, genuine smile. A simple memory of it made Rolan's half-hard length twitch. The tiefling let out a shuddering breath as his right hand curled around its tip, slowly messaging sensitive ridges below it.

Tav laughed right after it, teasing that she just wanted to see a confused look on the wizard's face. Rolan regretted that he couldn't come up with a response back then - he knew a way or two to thank her properly.

Instead, he could only trail Tav across the room with his hungry gaze. Dressed in simple camp attire rather than her usual armor, she revealed tantalizing glimpses of smooth, radiant skin that seemed to glow in the dim light of the inn.

Rolan huffed, imagining how he would bend Tav over the bar, tearing those clothes ferociously. The thought of pressing hot, desperate kisses along her lips and neck drove him mad. Rolan shoved his clawed fingers into his mouth, sucking and biting at them impatiently while his hand stroked his throbbing cock.

His hips thrust in unison with his needy hand movements. A shameless, loud moan left his throat at a wild image of Tav swallowing his length. Thinking how hot and wet it must feel inside of her made the tiefling salivate even more. Rolan released his fingers from his mouth with a ringing pop. He gently rubbed his saliva all over his sensitive tip, just for a slight chance it would feel as good as if she was licking it instead.

If Tav could see him right now, would she be as aroused? The idea of her watching him - a moaning mess, his hairdo tousled, face glistening with sweat, body shivering in pleasure - sent a jolt down Rolan's spine. The tiefling's grip on his flesh tightened, fingers tracing over its swollen veins and ridges.

"Please, open your sweet mouth for me," he whispered in exhaustion, picturing Tav kneeling before him, rubbing her plump lips teasingly all over his pulsating cock, smudging his precum all over her pretty cheeks. The wizard's free hand slid underneath his shirt, grabbing and clawing at his chest. No, in his mind, it was her hand caressing him ecstatically, praising his stature and ridges, as she touched her soaking folds.

Her soaking folds. Just a thought of it made Rolan's breathing twice as heavy, his core ready to burst. The wizard's tongue slid hungrily against the inside of his mouth, imagining the taste of her - sweet, heady, addictive. He'd give away everything he owned just to bury his tongue inside her, to drown in her honeyed heat while she screamed his name over and over and over again.

But it wasn't enough. Rolan's hand couldn't replicate what his fantasies demanded. He needed more - needed to fuck Tav raw, to bury himself deep inside her heat until he lost his mind.

Panting heavily, Rolan stumbled to the old bed. Luckily, the mattress was still sturdy enough. Afraid to lose the moment of spiraling pleasure, the tiefling hastily curled his tail around his core, its grip tight. Rolan's hand was around his flushed, leaking tip again, stroking and teasing it as he pressed into the mattress.

"Be as greedy as you want," the wizard rasped, imagining Tav bare underneath him, her folds quivering in anticipation.

He began thrusting wildly up and down the mattress, biting at his other hand to muffle the inadequate moans that his drunk, lustful mind conjured. The wizard gave up on being discreet pretty soon, as his hand needed to grab a pillow to steady his ecstasy-shivered body.

His tip was twitching uncontrollably, seeking Tav's tight, wet slit.

Rolan breathed sharply, trying to recall her smell: a mix of sun-warmed leather, wild lilies, and a campfire. Oh, how nicely it would match with his own musk - he'd rub his whole body against hers to let the smell of their passion linger on her for days.

His tail now ground uncontrollably all around his length, trying desperately to keep up with his quick thrusting. Seeking even more friction, Rolan pressed his hand around it, his grip tight and aggressive. The tiefling's head has fallen onto the pillow as his back arched, mouth agape, trying to catch air. The pillow got quickly drenched with sweat and saliva, as he was no longer able to control his jaw, overtaken by ecstasy. His hand and tail were now moving with no direction, desperate for a release.

His mind went into a frenzy, throwing the most lude images at Rolan: him biting at her nipples, her lustful expression as she whimpered underneath him, his bulging cock pounding into her quivering walls.

"You are mine," the tiefling growled as the final vision emerged: him spilling his seed deep inside her, claiming her completely.

The final thought finally made him succumb to a shuttering orgasm, spreading his hot release all over his hand and tail. Exhausted, Rolan plopped flat into the bed, panting restlessly. His hand lazily smeared the mess along his length, already coaxing himself toward a second round. There was one thing about the future Master of Ramazith's Tower that he was too embarrassed to admit: once set ablaze by his fantasies, Rolan could pleasure himself for hours without end.

“Things are escalating,” Larissa says, as if describing a weather front rather than a noose. “I won’t debate this with you.”

You do anyway. Of course you do. You tell her you can help. That you’re not a student, not a porcelain figure to be shelved when the ground rumbles. You will not break. You will stand shoulder to shoulder with her and bear the creak of the beams. You say all of it with your mouth and none of it with your eyes, because her eyes make your arguments dissolve into steam. Those eyes are tired. Not in the way sleep cures, but in the way iron tires after it’s held a bridge for decades.

She smiles for you, not the tight show-reel curve she gives the Board, but the private little comma, lowered and genuine.

“You would be a distraction,” she says, finally. “Because I worry for you. Because I would look at you instead of the danger, and that would be… inconvenient.”

Her mouth lingers on inconvenient as if tasting another word and choosing not to say it. Ruinous. Fatal.

You tell her, then, that you’ll go. You tell her, and the telling splits something open in your ribs.

“I’ll call you every night,” you add, as if the promise has any teeth, as if a phone line can hold back the dark.

“Don’t,” she says softly. “Not until it’s settled. I don’t trust the lines. I don’t trust anything that can be listened to.”

You hate the days when she is this person—Principal Weems rather than Larissa. Armored. Gentle because she must be. She steps around the desk, and you catch a flicker of something almost broken in her posture before she straightens it away. “Let me be the one who asks this time,” she murmurs. “Please.”

You should refuse. You should plant your feet and root into the carpet and be impossible. But—and this is the shame that will later haunt you—you are susceptible to the dignities of her. You want to be the thing she can ask. You want to be good for her.

“All right,” you whisper.

“All right,” she echoes, and it isn’t triumph. It’s relief salted with something like grief. She reaches for you then—carefully, always carefully—and your heads incline toward one another like two towers acknowledging wind. Her lips don’t touch yours. You’ve both been so responsible. You ache with how responsible you have been.

Her hand finds the back of your neck and holds there, a pledge against the nape—go. You’ll come back when it’s safe. I’ll keep everything standing until then.

You leave the next morning. The train throws the landscape backward, and every track joint feels like a small verdict. You keep your face against the cold glass because the glass does not require you to be brave, and because the faint reflection there looks like a person who has chosen, rather than a person who has been asked.

The first night away, you do not sleep. You sit in the rented room with its neutral art and its obedient plants, and you write a letter you do not send.

Larissa,

I did as you asked. I hate myself for it and love you for asking. The room is beige. I think the beige is meant to be calming but it feels like a hand over my mouth. Are you safe? I would like proof of you that isn’t a voice in my head.

You fold the letter once, twice, then tear it into strips and line them in a little grave across the kitchen counter. You stand there until the sun elbows up behind the apartments across the street and paints each strip another shade of regret.

Days divide like cells. Phone silent by design. News keeps its teeth tucked in behind courtesies. Your body does its biological basics like an embarrassed animal: you eat, you shower, you move from chair to bed to window to chair again. Sometimes you imagine her in faculty meetings—chin erect, hands folded, a patient queen—but your imagination won’t force its way past a door to show you what she does when the room empties. You suspect she leans once against the desk, hand wide against the wood, eyes shut for five seconds only, the way she rationed vulnerability.

Two weeks, you tell yourself, then three. The word temporary loses meaning. It becomes the spell people use in hospitals when they say “It’s a temporary measure,” and mean “We hope. We’ll see. We don’t know.”

The letter arrives inside another envelope, like a smaller, crueler house within a house. It is all correct nouns and passive verbs. It does not use the word murder. It uses the word funeral. It thanks you for your support. It anticipates, with institutional tenderness, your grief.

You sit on the floor. The body does strange things, you notice. For example, you are cold. For example, you keep saying her name and it sounds less and less like a name, more like a noise a person makes when falling. You fold yourself into the kitchen the way people fold sheets—badly, with the corners uneven. When you stand, you do it because the other option is to remain forever in the two o’clock slot of a clock where time stopped. You book a return trip. You do not so much pack as collect, as if items might be harmed by firmness. You move through your tasks with the reverence reserved for walking past sleeping animals.

The funeral is a choreography of solemn efficiencies. Nevermore wears grief well, it has practice. Black cloth behaves itself. Chairs align. The sky notices what’s expected and obliges with iron clouds, a few tidy gusts. There are lilies, which you hate—how arrogant they are with your oxygen while smelling like hospitals. You stand where you are told. Your hands perform clasp. Your face performs listening. People you have known in passing hold your elbow as if your bones have turned to river and they are building little dams.

You do not weep during the eulogies. There is a perversity in you that refuses witnesses. It is only later, when the last careful voice has concluded and the collective throat has cleared, when someone has spoken of legacy in that tone that imagines it is kind, that the weeping comes. Not theatrical. Not even visible, really. It happens like a leak inside a wall. Everything feels damp afterward.

You go to her office. You have no right to, but this is one of those days when right bends under love. The door is heavy. The room smells the same. The ordinary betrayals are lined up politely—pens, files, a small glass paperweight with a bubble of air inside. The stained glass has clawed a little colour across the floor still, as if nothing essential has been informed. You stand at her desk and put your fingertips in the same places her fingertips lived, and the warmth of the ghost of that gesture is so convincing you feel briefly steadied. A chair. Her chair. You do not sit in it. Her chair is a reliquary and you have no relic to place in it. You leave with nothing. You leave with everything she didn’t.

The weeks after are both crowded and empty. People bring you casseroles as if sadness can be suffocated by pasta. They invite you to sit with them and smile the particular smiles of people who have rounded a bend you have not yet found. You nod so as not to grow feral in their kitchens. You hold your breath when they say her name like a fragile thing. The nights are battlegrounds. You find yourself sitting on the floor between two rooms because picking a room feels like betrayal. The kitchen implies appetite, the bedroom implies sleep—both are insults to the dead.

The first time she says your name, you’re standing at the sink, hands in the dishwater. The window shows you the black idea of trees and the geometry of neighboring windows. You think—that’s odd, because she is dead, and then: you’ll have to stop this, and then: what if you don’t.

“Don’t,” the voice says, not unkindly. “You’ve enough wars without declaring one on yourself.”

You do not turn. You dry your hands instead. You tell yourself—because your sanity is greedy, because you have seen itself clamor for precedence at the oddest moments—that you will acknowledge the voice without indulging it. You will be… what? Polite. You have always been polite with Larissa Weems.

“Hello,” you say softly to the window. “You’re late.”

“You asked me to be careful,” she answers. If a voice can open a door, this one opens all the doors in you. “I took my time.”

Turning is not a decision so much as an inevitability. She stands by the dining chair, hand resting on its back as if anchoring to furniture as she always did to avoid showing nerves. Her hair is a pale standard. Her mouth is the exact same problem as the day you left. She is dressed in one of those suits that made you feel unexpectedly safe, silly in its formality yet perfect because it armored what must be protected without crushing the delicate part of her. The suit is grey. She looks like she has walked in from a day that involved deadlines and choices and terrible tea.

“Larissa,” you breathe, and hear yourself sounding childlike.

She smiles. Not the formal one, not even the private one, but something you’ve never seen, a middle state like a window latched but uncurtained. “It’s me.”

“Don’t do that,” you say, because your body has found an anger and it needs to be used. “Don’t say it like it’s uncomplicated.”

“It isn’t,” she allows. She crosses to you. There is no sound of heels on hardwood—odd. You note the oddness and put it now where you put the lilies from the funeral. “I wasn’t given the option of uncomplicated. But I am here. That is what matters.”

You want to touch her and you are also frightened to touch her. You reach out because that is what you would do if she were alive, and because denial is a luxury you can no longer afford. Your hand meets her forearm, cool and firm, and the gasp that leaves you is animal. She is solid. She is made of the opposite of fog. You put your forehead against her shoulder like a person in a church finding the exact place on the pew worn smooth by other people’s pleading. The smell is right. How is the smell right.

“Tell me what you are,” you say into the cloth. Your voice sounds brave in the way breaking does.

She is quiet for a time.

“A guide,” she says at last, choosing the neutral word. “Call it whatever you like.”

You choose to let her into your days because it would be cruel to let your days keep out the person they were arranged for. Mornings, she stands by the kettle and makes notations on the travel section of the paper, as if any of those cities could be reached by any train you would dare to board again. She doesn’t drink tea, though. She says she doesn’t need it now, and you file that in a drawer labeled Later. She watches you toast bread as if the practice of living is a small tender animal she’s defending from hawks.

In public, she is an exercise in discretion. She angles herself behind you, so to anyone else it looks like you’re listening to a memory rather than conducting a new conversation. At the grocer’s, you hear her voice beside the lemons—not that one. You pick another. Better. The clerk gives you the look clerks give to people who have paid exact change and added a twenty for sorrow. You thank everyone too much. Larissa kisses the air near your hairline when you’ve escaped back onto the street, pleased at your continued success at being among the living.

At night, she sits in the chair by the window and reads the books you loved and never told her about, and you understand that she knew anyway. Sometimes you forget what you’re doing and slide a second pillow to the far side of the bed. It remains unindented in a way that feels like an accusation.

People begin to notice. The barista, a woman with a window-cleaning smile, asks if you’d like the “usual” one morning and then, with a soft curiosity she tries to disguise as courtesy, asks if you’d like a second for your “friend.” You should say no. You say yes. You set the second cup on the table across from you. Larissa cradles it in both hands, not drinking, and says thank you as if she is warming more than her fingers.

You talk to her without the carefulness you had when she was alive. You tell her about the nightmares where the hallways become lungs that breathe you backward. You tell her about stupid magazines using the word closure as if grief were a door you could simply shut and walk away from. She listens so well you hate her a little for it. She gives advice—nothing grand, just instructions to put your shoes on and walk to the corner and come back, to add more salt to the soup, to return the overdue library book because the idea of debt has begun to scratch at your skin. Her guidance is small, human, relentless. You accustom yourself to being cared for by someone who is not alive.

When you ask her about the days you were gone, she is vague the way fog is vague, the way kindness is. “I managed,” she says. “I made what peace I could with the inevitable.”

“You were poisoned,” you say bluntly, because tenderness feels like a cheat.

“I was,” she says with a softness that is not concession. “It was very quiet, in the end. Quieter than I deserved.”

You start to keep track of the way light moves around her. It stutters there, slightly. It behaves as if it has been asked to pretend something it knows is not true. You tell yourself that scientists do not know everything about light. You tell yourself many things.

Sometimes she disappears for hours and returns when you are on the verge of calling no one. When she reappears, she has no smell of air on her clothes, no imprint of bench on the back of her skirt. “I was with you,” she says when you ask where she was. “Just somewhere you weren’t looking.” You nod, because what else is there to do.

You bring her to the cemetery because you believe in calling a thing by its name. Larissa stands at her own grave with an expression that is neither vanity nor horror. It is administrative. “They did well,” she murmurs, looking at the stone as if marking a report. “Simple. Clean.”

“I couldn’t speak,” you say, and then, because there are no witnesses here to require your composed face, your mouth shakes. “At the funeral. I thought I would say something worthy and my mouth—” You make a small helpless motion with your hand.

“You were there,” she says, with that firm kindness you loved, the kind that could erect a building out of shame. “That was the only part that mattered.”

“Larissa,” you say, and the name is a held note. “I left you.”

“You did exactly as I asked.” She turns, not touching you, but aligning her shoulder with yours. “If you’d stayed, I would have watched you die. Do you think I would willingly do that?”

“I would have preferred it,” you say, shocked by your own cruelty to yourself.

She is silent. A bird chirps on a branch over you. The world is insultingly competent at moving on. “We do not always get to arrange our endings,” she says at last. “You know that.”

It is a long time before you admit to yourself that she never contradicts you. It is longer before you admit she never says anything you do not already know. It is much longer before you stand at the sink again, hands in dishwater again, and say out loud, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

She’s at the table, folding your utility bills into a square stack, making order because she knows what a kindness order is to you. She looks up, amused. “You are owed a refund for overpaying the water last winter.”

“I knew that,” you say, even though you didn’t, even though you could have. A person can know a thing and not know they know it. There is no victory in this.

“Try me again,” she says, indulgent as if you are a student who has decided to be difficult in a harmless way.

“Tell me who knocked on the door Tuesday night when I didn’t answer.”

“No one,” she says immediately. “You imagined it.”

She is correct. Your mouth goes dry.

You take to rehearsing questions in the shower, where your head has always been uncommonly honest. You prepare traps you feel silly for preparing. The next time, at the grocery, you stop by the flower buckets. “What is the name of this?” you ask, pointing at a spray of small starry blossoms you have never cared to learn.

She opens her mouth and closes it. She smiles, composed. “Does it matter?” she counters.

You put the flowers in the cart because admitting a test feels like betrayal and because they are very lovely and because you hate lilies and these are definitively not lilies. Later, at home, you look them up. Waxflower, the internet tells you, with the solemnity of an oracle. You sit with the word wax in your mouth, thinking of grief candles people burn until the room smells like church.

The neighbor’s kid—short, serious, wearing a blanket like a cape—catches you on the stairs one afternoon and announces, as children do without tact and blessed with accuracy, “You talk to yourself a lot. Is that how grown-ups practice?”

“Something like that,” you say, and your voice is cheerful in a way that will cost you later.

“We have a ghost,” the kid confides, pleased. “She stands outside the laundry room and cries because her socks are all gone.”

“It isn’t always socks,” you tell him, and he nods with the gravity of a congressman.

At night, Larissa sits in the window chair as always. “Don’t let them worry you,” she says, meaning the neighbors, meaning disapproval, meaning the grinding mill of social assumption. “There are worse things than talking to yourself.”

“What would you know about worse things,” you say, and it is ugly. You mean to apologize immediately, she does not allow it.

“Enough,” she says, and the word lands in the room with a weight that stuns you quiet. “You do not have to keep inventing punishments just because none of the ones life provided have satisfied you.”

“I left you,” you say again, like a repentance the priest refuses to accept.

“And I asked you to.” She exhales, a rehearsed breath, the kind she used in meetings when someone ignorant and powerful needed to be reframed. “I chose to be where I was. You chose to honor that choice. Do not confuse obedience with abandonment just because your body wants a villain and will accept yourself if no one else applies.”

She has never been this sharp with you. Perhaps you asked for it. Perhaps you wanted the sting to prove there was nerve. You sit in the quiet after like afterlight, like a storm has passed and left the room smelling of penny and electricity.

She is right, you think. Not angrily, like noting that the sky is there when you look up. That doesn’t change anything about the ache. It just gives it better company.

You dream of the office often. You dream of the stack of papers, obedient as pets. You dream of her hand in the doorframe. In the dream, sometimes the doorframe is the frame of your body, and she holds there to steady herself as she enters. In the dream, you never say the thing you wanted to say—stay with me, even if I make you worse. In the morning, you buy a cheap pen that looks like the ones on her desk and discover how quickly cheap blue ink runs when exposed to salt water.

Spring arrives in the way spring arrives in places that resent it—reluctantly. The pear trees wear bridal veils for a week and then spill them into the gutters. You find yourself doing practical errands with an efficiency that would have made autumn-you suspicious. You return the library book. You vacuum behind the couch. You say yes when a friend arms you with a damp rag and points to her kitchen grout. Larissa approves all of this with a tilt of her chin that means carry on. She has always loved a capable person. She especially loves when you’re doing capability on your own behalf.

You stop setting the extra pillow at night without deciding to. The cup across from yours at the café remains on the shelf. The first time you do this, you ache the way an amputated limb aches—genuine pain from a ghost cause. You do it again anyway. Visible rituals, it turns out, can be mastered.

And then, a day so ordinary you would not recognize it if it weren’t for the fact that it is the day you stop pretending.

You are sorting a drawer. The kind of drawer that becomes over time a museum of the things you did not want to decide about—rubber bands turned to shells, stamps with wrong denominations, one earring you swore you would find the other of, keys that open doors to lives you do not lead. Larissa is sitting on the floor with her knees in an unladylike angle, sorting paperclips by species. She looks, absurdly, like she belongs in this exact domestic indignity.

You say, without looking at her, “What did I wear the day I left?”

It is such a small thing—smaller than waxflower, smaller than water bills. You have not, at any point, described this detail to her. You would have, had she asked. She did not ask. The memory is yours alone. A ridiculous red scarf, the one you bought because it was on sale, corner snagged on a door handle as you went, the way you refused to think of it as an omen because you were tired of the world offering you crude metaphors.

She is silent long enough for your hands to become very still. “Your red scarf,” she says at last, and the sentence lands on the floor between you like a ring you’ve found behind a radiator: valuable, warmed by absence, wrong in its timing.

“You’re not supposed to know,” you say, barely a breath.

“You looked beautiful,” she says, stubborn with kindness, and you understand suddenly, exactly, horribly: she will never give you information that was not already in you. She will never hazard a guess that risks being incorrect. She will never surprise you. Because she is you.

The room becomes a kind of underwater. You want very much to be cruel to her, to accuse, to tear. But the knowledge doesn’t come as betrayal. It comes like a shoulder at your back. Of course, you think. Of course. You have been speaking to your own mouth in her timbre, arranging your survival in her posture, because you needed to survive and you needed to believe she would approve.

You put your hands on the edge of the drawer and breathe, slowly, evenly, because this is a thing breathing can handle if you give it the instructions. You sit back on your heels. You look at her—at the idea of her, at the architecture the mind throws up around a hole.

“I made you,” you say, as gently as you can say a sentence like that. “Didn’t I.”

She looks at you as if you have asked whether water is wet. “Of course you did,” she says, and the relief in her voice is almost funny. “You did the only thing left to do.”

Tears now—finally—because now they are not a performance for a crowd or a stubborn refusal alone in a kitchen. They are something like gratitude finding an exit wound. They are, inconveniently, loud. You press the heel of your hand to your mouth and laugh, because what else is there to do, and the laugh wedges itself into the crying and makes a small animal noise you will never reproduce on purpose.

“I don’t want you to go,” you confess, and there it is, the humiliation you’ve been preparing to endure. “I don’t want to live in a house where you are a coat I’ve hung by the door and cannot wear.”

“Then keep me,” she says, and it is so tender you look away because looking is indecent. “Keep what you need. Let go of what I don’t want you to carry anymore.”

“What do you not want me to carry,” you ask, bitter, loving, ruined.

“The part where you think you left me,” she says immediately. “The part where you rewrite the story to make yourself the engine of my ending, because at least then the hurt has a shape you can draw around yourself. I asked you to leave. You honored me. Don’t make my choice into your punishment.”

This is the speech you would have given someone else a year ago, you think. You were always better at loving outward. You crawl across the floor, inelegant, and put your head in her lap because your body remembers what comfort feels like even if your mind thinks it doesn’t deserve it. She strokes your hair. Her hand feels cool, real, impossible, yours.

“How does this work,” you ask, as practical as a committee. “If you’re me.”

She laughs—a small silver sound you invented because you needed to hear it. “We keep being honest until it’s quiet enough.”

“And then?”

“And then you’ll be able to sit in your own kitchen without constructing a witness. And I’ll be in the chair, yes, and I’ll be in the drawer you finally organize, and I’ll be in the way you insist on exact change, and I’ll be in the part of your spine that straightens when you are asked to be more than you thought you could be.” The hand in your hair pauses. “I will be a guide because I always was, not because I am a ghost.”

“People will still think I’m talking to myself,” you say, half a smile, half a wound.

“They are not wrong,” she says, pleased. “And it is not a shame.”

You cry until the crying is boring even to you. You wash your face. You make tea. You put the drawer back together with a stubborn kind of affection for every useless key. She sits in the chair and watches you move around the kitchen, which you have never loved and suddenly can—because love is permitted when you are the one doing the permitting.

That night, you do set the extra pillow, not because you need the outline, but because you like a full bed. You sleep. The dreams are unremarkable—the dreadful kindness of ordinary sleep. Morning arrives with the modesty of a clerk. You brew coffee you do not actually like but have again decided to like for its meanness and heat. You take a walk before your nerves invent reasons not to. The pear trees have become leaves. Children on scooters widen the perimeter of your patience and then close it again with a wave.

You go to Nevermore once more, not to raid the reliquaries, but to sit on a bench and do nothing in particular close to the place she kept upright by sheer force of posture. The building, being a building, does not confess. It casts its cool shadow and mind its symmetrical business. You consider how you will live now that you have stopped hiding your reliance on the living part of a dead woman.

Larissa—your Larissa, the one built of your guilt and your love and her real voice collected from every memory—sits beside you, hands folded like a prayer that has nothing to do with begging. You don’t need her to tell you to breathe. You do anyway. She doesn’t need to tell you to forgive yourself. You begin, not as a proclamation but as a daily, sloppy task—like flossing, like taking out the bins.

“You’ll stay?” you ask. It feels childish and brave at once.

“I’ll stay,” she says. “Differently. Quieter. But I’ll remain where you keep me.”

“And if I stop needing you,” you venture, and your throat remembers the feeling of falling.

She turns her head, that modest little tilt that meant I’m listening, darling, go on, and the word darling does not make you flinch. “Then you’ll have proven me right,” she says. “That I loved someone who could learn to love herself in the ways I couldn’t teach while I was busy keeping the building from collapsing.”

You sit in that. In the bench. In the air that no longer feels like punishment.

Later, you make a small list on the back of an old flier:

— return Mrs. L’s casserole dish (write thank-you card)
— call the plumber about the slow sink (you can ask for help)
— go to the grave on Sunday with flowers you like (no lilies)
— buy waxflower if they have it

You tuck the list into the drawer that once kept the keys to your old life. You do it with the solemn hilarity of a person inaugurating a new country no one else has to recognize. You pour two cups of tea and set one on the table across from you, then move it back to the counter without apology. You speak out loud when you want to hear what you think. You are quiet when quiet feels generous.

Nights are still tricky. They probably always will be. Sometimes you feel the old compulsion—the urge to perform your courage for the audience of a woman who is not here and is also the exact shape of home. On those nights, you sit in the chair by the window and let the city do the talking. Larissa sits—inside you, because that is the truest location—and says nothing you don’t already know. Which is, you realize, almost everything you need.

Weeks later, you go to the café where the barista asked about your “friend.” The bell above the door is a small, ridiculous symbol of welcome. You order one coffee. The barista, expert in grief, does not remark on the subtraction. You take your cup to a table and you do something new, you leave the second chair empty and do not feel accused by it. When the window shows you your shape, it looks neither halved nor swollen by absence. It looks like a person who made a choice because someone she loved asked her to.

A child runs past outside and catches at his mother’s sleeve. “Her,” he says, pointing without shyness. “The lady who talks to ghosts.”

You smile into your coffee. You do talk to ghosts. You talk to one ghost in particular, and now you know her other name—mercy.

On your way home, you stop by the grocer’s. There are, absurdly, lilies. You buy waxflower instead. The clerk wraps them in brown paper that whispers against your wrist. You carry them upstairs and put them in a jar on the table you used to set two cups on. They make the room smell faintly of clean, green thoughts.

Before you turn for the evening, you stand in the doorway—your doorway—and place your palm against the frame as if it were the frame of an office far more elegant, far more encumbered. “Goodnight,” you say, the way you used to when you had to be formal, and then, because you have earned the extravagance of informality, “Stay.”

She does, in the way that matters. She stays as a better posture. As a better appetite. As the private comma of a smile you now practice in the mirror without shame. As a guide whose instructions are simple and rude and holy: eat, sleep, forgive, call back, say no, say yes, put the pillow where you want it, send the letter or tear it into strips—you are the only god of this kitchen, buy the flowers you like.

When you blow out the candle, the room goes properly dark. Not cruel, not consoling. Just true. You climb into bed and feel, for the first unstartled time, the spaciousness of a life you are permitted to learn how to fill. The silence is not empty. It rustles with a clever woman’s satisfied approval.

In the morning, you will make a list again. You will fail at parts of it and forgive yourself for sport. When you forget, a voice you have chosen and earned will clear its throat softly, and you will listen—not because ghosts are real, but because love is, and because guilt, once it has been named and relieved of counterfeit authority, is only what it ever was: the shadow cast by care when the light shifts.

You sleep. Somewhere in the complicated geography of you, Larissa reaches for your hand the way a lighthouse reaches—the gesture already inside the night, already accounted for, already part of the map. And when your fingers close around nothing, you feel, instead of loss, the pure shock of recognition.

————————————————————————

Martinez, one of the other detectives on night duty, stood beside you, eyeing you with that grin that meant trouble.

“So,” she started, voice hushed but playful, “the way you and Reed go at it? I swear, it looks like you two tear each other’s clothes off after shift.”

You snorted. “Gross. No.”

“I’m serious!” she laughed. “All that arguing, the tension? You two have the kind of hate sex energy that melts walls. You sure there’s not a little unresolved tension there?”

“The only tension is me not punching him in the face.

“Uh-huh.” Martinez sipped her drink. “Bet he’s good with his hands though.”

You gave her a warning look, but your ears were burning.

“You’re insane,” you muttered.

“You didn’t say no fast enough.”

“Martinez—”

“Don’t stop on my account,” came a voice from the doorway.

You froze. Slowly, you turned. Gavin Reed leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual smirk firmly in place.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your girl talk,” he said. “But, hey—good to know I’m living rent-free in your head.”

Martinez laughed and made a quick exit, clearly proud of herself.

You stayed behind, heart pounding with embarrassment and irritation.

Back at your desk, the silence between you two was sharp. You focused hard on your files, pretending you couldn’t feel him looking at you.

“You know,” he said after a while, his voice lazy, “you didn’t exactly deny it with much conviction.”

“Deny what?” you asked flatly.

“That you’ve thought about it.”

You looked up slowly. “Do you want me to tase you?”

He grinned. “Kinky.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are. Alone. Again.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to reading. A few moments passed.

“You doing anything tomorrow night?” he asked casually.

That made you pause. “Why?”

“Thought maybe we could get a drink. Talk. Argue somewhere with better lighting.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” He leaned in a little. “I asked because I want to. Not because I want to mess with you.”

You stared at him for a long second. “Fine. But if it sucks, I’m writing you up.”

The bar he picked was tucked away on a quiet street. Low lights, soft music, and a few scattered booths. You slid into the one he was already sitting in.

“You’re not late,” he said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nah.” He took a sip of his beer. “I kind of wanted to see what you looked like when you weren’t glaring at me under fluorescent lights.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flatter me again, and I might throw my drink at you.”

“Noted.”

They ordered. The food was forgettable. The banter wasn’t.

“You always been this much of a pain in the ass?” you asked.

“Pretty much. My mom says it builds character.”

You actually laughed, a quiet, surprised sound. “You have a mom?”

“Believe it or not.” He looked at you for a second, eyes more serious now. “What about you? Always been the type to pick fights in the bullpen?”

“Only with guys who deserve it.”

“Lucky me.”

There was a pause. The kind that felt like something unsaid hung just between you two.

“Look,” Gavin said, voice lower, “I know I’m a lot. I give people crap. It’s easier that way.

You tilted your head. “You trying to explain yourself to me now?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Just… I don’t hate you, okay? I might’ve acted like it. But I don’t. I like that you fight back. I like that you’re not scared of me.”

You looked at him carefully, surprised by the sudden honesty.

“You’re not so scary, Reed,” you said softly.

He smiled, just a little. “Good. That’d make this date a real HR nightmare.”

Later, you walked back toward your cars, the chill air sobering after the heat of the bar.

“So…” Gavin started, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Did I ruin it?”

You shook your head. “Not entirely.”

“Damn. I was going for charming.”

“Debatable,” you smirked.

You stood there, the city buzzing around you. You stepped a little closer.

“You kiss me right now, Reed, and I’ll break your nose,” you warned.

“Noted,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t kiss. But you didn’t walk away either.

Just stood there a little too long.

Something had changed.

And both of you knew it.

The next morning, the DPD was its usual chaotic self. You were already at your desk, coffee in hand, eyes bleary.

“So,” Martinez slid up beside you, eyes glittering, “how was the date?"

You didn’t look at her. “It was fine.”

“Fine? That’s all I get? Come on, did he show up in that stupid jacket? Did he say anything dumb? Did he make you laugh?”

You bit back a smirk. “Yes, yes, and maybe.”

Before Martinez could say more, Gavin dropped a file on your desk without a word. As he walked away, he shot you a subtle wink.

Martinez’s jaw dropped. “He winked. That’s basically marriage in his language.”

You just sipped your coffee. “Shut up, Martinez.”

But you didn’t stop smiling.

His eyes soften as they glaze over your face, his hands hesitating to reach out and run through your hair while your head rests on his chest, his lip quivering as he hesitates to speak his mind. Astarion’s brain is foggy from all the warmth and fuzziness pooling in his stomach and his heart racing uncontrollably from you simply being here. His mouth begins to talk without him having control over it.

His words may be flirty and sultry but you can tell that they aren’t just flattery. He rambles about how incomprehensibly gorgeous you are, how your info dumping and intelligence is unbearably attractive and how he could listen to you all day, how your eyes resemble the starry night sky, your grin that could make him fold over in an instant and so many other things he cannot get out of his damn brain about you.

Damn you for making him utterly weak and stupid for you.

“I cannot stop my damn mouth around you. It’s— Stop grinning at me like that! I can’t concentrate when you do that, darling.”

Physical touch.

At first, Astarion forced himself to constantly touch you. It felt good for you and for him, sure, but he mostly pushed himself to touch and feel you in order to make you feel seen and loved by him. He did it in order to get protection and support from you against Cazador and whatever other horrors come across your way. But after unfortunately falling head over heels for you, touching you is something he cannot go without.

His hand always lingers on your back for support, your waist to pull you closer and show to everyone with that you are his and he is yours, holding your hand while strolling the streets and roads and almost childishly swinging your arms back and forth like a happy-giddy couple. Letting himself get pulled into your arms after a long day in the privacy of his closed off tent and cuddling closely against you is probably the closest Astarion ever got and will get to pure bliss.

His cheek getting squished by being pressed up against your chest, his hands tightly gripping your waist as if fearing you might disappear on him. There is a soft, giddy grin spreading on his face.

Bonus scenario.

You thought he did it on purpose at first— After all, he is a vampire spawn and you can tell that his bloodlust overpowers him every now and then, but Astarion genuinely looks panicked as the flesh of your hand begins to bleed slightly, two holes buried into the skin right below your thumb. You watch as your boyfriend rushed around his tent to grab a cloth and wipe the blood.

“Astarion, I’m fine—“ He shushed you by holding his finger up while facing your back before finally spinning around on his heel and presenting the hand-embroidered handkerchief he had been worming on during the quiet evenings in camp. Immediately and without hesitation, he pressed the delicate cloth against your wound.

His face was etched in guilt and worry. “I’m so sorry darling, I didn’t mean the bite to be so…” You noticed how his eyes drifted away from how the blood began to soak the handkerchief. “It was meant to be harmless, I swear!”

“I know, I know.” Your free hand cupped his cheek and your lover immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as his features softened slightly. You can tell how much it ripped him apart in the inside despite it being such a little injury, you know how Astarion always is careful with his biting when doing it on you, respecting your boundaries and always asking for consent beforehand. He would never, ever hurt you in any way. And yet he just did.

“It happens, it’s okay. I’m not seriously hurt.”

Lifting the cloth off your wound yourself and revealed how the blood already began to dry. His eyes drifted back to the puncture wound in your hand. His lip quivered. “I…”

“I’m still sorry. I should’ve been more careful.” Astarion watched your face, expecting some kind of negative reaction. Fear, anger, anything really. Instead, you leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

A wave of affection hit him the same way the club of an angry orc would, but it was much more pleasant. He huffed and angled your face for him to kiss you properly.

(Mortal)

Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep

Words — 1.1k

Info-dumping and rambling.

If there is a new topic Gale has been exploring and reading about, you will definitely hear all about. Probably more than once, too.

Before you Tara was the victim of his endless info-dumping, him gesturing around and doing his eureka! pose every now and then while proudly explaining how he already inhaled every piece of literature there is about this new topic. Now you are his victim.

Gale feels a little insecure about it though, afraid he might be boring or annoying you. So, you’ll have to assure and encourage him and make it known that you do want to know how you can reason and communicate with some mimics to the point of making them non-hostile. He adores to have his head rest on your lap while your hand fiddle with some loose strands of hair, him rambling on and on about something he happened to come across in the library today.

Since you tolerate his rambling so well, he’ll of course listen to yours with eagerness. Gale’s eyes twinkle slightly as he watches you talk, noting every movement in your face and hand, how the edges of your eyes crease a little when you explain a particularly fun fact to him. His heart flutters to see you being so passionate about something, sometimes he can’t help himself but let that affection out and give you a cheeky little kiss while you are distracted by talking, causing you to be completely thrown off and now confused on where you left on.

Gale also loves debating with you. The topics could range from when does a powerful wizard begin to live off cheese and wine to if eating a tressym’s wings be considered as fried bird, fried cat or fried tressym (although Tara was quite offended by that debate you held). He likes talking about nothing and everything about you and might just seek excuses to hear your voice. Getting the opportunity to info-dump about his interests is a mere bonus.

Gifts and trinkets.

Whenever he stops by the library or market, you have to physically withhold him from wandering off and going after that shiny twinkle he just saw from the edge of his eyes, in his mind already having hundreds of ideas on what it might be and if you would like it.

Gale has a habit of hoarding things in his wizard tower, but after getting his orb and getting rid of most the weave infused artefacts, he now had space for more trinkets: things that remind him of you.

Your wizard begins bringing you something every time he comes back from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a book from the library he thought might interest you, sometimes it’s jewerly Gale thought might fit most your outfits, but every now and then it’s a shiny rock he found in the corner of a street. He thought the colour resembled your eye colour and the way it shone in the sun almost blinded him, just how you blind him with love every time you’re near.

It’s silly but at least half the shelves are now filled with shiny rocks, books and a newly acquired wooden figure of a goat he found at the market. Gale said your stubbornness and persistence reminded him of one and didn’t get why you found it a little offensive to get compared to one.

“Whatever are you talking about? Goats are very graceful creatures and so are you! I find it quite the accurate comparison on my part.”

Physical touch and cuddles.

There is nothing better in the world than melting against your warm body after a good glass of wine and being surrounded by tombs, scrolls and books all day and Tara being curled up by your feet. His hand lazily tracing your waist and sneakily finding their way between your legs. Not for any improper reason, just to warm his hands up.

Speaking of your thighs, Gale is this close to begging on his hands and knees for a chance to have his rest between your plush flesh. The feeling of gently being squished while his fingers busy themselves by drawing intricate patterns across your skin or simply interlock with yours. Your wizard considers cuddling as some way of recharging his energy, both arcane and bodily.

He needs his morning cuddles before starting his day, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck while you brew some coffee or him refusing to let you leave the bed by positioning himself on top of you. He sneaks himself into your daily routine and tries not to interrupt whatever you are doing right while scooting himself right next to you, his chin on your shoulder while Gale watches you do whatever.

Also, thanks to you, this man can’t ever sleep without having you in his arms ever again. You spoiled him too much, he complains. Your body perfectly fitting together against his like it was always meant to be. But that also means whenever you get up in the middle of the night for some water, Gale is right behind you, sleepily following your steps.

“I can’t sleep without you, might’ve as well follow, right?”

Bonus scenario.

You did insist that your boyfriend should’ve stayed in bed while you dragged yourself to the kitchen for a glas of water. It’s not even early morning and the sun was still well below the horizon and yet Gale followed close behind. It kind of reminded you a cat that followed you into the bathroom in the middle of the night for no reason other than making sure you don’t get attacked by mice or something.

“Mhh. What time is it?” Gale scratched his chin sleepily as he leaned against the counter next to you. You shrugged and sipped your glass of water. He opened his eyes and glanced over to you, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist and pulling you against his oh so warm body.

You melted right into him, a groan escaping your throat as you buried your face in his hot neck, allowing yourself to take a deep breath. His scent was familiar.

Your eyes slowly drooped close and you felt yourself almost let the glass slip out of your hand but before it could, you placed it on the counter behind your very sleepy wizard.

As you did, your hands began to wander and trace the warm muscles of his back. You noticed how they have softened over time. After everything that had happened you and him began to live a more comfortable life without the need to lift a sword, or rather, a wizard staff.

Before you could point the softening muscles, how much you appreciate your life with him, how silly it is to think about what you went through together mere months ago, a snore interrupted your thoughts.

Did Gale fall asleep leaning against the cabin with you in arms? Seriously? And snoring like that as well?

And he is always the one that complained about your snoring.

Enver Gortash // Chosen of Bane

Words — 1k

Gift giving.

He literally cannot help himself for the love of the gods. Enver, as he ordered you to call him, swears he is not actively seeking for gifts to shower you in, they just come to him. Or are being brought to him by his Steel Watch and others.

Whatever had your attention for more than a fraction of a second you can expect to stare back at you in an instant, now presented on your nightstand or bed instead of the boutique you saw it in or the catalogue you flipped through. Somehow he always knows what you fancy without even needing to speak to him.

Enver also tends to send you little handmade trinkets during especially long and stressful periods of him being away. Despite what he likes to think himself, he doesn’t always work on papers in his office. When the files pile up and glare at him disapprovingly, Enver turns to the mini broken machinery tucked away in his desk and begins tinkering with it, working and trying new things out until it finally functions again.

Or he makes it look prettier and that it was before and lets it be delivered to you. Little reminder that he always thinks of you. He totally didn’t squeeze a miniature scrying eye into at least one of the trinkets to spy on you.

“Oh, it is nothing. Mere small tokens of my affection, no need to dwell on them.

Inserting himself into everything you do and annoying you.

Like a toddler, Enver follows you around and tries to insert himself into everything you do to try and stay close to you.

Cooking yourself a snack in the kitchen? You’ll feel his chin on your shoulder as he stared down at what you are cooking. “Give me a piece of that.”

In the bathroom to take a quick shower? He is already behind the curtain and turning the water on, filling the room with steam.

God forbid you are in bed, alone without anyone to cuddle onto? Yeah, you best believe he immediately sneaks up on you and makes sure you won’t be able to physically leave this bed, not until you pry his arms off your body. Enver is like a cat, he doesn’t openly ask for affection most of the time but invades your personal space whenever he wants to silently ask for it.

Besides acting a little child when wanting your attention and affections, Enver also enjoys showing you how much he loves you by purposefully annoying you a a little. He pokes your cheek over and over when you’re busy and watches you get more and more upset with his teasing until you finally slap his finger away. How unfairly you are treating him— Enver has been nothing but good to you!

“I’m simply making my presence known to you since you failed to acknowledge it until now. You shouldn’t be annoyed, rather happy to see me, love.”

Physical touch.

You know well that your lover is sleep deprived, dehydrated, touch starved, affection starved and whatever else you can be physically deprived off. You seem to fix all of these problems by simply slipping into his arms and using his soft chest as comfortable pillows and your legs tucked between his warm legs. Enver can’t suppress the blissful grin spreading on his face and couldn’t fight his eyelids slowly drooping close, his chin resting on your head.

He could remain like this for hours, days, in some form of hibernation. But he can’t. His duties are calling.

So, he’ll take you with to his office to continue the cuddles. You’ll be comfortably seated on his lap as he writes and flips through papers. The situation isn’t even sexually charged as in you are perfectly seated on his lap in a way that could make him moan and thighs shiver, rather you are there so he can take little breaks by hiding his face in your neck and groaning in frustration every now and then.

Sometimes he’ll be too tired to cuddle, so Enver’ll rind where you are currently resting and just laying down on top of you, letting his weight slightly crush you beneath him. He is a selfish man and needs his daily (hourly, really) head pats, hair strokes and back scratches.

Bonus scenario.

You felt Enver’s stare drill itself into your skull. You were just brushing your teeth and examining yourself in the bathroom mirror and getting ready for bed. You tried to ignore the looming presence behind you as much as you tried to avoid looking directly at him in the mirror.

“Are you ignoring me?” You heard the amusement in his voice. Yes you are trying to ignore him because of how much he has been getting on your nerves today, purposefully interrupting your doings, asking you to meet him in private and pulling you away from duties just for him to ask you to kiss him. A child is what he is.

“My love.” Enver called out again, now moving to stand beside you. His eyes never left your face. You didn’t spare him a single glance.

“Darling.” He started again. “Or do you want me to call you kitten?”

That one made you shoot him a glare. Aha! A reaction. Enver smirked at himself and lifted his hand, his index finger now reaching out to pole your cheek but before he could touch you, you gently pushed his hand away. But not backing down, he reached out again.

“Gortash.” You scolded and turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Yes? That is my name.” Completely unbothered, he mirrored your pose to mock you almost. There was that shit-eating smirk on his face you are all too familiar with and the one you can’t help but let it get to you. You couldn’t fight your own grin that was fighting itself to appear on your face.

“Aha. A reaction. I was looking for that.” He grinned and lifted your chin with a small nudge beneath your chin before leaning in for a quick kiss on your lips.

Raphael // The Devil (cambion)

Words — 1k

Quality time.

Raphael’s time is valuable and choosing it to spend it with you should make you happy enough.

But alas, merely basking in your presence and getting drunk of your affections sometimes isn’t enough, so Raphael takes you out to fancy restaurants in different cities all across Faerûn and spoils you with a colourful, expensive cuisine. Afterwards he’d suggest to get some wine and enjoy it somewhere else together, maybe go back to the House of Hope and play some rounds of Lanceboard together.

He would never admit it to you but being adorably domestic with you and sipping some wine while talking about nothing important is one of his favourite things to do, ever.

Besides restaurants and wine, your cambion will ask if you’d be interest in going out to watch theatre plays. How can you possibly deny him when Raphael keeps reciting quotes and scenes, trying to sway you into finally giving in. It’s kind of endearing watching Raphael’s eyes light up once you finally agree.

Raphael enjoys spending his time outside of his House of Hope, partly because he knows that you, as a mortal, probably don’t want to spend all your time down in Avernus, so he’ll prefer to take you out on dates on the surface.

“If you’ll have me, I would love to take you out on a lovely play being held in Baldur’s Gate. I believe you could enjoy it as much as I will.”

Acts of service.

Raphael may spoil you with acts of service but those are not without strings— He’ll expect something back in return, things like a kiss on his cheek, a compliment or your time to spend on him.

His “services” consist of him hand-tailoring infernal contracts for people that have mildly annoyed you in the past, people you may not even remember. Raphael will make sure they will work as slaves in his house personally serving you for the rest of eternity.

He maybe is enjoying eliminating and enslaving your ex-lovers, people you mildly dislike, people you despite and whoever else he can get his fingers on a little too much, don’t you think?

Also, Raphael tends to be very theatrical when hosting future contractees and souls he might strike a contract with. But with you, he is actually sincerely caring. He pulls out a chair for you, he pours you a beverage before even needing to ask, he remembers every single detail on foods you like and dislike and just the way you like it. Raphael will always serve you like you are royalty.

“Sit. Eat. Drink. Let the world and everyone in it kneel for you, my love. You deserve nothing lesser.”

Physical affection.

Raphael enjoys your touch the most. Simple things like holding your hand and prying it off whatever you are holding when they are not available, having his hand rest on your waist during outings and his tail subconsciously wrapping around your ankles when he is not even paying any mind to you. He craves your closeness, no matter if he wants to or not.

If he can’t provide with his own body and cuddle you up, he’ll send Haarlep to do his bidding.

Haarlep more than willingly curls up in your lap and shields you with their wings as their arms snake around you. They might let their hands wander and get a little touchy with you, but after putting the incubus in their place and giving them a piece of your mind, Harleep will obey and simply serve as a cuddle pillow and replacement for his master. Almost a little too enthusiastically, one could think.

But at the end of the day only Raphael will banish the incubus from your shared bedroom and will affectionately-force you to satiate his need for your touch. He is never the little spoon though, the devil would never give up his position as the big spoon and loose the opportunity to create a make-shift cocoon with his leathery wings trapping you against him.

It was your biggest mistake to not go and use the bathroom beforehand, Raphael will never let you go now, not unless you sprinkle holy water on him or something.

“Where did you— No! Put that flask down you harlot! How did you smuggle holy water into my home?!-“

Bonus scenario.

You felt squished. Sandwiched. A little crushed but kind of pleasantly so.

Raphael had his arms wrapped around your your stomach as you snuggly fit into his hold, against his chest. You felt the infernal heat radiating off his body and his tail having its tight hold on your ankle. Does he even know that his tail was clinging itself onto you?

You weren’t really paying attention to that though with Haarlep clinging against your front. It was comfortably pressing itself against your torso, its race snuggled against your chest. Their eyes were closed in bliss while their hands gently massaged your thighs. Now, how did you manage to convince Raphael to allow his incubus to snuggle up against you like you are theirs and theirs only?

Then again you could sense how the owner of the House of Hope silently brooding behind you and having his face nuzzled into your shoulder while Haarlep happily purred against your supple skin.

“Oh, I have been missing out on this. I didn’t think he’d be so lenient with me.” Haarlep was clearly testing the waters on how far he can go before his master strikes him down and throws his body into the Styx. Raphael lifted his head slightly and raised his brow, shooting him a warning glare.

“Both of you better behave.” You sighed, one hand leaning back to cup Raphael’s cheek while the other was busy running fingers through Haarlep’s hair. Again, the incubus purred and smirked against your skin.

This is something you could get used to.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

Ngl I’ve also been in the mood for some Cyberpunk again. Also I’m also trying my very hardest to do a Durge run but I always end up starting another playthrough after the goblin camp 😭😭 I’m trying to stay strong for the extra voicelines and scenarios and stuff for Gortash but I’ve never been strong enough so far 😔 also I was this close to including ketheric throm on this list

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough.