jen’s tbr

Jack Abbot would never be caught dead at a nightclub—especially not on his only Friday night off in months—yet he found himself walking through a cloud of artificial fog, strobe lights and glittery skirts blinding him as the smell of cheap beer and body odour clogged his throat. He had been inside the tacky neon-signed club for less than two minutes and could already feel a throb starting behind his left eye.

John had guilt tripped him, claiming he needed to step it up as an attending and join the PTMC crew on one of their rare nights out. John who had claimed glaring at residents while having a beer in the park was not considered bonding. John who was going to have his neck wrung the next time Jack saw him because he was not in the booth—or in the club at all, for that matter—like he had promised.

The text lighting up Jack's phone screen confirmed his suspicions.

John Shen: Shit sorry man. Can't make it tonight, Hunt called in sick. Next time drinks are on me!

Jack was ready to turn back around and hightail it out the door when a tipsy Langdon called out his name, half hanging out of the booth crowded with the day shift and a few of his own team that were lucky enough to have the night off.

He sighed, reluctantly dragging his feet towards the group of his intoxicated colleagues.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't our very own prince of darkness," McKay slurred out, tilting her head to the side. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Jack gave her a deadpan look. "Prince of darkness? Really?"

McKay threw her hands up in defence. "Hey, I didn't come up with it." She jutted her head towards the dance floor. "You can thank sunshine for that one. Though I do think it's fitting."

His body tensed immediately at the mention of you, every cell in his body vibrating with the need to turn around and get a glimpse of you. But, he couldn't. Not when Donnie and Jesse were looking at him knowingly, snickering into their pint glasses.

He regretted asking them about you seconds after he opened his mouth, and now almost a year later he was still paying for his slip up. He just wanted to know what your deal was, why the day shift nurses called you sunshine and never failed to smile when talking about you. He soon found out that reason when you switched to the night shift a couple months later—you were the sun in human form, and you shone through his clouds of darkness and sorrow like a beacon.

"When was the last time you came out with us?" Langdon pondered aloud, tapping a finger to his dimpled chin.

"I think it was when Czechoslovakia was still a sovereign state," Robby answered, sliding into the only spare seat and handing Jack a bottle of beer.

"Ha-ha," Jack rolled his eyes, accepting the bottle. "You guys are doing a great job of making me want to come out again. Five star efforts for you all."

He took a gulp of beer, leaning a shoulder against the end of the booth and taking a moment to assess his surroundings.

"Surprised to see you here, brother." He muttered to Robby, raising his eyebrows as he overheard Javadi drunkenly whisper—shout—to Mel about how Mateo's half up half down bun makes her forget how to breathe. She was going to regret those fruity cocktails come morning.

An upbeat synth-pop song blasted through the speakers, the bass shaking the floors and eliciting a chorus of ear splitting screams.

Robby winced. "Santos bet that she could diagnose a mystery patient before me—this is my punishment."

Vivi, who was sat on the other end of the half circle booth, jumped up and grabbed Whitaker's hand—dragging him to the pulsating dance floor. Jack's eyes followed them absentmindedly, doing a double take when they reached the group in the middle of the dance floor—when they reached you.

Jack barely noticed Santos and Mohan dancing next to you, your vibrance pulling his attention like a lighthouse guiding a ship through a stormy night. It was hard enough to control his blood pressure when he saw you in your grey scrubs, but seeing you in that dress had him feeling like he was fighting for his life—or at least fighting for his blood to stop rushing south. Your face lit up further at your friends joining you, wrapping them in a tight hug as your body continued to bounce to the song blasting.

Your group formed a small circle, your bodies moving freely with the help of the liquor running through your veins. You pointed to Santos as the lyrics started, animatedly mouthing along to the song. Jack couldn't help but chuckle at your antics, a small smile gracing his lips as he watched you.

Your face was glowing under the dim nightclub lights with a tipsy smile permanently plastered across it. You alternated between jumping and grabbing Santos' hands as you sang passionately, and raising your arms above your head with an intoxicating sway of your hips that had Jack forgetting how to breathe.

"I won't settle for a guy with a fake job! They seem so desperate for lovin' but baby I'M NOT!" Your voice reached him above the pounding of the speakers and loud atmosphere of the club, your singing turning into shouting as your eyebrows drew together in an expression of passion.

You were singing with an intensity that told him how much you resonated with the lyrics; it wasn't just an upbeat song that some people—certainly not him—found catchy to you, it was painted across your face how personally you connected to it.

"I'm not kissin' any boy that is passive, their indecision is painfully unattractive!" You continued to belt out, grabbing Santos by the shoulders and throwing your head back. "Past mistakes are just new information, these days I've got expectations!" You spun around, placing yourself next to Samira and slinging an arm around her shoulder.

Memories of conversations he overheard came to the forefront of his mind—when you and Ellis would be loose-lipped in the early hours of the morning, bonding over nightmare exes while slouched at the Hub. The ex that 'forgot' your one year anniversary, leaving you sitting alone in the too bright restaurant while he smoked and gamed with his friends. The guy who only wanted to see you under the cover of darkness, saying being seen out in public during the daylight was 'too much commitment'. The men you talked to on dating apps only offering three worded replies, their nonchalance leading you to carry the conversations. You always ended with "maybe love just isn't in the cards for me" and it made the ache in his chest so much harder to ignore.

To him, you were so easy to love. It was like breathing—an automatic response, his brain and body doing it without a thought. You offered your heart on a platter to everyone you met and never asked for anything in return. He didn't know how the world's cruelty hadn't dimmed your shine yet, but he was going to make it his life goal to never let that happen.

You had no idea how you made him feel. How your smile and laugh turned his insides into liquid gold, how his heart oozed with gooey honey when you rested your head on his shoulder briefly, the butterflies in his stomach making him feel like a lovesick teenager whenever you walked into the room. How he often laid in bed thinking about you, fantasising about how you would sound with his face buried—

Jack's thoughts halted as a guy around your age slid up behind you, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you back into him as his head dropped to your neck. Jack felt the vein in his forehead throb instantly, his teeth clenched so tight he was sure he'd crack a molar. The bottle in his hand shook from his tightened grip, his free hand balling into a fist as his gut churned.

Before he could take a step forward, you slipped out of the guy's hold—grabbing Whitaker and switching places with him so quickly it took the guy a second to realise he was now holding onto another guys hips. He bolted back to his friends in the corner as your group burst into fits of laughter.

Your face was in perfect view of Jack and he felt some of the tension ease from his body, the smile on your face assuring him that you were okay. You picked up where you left off, singing and dancing like nothing had happened. You made eye contact with Jack and it felt like the whole club had faded away, the mischievous glint in your eyes making it impossible for him to look away. Not that he would ever want to.

You raised your voice again, looking at him directly as you sang the next lyrics. "But in a couple months, a man will be procured." Your lips tilted into a smirk, your hand raising to point at him. "He will be evolved," you brought the hand to your chest, "and I will be adored, adored, adored, adored, adored!"

You turned back to your group, throwing Jack a wink over your shoulder before continuing to jump and scream with your friends.

In that moment, Jack knew he would do anything to be the man who adored you—to be the man who met your expectations. It took every ounce of strength he had to not march over to you and kiss you until he didn't know where he stopped and you began.

He was so utterly enraptured by you that he didn't notice his friends eyes on him, their snickering morphed into full on belly laughs. Even Robby was losing his shit over his friend's clear infatuation.

The song ended and your group returned to the booth, Santos exclaiming that if she didn't have a drink in her hand within ten seconds she was going to start spilling everyone's dirty secrets. Jack paid her no mind, keeping his eyes on you—your hips swaying with every step towards him.

You threw your arms around his shoulders once you reached him, the heady aroma of your perfume and sweat seeping into his lungs and making a home there. His free hand slipped around your waist to return the hug, praying to god you didn't notice how fast his heart was beating.

You pulled back with a grin, your hands trailing down his shoulders and arms before dropping to your sides. "The dark knight is here!"

Jack couldn't stop the smile on his face even if he wanted to. "Oh, so it's the dark knight now? I heard it was the prince of darkness not long ago."

He watched in fascination as your face turned bashful. "What can I say? You're so easy to think of nicknames for!"

"Is that right, sunshine?" Jack leaned closer, his easy smirk lifting his lips.

You hummed, nodding your head. "I'm glad you came out tonight, Jack." Your voice dropped low, private. "I wasn't expecting it."

"Well, I hope I can continue to exceed your expectations, sweetheart."

Maybe it was because of the way your lashes fluttered, the soft smile on your face, or the fact he was hopelessly in love with you, but Jack continued, taking a deep breath.

"How about we talk some more when you're sober? I think it's time for you to know how it feels to be adored."

Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.

You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.

“It's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,” you said through your face screwed in concentration.

“A REBOA? Are you serious, right now?”

“I'm here, supervising, brother,” said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.

“You're not her attending,” Robby argued.

“No but I'm an attending.”

You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.

The tension in the room chocked you.

Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. “Keep going.”

Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.

Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.

But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.

“Okay... good...” said Jack as you pushed in the needle. “Femoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.”

You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.

Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.

His perfect doctor.

Apparently he didn't like to share.

“How much saline have you pushed?” asked Robby.

“Five CC'S,” said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.

“Your carotid is weak,” said Robby. “Is it even there?”

“Yes,” you said.

Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. “You know what to do.”

With his words you proceeded.

“Push another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,” you ordered.

“Injecting.”

There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.

“How we looking?” asked Robby.

“Radial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,” said Donnie.

For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.

“Check the wound,” said Jack.

You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.

“Looks okay,” you said.

Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. “Good job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.”

“She's still not out the woods yet,” said Robby.

You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.

“Surgery can take her now,” said Jesse from the phone.

“Oh, finally they're ready for us?” teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. “Now that they've missed all the fun.” He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.

The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.

“Wait-” said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.

The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.

You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. “There was no time for anything else-”

“- save it-”

“- there was no time for me to come and get you-”

“- stop!”

You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.

It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.

Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.

“I saved a patient's life,” you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.

“Doing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,” he scoffed out.

“Doctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.”

Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. “Abbot-”

“- he believed me capable,” you said. “Don't you think I'm capable?”

His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.

“Do you know why I'm angry?”

No, you really didn't.

You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. “Because I performed a high risk procedure.”

“A high risk procedure without me,” he corrected. “You're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?”

There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.

Robby tsked. “Do you understand?”

Every word was punctured with anger.

You rose to all your height. “Yes, I understand.”

He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.

Without a word, you dismissed yourself.

“I just don't get why he was so.... angry,” you admit quietly.

The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.

Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.

There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.

“It's Robby,” said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.

“But he's never been like that with me.”

Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.

Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?

Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.

Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Oh, come on....”

You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. “What?”

“You don't have to play dumb with me.”

Your own body gravitated towards him. “Play dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. “Robby's...” he trailed off.

“Robby's...”

Jack levelled his gaze to yours. “He likes you.”

The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.

“He doesn't,” you chuckled.

“He does,” said Jack, nodding along with your words.

“How would you know?”

Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. “Believe me, I know.”

You waited for more clarification.

“You have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.”

Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.

“Old men?” you smirked.

Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. “Yeah, old men.”

“You're not that old, are you?”

Jack tilts his head side to side.

You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. “Younger than Robby though, right?”

Jack nods. “Younger than Robby, if that makes any difference.”

“Any difference to what?” you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.

“To you.”

Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.

He watched you, analysing.

“Well,” you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. “What kind of effect is that?”

Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. “I dunno if I can tell you.”

“No?”

Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. “I could show you?”

There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.

“See any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,” he said. “Like when you know someone's got their eyes on you.”

His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.

“And then when you touch us, it gets worse,” he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.

“Worse?” you ask.

“A good worse. Good shivers,” said Jack, pulling at a finger.

“I touch you enough for you to gather all that?”

Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Not nearly enough as I'd like.”

The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.

He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. “Pretty necklace.”

“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.

“You get it yourself?”

“No, it was a present.”

It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.

Or maybe he just didn't want to know.

Jack's apartment was everything that made him.

As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.

When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.

You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.

“I'm gonna show you,” he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. “Just how I want to touch you.”

The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.

“Jack,” your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.

“I'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.”

You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.

“You're touching me, Jack,” you said, breathless.

“Yeah... yeah,” he said. “You like that I'm touching you?”

You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.

“Say it,” said Jack. “Say it.”

“Yes, I like it.”

Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. “God, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?”

He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'

By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips

“Not done yet,” said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. “I wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?”

Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.

Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.

“Please... don't mention Robby right now,” you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.

His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. “No? You don't want me to mention Robby?” he asked.

You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.

“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me,” said Jack.

With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.

“See, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?” his nose nudged your clothed clit. “Robby.”

Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.

You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.

Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. “I think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?”

“Jus-just you, Jack,” you gasped.

He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.

Your body jolted in its wake.

“Not just me, don't lie,” he said, darkly.

In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.

“Liars don't get to come, you know,” he said. “So, you get this wet when you think about me?”

“Y-Yes.”

You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.

Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. “Do you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?”

“Yes. Yes I do,” you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.

Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.

“Good girl.”

Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.

His tongue laid flat against your core.

It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Mmh, Jack!”

He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. “Taking my tongue so well,” he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.

Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.

“Oh fuck, J-Jack!”

“Pull my hair, pull my hair,” he said into you.

Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.

Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.

Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.

“No, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,” he said.

You looked down to him. “Jack, I want- I want to come.”

“I know, I know you do baby,” he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. “You will, I promise, I promise.”

He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.

Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.

“Jack-”

“God, I wish Robby were here,” said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.

“Wh-what?” you didn't know if you'd heard him right.

Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. “Wish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. “How responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?”

You imagined it, closing your eyes.

Jack let you.

You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.

If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?

“You want Robby?” asked Jack.

Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.

Jack seemed to thrive on it.

“Yes,” you gasped.

Jack reached back up to you. “Yeah.... yeah...” his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.

In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.

First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.

“Jack-” you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.

“Ah- ahh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you slowly pumped him. “You feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.”

You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.

Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.

It was like you could hear him in your head.

'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.

“I wish-” you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. “I wish Robby were here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too baby,” said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. “Next time.”

Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.

You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. “Do you- do you want me to?”

Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “To what, baby?”

“To ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?”

Jack smiled, love sick. “That's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,” he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. “Right now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.”

You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.

He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes.”

Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.

“Beg for it, baby.”

Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.

Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.

“Answer it.”

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. “Wh-what?”

“Answer him,” he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.

Robby.

You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.

You answered, holding the phone to your ear. “H-hey, Robby.”

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?

“Yeah, everything's okay.”

Jack smirked at you.

“I've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,” you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.

“Sorry I-”

Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.

You caught your breath in your throat. “- I was busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yeah,” you gasped.

Robby stirred down the line. “You okay?”

Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.

“Yeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,” you lied.

Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?

“Still haven't sorted that heating, huh?” Robby chuckled down the line. “You need someone to come sort that out for you.”

Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Want me to come take a look at it?” asked Robby.

“Not- not right now,” you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.

His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.

“Are you still mad at me for earlier?”

“Y-yes!”

“You are?”

You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. “Yes! Yes! Yes, I am!”

“Okay- well, i'm sorry,” he said down the line. “You just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.”

Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.

“- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,” Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.

Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. “As mine,” he uttered.

“- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-”

Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.

Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.

“- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-”

Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.

Jack reached out for you. “Be nice, be nice.”

You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. “Robby, I-”

“What is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?”

Yes, you needed him.

Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.

Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.

You laughed when Jack reached your neck. “Oh god.”

“What?” he said, laughing along with you.

“I hung up on Robby.”

Muscle memory takes over. Coffee beans. Machine. Grinding. Hot cup of coffee. He pours himself a cup before he finds himself wandering back to his bedroom, towards his drawers. He only freezes when he's staring at black scrubs and remembering he's technically on sabbatical. The pit in his chest yawns wider.

It takes another heavy step to make his way back to his living room, with the intent to deposit his body onto the couch in hopes to attempt a stab at normalcy, but the beeping of a van bleeds through his walls from next door. He grunts and pushes the front door open to lean against the porch columns to see a large moving van in the driveway besides his, teeming with men that's already sweating out of their shirts despite the early hour.

They've all got their hands full, drawers and tables and chairs filing out of the van and into the home next door.

"Where d'ya want this, ma'am?" One man with a handlebar mustache grunts, holding a large painting with a gilded frame that looks so laughably ornate in the midst of mismatched chairs.

You appear at your front door, probably from somewhere inside your home, with a frazzled smile. It's barely seven and you look as though you've lived through half the day already.

"Center of the east wall, please!" You chirp, hovering behind the burly man and you disappear inside. Robby finds himself smiling against the rim of his mug before he forces his attention elsewhere. The copious amounts of paintings and decor makes his walls look so empty.

Time slips away from him and lunch time is fast approaching. Cooking something feels a little bit like getting his life together so he throws a quick stir-fry dish together. He's just about to plate when he hears a quiet knock on his door.

"Can I help you?"

When he opens the door, he didn't expect you to stand on his porch with a bowl of peaches in your hands. The oddness of it all takes him aback.

"Um— maybe. I'm your new neighbor, I live right next door. Sorry again for the ruckus, I didn't think moving in would be so loud!" You offer a smile and Robby finds him smiling despite himself. "Peaches as an apology and a request for a favor all in one?"

He chuckles and leans against his doorframe, taking the bowl out of your hands. When he gives his name, you give yours. "So what's this favor?"

"Ah. One of the movers must've gotten lazy and left one of my cabinets crooked? I tried moving it myself but it's a vintage and those things are heavy," you explain with a little laugh.

Robby nods and sets the bowl aside. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."

Entering your space feels a bit surreal. The layout should be similar to his, considering the whole block of homes here were developed in one season, and yet how you've decorated makes your home look far more different than his.

"Which cabinet—?"

You lead him towards the small room tucked beside the kitchen, something he uses for storage but what you've turned it into resembles a small studio space. An easel is folded in the corner, unused canvases leaning onto the wall beside it. On the opposite end of the room is a large, vintage brown cabinet that's placed diagonally off the wall.

"I know it's silly but the thing nearly tipped over when I tried pushing and the last thing I need is a hole in my wall," you say with a soft sigh, watching Robby push the cabinet with ease until it's flush against the wall. "Thanks, that would've bothered me all day."

"You're welcome. Anything else?" He asks and he finds himself wanting to stick around longer.

You turn slowly where you stand before giving him a smile he doesn't know how to interpret. "I think I might've smelled something cooking in your kitchen. Any chance you got an extra plate to share?"

The next day, he stares at his Bonneville in his garage and digs deep to see if he still has that urge to ride and… ride 'til he stops. He lets out a heavy sigh and steps out. Like clockwork, his head swivels to your porch and something in his chest twists at the sight of you curled up on a chair with a book in hand. Cozy.

"Good morning, Michael."

A short laugh escapes him. "Morning, Peaches."

Your eyes roll halfheartedly before you wave him over with a delicate hand. "You never told me what you do."

"Neither have you." He leans against the porch railing, trying to steal a glimpse of your book.

"I'm an art history professor," you offer first. "Now you."

"I'm… a senior attending at PTMC." He doesn't know why it feels like pulling teeth admitting it out loud, like his life prior to the sabbatical feels like sacrilege mixing it with meeting you.

"Impressive." You whistle lowly before you give him a little grin. "I'm a doctor, too. Not in the way my mom wanted for me but hey, at least she can call me Doctor Peaches. Any reason why you aren't in a hospital, Doctor Robinavitch? I thought you attendings are utter workaholics."

He crosses his arms as he leans against the porch column, a half grin that you're slowly becoming obsessed with. "We are. It's why nearly my entire workstaff had me on this sabbatical…"

"Sweet workstaff." You offer him a cookie which he takes. "Any big plans for your sabbatical?"

"A road trip, but—" he shrugs and looks around. He can't seem to maintain eye contact. "I thought it'd be better to stay home for a bit. And a good thing, too. How else would you have moved that cabinet of yours?"

"You're right. I'd be stuck working with a meathead mover rather than a handsome doctor."

"Oh, you think I'm handsome?"

"Well, I'm not blind, Michael."

"So you can also see I'm a bit too old for you."

"I'm thirty-one, I'm hardly too young for you."

He's got nothing to say to that, just fixes you with an incredulous look before his face lines with a bright laugh.

"You're trouble, Peaches."

The next month, he's become a regular guest in your home, fixing things that should be easily covered by any other professional but you've been deadset on knocking on his door. Leaky faucets, creaking door hinges, and even screwing a lightbulb in the spare bedroom where the roof is just a bit too high to reach even with a stepladder.

The conversations get longer and he stays a little later. Soon, coffee breaks turn into lunches and dinners.

"Michael," you hum as you approach from the kitchen, both hands holding a mug of tea before you join him on your couch. The evening's taken on a softer hue, something gentler that he's scared to disrupt. He cooked for you, you poured wine, and he played footsy with you beneath the table.

And now he's lifting an arm for you to tuck yourself into, your head tucked beneath his chin so he can turn his head to kiss the top of your hair. "Thanks, sweetheart. What're we watching?"

You chuckle and take a sip of your tea. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's about a couple who broke up and decided to wipe their memories of each other only to fall in love over again."

"Hm."

You lightly swat his chest. "Don't be such a cynic, Michael. It's romantic."

"I didn't say anything," he laughs but he runs a hand up and down your sides, holding you closer. "Just thought it's an interesting plot."

"You hate it."

"I don't hate it, sweetheart. I'll watch the whole thing for you."

And true enough, he does. Michael Robinavitch sits through the entire film without falling asleep, his tea finished and his arms around you. His hand skims your skin beneath your sleep shirt and when you don't shy away, he lets himself get bolder. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel his fingertips coast along the underside of your breast.

"Mikey," you whisper and that stupid little nickname elicits a fond chuckle anyways, his grip tightening as he uses his free hand to guide your chin up for a kiss. "The movie—"

"The credits are rolling…" he murmurs, lips ghosting above yours in silent request. You grant permission by surging upwards, closing the distance before clambering onto his lap. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and feeling his hardness beneath you elicits a moan so loud you'd be embarrassed if it isn't for your insatiable need for his touch. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

A whimper spills from your lips, your knees bracketing his hips. Your greedy hands run down his chest, along that soft tummy that you've steadily grown obsessed with for weeks now. "Michael, I need you."

Something darkens within him, that selfish ache that's spread like a disease, parasitical in nature. You're young, not so young that he'd truly be disgusted of himself, but enough that you two have been drawing looks whenever his hands wound wander a little too low on your hips in public.

"Tell me what you want," he coaxes, a gutteral noise building in his chest when your lips find his, your nails scratching along his scruffy beard. Your resounding reply is another needy moan, your hips grinding along his until his large hands are tugging your shirt up and off before he could kiss down your neck. He revels in your sweet gasps, sugar-spun and delicate while his teeth and tongue graze along your flesh before he's burrowing his face in the valley of your tits.

"Michael—!" You squeal, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck. His low moans send shivers down your spine, teeth grazing along sensitive flesh before his lips latch onto your nipple. A string of expletives spill past your kiss-swollen lips when he bites, rolling the pert nub around before switching to the other.

He paints a myriad of lovebites along your chest, possessive and obsessive in the way he meticulously places it just above the usual cut of your tops; not enough to be lewd but a hint to show that you've got him to take care of you.

"Stop teasing…" Your voice hitches higher when he sucks a harsh bite onto your jugular before he rucks up your skirt to slide his middle and ring finger across your soaked panties. His chuckles are low and mean as he rubs your clit through the fabric. "Mm, fuck…!"

"You sound so sweet for me, baby," he murmurs against your heated skin before he impatiently tugs the fabric aside to plunge his knobby fingers into your dripping cunt. He hisses at the warmth, pulling just far back enough to see the way your pretty features tighten in arousal as he fucks you nice and deep with his index and middle finger. "Your little pussy's just sucking me in, how's my cock gonna fit inside you, hm?"

He's so mean like this, so condescending that you nearly cry out in frustration if it weren't for the fact that you could feel his own thickening erection against your inner thighs; he's just as affected as you are, if not more. If you aren't so preoccupied with his large fingers inside you, you would've noticed the way there's a streak of need underlying every syllable, the way his eyes track your every movement to heighten your arousal. It only adds onto what you know about him, attentive and determined with a dry sense of humor that carries into mocking condescension into bed.

"Mikey, please— need your cock in me," you mewl pathetically, nearly riding his hand before he pulls out right before you could tip over to the edge. An indignant whine escapes you before he sucks his fingers clean, the pink muscle laving along his knuckles to clean up your slick. His eyes are shut, looking utterly blissed out at the taste of you.

"I got you, sweetheart," he shushes you gently with another mocking coo, reaching between you to tug out his cock from his sweatpants. He brings up his hand to your mouth and without hesitating, you spit into his waiting palm before he uses that hand to stroke his thick length. You brace yourself with both hands on his shoulders, lifting your hips up to grind your folds along his swollen tip. "Think you can make it fit, hm?"

You nod eagerly—desperately—and slowly lower yourself onto his cock while your walls adjust to his size. When a quiet whimper threatens to spill, he closes the distance to swallow your breathy moans. It's messy, open-mouthed, and sloppy but it's enough that once you're seated completely, his first thrust within you elicits more pleasure than pain.

"Feels so fuckin' good for me, sweetheart," he praises and there isn't a trace of that condescension left as he picks up the pace, holding your hips steady so he can do all the work for you. Each thrust punches out a string of staccato moans, mingling with his own breathy grunts. It's heady and destructive, flaying away layers from both of you as his eyes meet yours. Your hands find his jawline, cradling his face in reverence as he brings you closer and closer to your climax.

"Nngh… 'm close—" you gasp against his mouth, eyes shut as your lips drag along his cheek as you ride him in tandem to his thrusts.

His grip tightens around your hips as he plants his feet into the bed for leverage, fucking you with a brutal pace that has you hurtling over the edge with a scream of his name. He's quick to follow but he's got enough wherewithal to pull out just in time to paint your lower abdomen in his release.

Your chest is heaving as he sits you back on his thighs, his hand slowly stroking his cock 'til he shudders and lets the afterglow of his orgasm settle in.

"Whoa." His gaze resettles on you as he falls back against the back of the couch, carefully pulling you down to settle beside him with an arm around your shoulders. His free hand reaches to the side table by the couch to grab some tissues, gently wiping you down before offering a wordless apology by kiss to your temple. You toss your legs across his lap, curling into him as close as possible.

"You alright, Peaches?"

Your sigh is quiet but content, nuzzling into his chest with an arm thrown atop his abdomen. "Peachy keen, Michael."

His resounding laugh rumbles beneath you as he tips your chin up with a finger to plant a kiss onto your lips. "That's comforting."

"Take me to bed?"

"Sure, sweetheart—"

"Then stay with me?"

"… Of course."

He brings the covers up where you tuck them beneath your armpit to fight the chill of your bedroom before he hauls you closer to hold his arm around your shoulders. Your skin is warm, your chest still steadily rising and falling as you catch your breath with your head upon his pec.

He presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head as he lays out, humming while you play with the curls of hair that smatters along his chest. He responds with tracing shapes along your shoulders.

"So… a three month sabbatical," you begin curiously, eyes still shut as you bask in the afterglow. "Is that a build up of PTO or the perk of being the chief of attending?"

He stiffens beneath you and you look up, surprised to see the warm expressions you've been used to seeing completely fade. He's looking at the ceiling but his jaw is tense.

"Hey." Your hand gently takes his scruffy jaw. "You don't owe me answers, Michael. You don't have to tell me your darkest backstories… but you do owe yourself to tell someone if it has you feeling like that."

Something dislodges in his chest when you pull yourself up to kiss the edge of his beard, his nose, then his lips. He melts beneath your touch and his strong hands grip your hip, as though he's afraid you'll disappear.

"It's a lot. Not your problem," he mutters against your lips.

You smile as you kiss back. "I know, but I wanna help. That's what happens when you get attached to scruffy old doctors."

Dr. Grumpy: Alive. Stop calling.

Adrenaline Junkie: Had to make sure. It's been a month, can't blame your best friend from worrying.

Dr. Grumpy: Who said you're my best friend?

Adrenaline Junkie: Well it sure as hell isn't Dana.

Dr. Grumpy: Could be. Now leave me alone, I still got two months left.

"Michael, you can't wear a hoodie."

He laughs, mid-zip, as he leans against the doorway of your bedroom where you're sat by your vanity. "And why not? I thought museums didn't have a dress code."

You meet his gaze through the reflection of your mirror, your grin playful. "They don't but I do if you're gonna be my date, Robinavich. So lose the hoodie."

He steps further into your bedroom to stand behind where you're seated, a hand on your shoulder before he leans down. His lips catch your hairline; he knows better than to kiss you before your setting spray.

"Yes, ma'am."

He's grown used to the feeling of your hand around the crook of his elbow. From little walks after dinner around the neighborhood to perusing the grocery aisles for a recipe you've found on Tiktok. Whenever he's with you, you've got your hand on his arm like he'd disappear if you let go.

He likes it.

"You're not even looking at the paintings, Michael."

He barks out a laugh and tugs you in to kiss your hair again. You're right, of course. He's been stealing glances at you the entire time at the museum rather than the paintings you've been so excited to show him. "I've got my eye on something prettier."

"Not the smartest thing to say to an art history professor, Doctor Robinavitch," you say dryly before tugging him to stop in front of one of your favorites. When he gives the confirmation that he's listening, you happily begin to discuss the history and techniques applied.

He listens, dear god does he fucking try to listen, but you look so pretty that he can't help but let his mind wander. You look younger than you actually are but even so, the age gap between you two is enough to make even himself secondguess his choices.

But you're clever and charming, burrowing your way beneath the walls he's been building for decades now. Even now, sharing your expertise displays your intellect and maturity as well as the passion you hold a doctorate in.

"Alright, I'm calling it. Is it time for dinner?" You cut through his thoughts with a light tug to his sleeve. He glances down and nods.

"Sure, but I thought there was another exhibit you wanted to see?" His free hand comes up to cover yours, the one holding onto the crook of his elbow, to pat gently.

Your smile is sardonic but the light in your eyes cuts through any kind of genuine annoyance. "It can wait. My old man's attention is wandering."

His bright laugh would've shocked him if it hadn't been for the fact that you've been eliciting more of it lately. "Old man, huh? Alright, sweetheart, dinner it is."

There's something convenient in being neighbors with the woman that's been making a home in a heart that he didn't realize still beat. It makes the short walk in the mornings after spending the night a lot less shameful.

Could one be too old for the walk of shame?

Regardless, there's nothing shameful about being able to share a bed with you, to wake up to your feather-light kisses before you reluctantly get ready to head to campus for your early morning classes.

("Stay a few minutes longer…"

"Mikey, I have a 9:00 AM—!"

"It's the summer, sweetheart, let the kids have a break."

"Summer sessions for universities are a thing, Michael.")

It's become a routine now, either he wakes in your bed and he watches you get ready or you wake in his and you scrounge around something in his closet you could steal and style into an outfit that's passable for your usual style.

Today, he gets to wake up in his own bed to you stealing one of his old, faded band tees that you tuck into a spare pair of jeans you've left behind in one of his drawers. You spritz on a bit of perfume you've left in the nightstand on your side of the bed (he tries not to let himself dwell on it too much, you having a space in his drawers and having your own side of the bed) before you lower yourself to kiss his forehead.

"Running late, I'll be staying on campus for longer office hours to make it up to my students," you murmur against his temple. Before you can get too far, his arm reaches out to tug you in by your waist for a proper morning kiss.

"What if I bring you lunch?"

"Yeah?" The smile you give him is near blinding, something that steals his breath away.

He chuckles and nods, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Yeah. How about sandwiches from Primanti's?"

"Mm, my favorite. That's perfect, Mikey," you sigh and steal one more kiss. "Alright, I'll see you later."

He watches your retreating figure with a dopey little smile and nearly groans when his phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through his blissful start of the day.

Adrenaline Junkie: How's Buffalo?

Dr. Grumpy: Wouldn't know.

Adrenaline Junkie: You didn't go?

Dr. Grumpy: Something else came up.

Adrenaline Junkie: ??? Read at 8:54 AM.

He exits out of the messaging app as his eyes snag on the date.

It's been nine weeks since he's met you, eight since he's realized he likes you more than being a friendly neighbor.

He sets the phone down and lays onto his back, zoning out. The gossip in the pitt is as virulent as any other disease — he isn't unaware of the rumors circulating him, his so-called seven week itch. How Dr. Robby can't seem to find a woman interesting any longer than seven weeks. It didn't really matter much to him, he's too old to pursue the nuclear family route, what's wrong with a little fun despite his age?

But time goes by quickly when he's with you and the idea of being bored with you is absurd. How can he be when he's constantly seeking you out, eager to see you?

University of Pittsburgh is a sprawling campus of old and new buildings, interlacing pathways that seek to lead to nowhere, but Robby is a man on a mission and he'd rather throw himself off the hospital roof if the sandwiches he bought for both of you get limp and soggy by the time he arrives at your office.

He finds the building soon enough, sunglasses low on his nose when he enters. He garners a few looks but they must've found nothing of importance because the students go back to what they're doing. The elevator brings him up to the third floor and a long hallway greets him.

Your office is situated near the far end on the left side and he knocks on the door before entering. "Hey, Peaches," he greets before he falters. While you're seated behind your desk, you have four students across from you with notebooks and questions scrawled all over it.

Unlike the students he initially passed by on the first floor, these students look up with shit-eating grins before they turn their attention back to you. One of them, a young woman with electric blue hair and copious facial piercings, speaks up first.

"Doctor Peaches?"

The other one, a stout young man with a patchy beard that didn't quite match his face that's yet to drop his baby fat, interjects, "I think it's a cute nickname."

"Look what you've done," you sigh dramatically as you shut your laptop to give your best students a withering glare. They giggle amongst themselves. "Michael, these are my most rambunctious students. Francine," the blue haired girl's grin widens, "Carmen, Richie," the two inconspicious ones in the middle give a wave in perfect unison, "and Neil," the one that defends you gives Robby his best smile. "My sweeties, this is Dr. Robinavitch."

He gives them all an awkward wave before he steps closer to set the takeout bag down. "If I knew you had company, I would've bought more."

"Don't feed them, then they'll never let you go," you snark but you ruffle Neil's head before you circle around your desk to greet him with a kiss. "Thanks for coming, Mikey."

He should've known being with you is too good to be true.

The night had been derailed the moment his traitorous brain had hooked him back to that fateful night, the crushing grief that resettled into his chest when he remembers Adamson's body hooked up to the ECMO machine after days. While he didn't spiral the way he did in Peds in front of Whitaker, his mind shuts down and cruelty becomes an instinctive defensive response.

You didn't see him during the days leading up to his sabbatical, never witnessed how easy it had been for him to tear down his most brightest residents all to put his rage somewhere.

But as he lets you into his home after dinner (at the restaurant you had been raving about), he begs desperately to try and change the subject, to return back to the normalcy you brought to his life. The door slams behind him and something creeps up, like a cold hand slowly wrapping digit by digit around his windpipe.

"Just talk to me, what happened in there?" You beg, your throat raw from the building argument in the drive back.

"Stop- just stop. This isn't something you can fix-"

"I'm not trying to fix you, Michael!"

"Jesus Christ, yes you are!" He laughs humorlessly, large hands rubbing at his lined face. "Do you know how fucking useless I feel when my own goddamned girlfriend thinks I'm something to be fixed?!"

"Listen to yourself, you're too busy thinking I'll bolt the moment you show a modicum of weakness. Do you think that low of me?"

"I don't know what to think of you anymore, sweetheart."

You rear back like you've been slapped. "What does that fucking mean?"

"It's…" He takes another sigh, heavy and exhausted like you're another burden to the load of issues he refuses to show you. "You're young, you don't know—"

"Don't you dare. Don't bring my age into this, Michael," you hiss. "Don't patronize me, I'm not a fucking child. I know when someone doesn't want help but I didn't think it was a crime to want to help you."

"It isn't your job."

"Loving you isn't a job, Michael."

The culmination of the fight didn't really explode in the way he had expected it to. There hadn't been any slammed doors, screaming matches that wakes the neighbors. It had been you, a silent retreat and a short but solemn walk home without a kiss goodbye.

Your anger would've been difficult to swallow but your disappointment feels like a leaden weight on his chest, pinning him to the middle of his living room floor to face the way you've crept into his life. Your scarf is strewn across the back of his couch. He can see a spare set of sneakers by the door, small and clearly yours. If he opens his fridge, your favorite snacks would be nestled beside his.

You've made a home in his heart and he had shut the door in your face.

However, his pride is a prickly thing, demanding that you break this cruel cold war rather than him reaching out first, except he seems to be the only one fighting. A day has passed and you haven't done anything he thinks he deserves. No demands of your items back or any returns of his possessions. No ultimatums or cruel break-up monologues. Just silence.

You still sit outside on your porch reading, never gone out of your way to avoid him. When he lets himself stare a few seconds more, he notices you have two mugs out — as if you're still expecting him to join you. His traitorous heart beats wildly, demands him to close the distance, but he turns back around and lets you read in peace.

A few more days pass and the realization comes in like a tide crashing onto a shoreline. You aren't icing him out, didn't shut him out the way he expects you to. The ball's in his court now, his move, but there isn't an overarching pressure to act quickly. You've always been gentle and patient, coaxing out love from him when he had held it so closely to his chest. You're the type to love in slow motion.

He chews over his probable opening sentences, turns over phrases and greetings in his head until the words no longer sound like english, when he receives a knock on his door. His heart leaps into his throat as he quickly rushes to open it.

—

Worry for Michael Robinavitch sits beneath Jack Abbot's skin like an extra layer. It keeps him warm at night, he thinks, when he's tossing and turning and his mind whips back to his troubled brother in arms and his stupid decisions. Knowing he didn't end up going on his hare-brained plan for a roadtrip (on that deathtrap, no less) did calm his nerves somewhat but the radio silence is still unsettling at best.

So he parks across the road of Robby's place, markedly notices the empty house beside his friend's seems to finally be occupied, and swiftly crosses the street. As he does so, a woman exits her vehicle and nearly drops the armful of groceries she's got blocking her view.

"Hey, careful now—" Jack instinctively steadies the paper bag in her arms before peeking around it to show his face. She's pretty, maybe a little down, but charming as she gives him a half grin. "You got it, stranger?"

"Absolutely. Thanks for the assist." She carefully jostles the groceries before lowering it just enough to angle it slightly towards Jack. "Wanna grab a peach for your chivalry?"

Jack catches the dry tone and plucks a peach from the top before depositing it in the front of his jacket pocket. "Thanks. You need help gettin' anywhere?"

"No, I'm just right here. But thanks!" She points to the house beside Robby's before she disappears behind her front door.

With a fond shake of his head, he turns back to head up Robby's steps to knock on his door. When the man in question opens it with the most hopeful light in his eyes only for it to deflate when he sees him, Jack chortles. "Well, don't look too excited now. Were you waiting for doordash or something?"

Robby scowls and steps away, opens the door wide enough for his friend before he retreats back inside. "What do you want? Is this a welfare check?"

"Do you need a welfare check?" Jack raises a brow, shutting the door behind him. He follows Robby further into the kitchen and pointedly ignores the traces of a woman that's infiltrated his best friend's space.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" He shoots back sardonically, large hands bracing onto the marble countertop of his kitchen island. Jack settles across from him, arms crossed with a weighted look that it even has Robby giving in with a sigh. "I'm fine. Would you believe if I told you it's relationship troubles?"

Now that takes Jack aback; that might've been the last thing he would've expected leave Robby's mouth. "Is this about Noelle?"

"No," Robby shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "Definitely not. It's my neighbor."

"The one next door?"

"That's the one."

When Robby doesn't elaborate, Jack chuckles. Recalls your easy smile and your cute outfit. He still has the peach in his hoodie pocket. "She's pretty."

"She is."

"… she's young."

"She's not that young," Robby blusters, tossing over a beer can. "She's an art history professor."

"Young and educated."

"Get out of my house, Abbot."

An amused laugh follows, shaking his head. "Not until you dish out every dirty detail, brother. Come on, is this all her stuff?"

Robby circles the island to return back to the living room, pops the tab on his beer, with a shake of his head. Jack follows and settles onto the couch beside him, legs propped up onto the coffee table. Beside his feet sits a copy of your favorite novel, tattered and well-worn and wholly loved with the broken spine. Under it is a ring-stain from where you've left your iced coffee a little too long on his overpriced table.

"Yeah," Robby mutters as he leans his head backwards where he gets a whiff of your perfume. His head rolls to the side to see your scarf draped along the back. "Yeah, it's hers."

"Did you two have a fight?"

The question is well-meaning, he knows this. He knows Jack cares, that every question and query comes from a place of concern. And yet—

"We did not have a fight," he blurts out anyways, his walls rebuilding themselves in seconds before he remembers he's with a friend. Jack waits, frustratingly patient. "… okay, we had a fight. It was a pathetic excuse of a fight because she didn't even yell, she just… she took it."

Robby leans forward, sets the beer down beside the stupid ringstain and rests his elbows onto his knees. Jack still doesn't say a word and the silence would've been frustrating if it hadn't been for the fact that he now realizes that it isn't because his feelings are a burden but rather the space to work through his own thoughts.

"Looking back on it, what she was asking wasn't difficult. It shouldn't have been difficult," he mutters as he scrubs a palm across his face. "She just wanted me to talk. Except I clammed up and I did that thing where I yelled—"

"You yelled at her?" Jack interrupts with a slightly scandalized expression. But perhaps he shouldn't be as shocked; Robby's yelled at the kindest souls just for being collateral in his warpath and the sweet professor next door isn't any different. Except—

"I yelled at her and I shut down when she didn't yell back."

Except Robby doesn't feel guilt when he's so far up in his rage and heartache, he feels defensive and those walls are drawn up just as fast as anyone could blink. But this time, he didn't build those walls, just lets himself feel the hurt and the pain that he's caused you, lets Jack see how it's killing him from the inside.

"So what are you gonna do now?"

Robby peeks up at his friend who still lacks any judgment although wholly deserved for being a companion to someone like him. "I don't know."

"I'll tell you what you're going to do, now that you seem to be… receptive to advice that'll actually help you in the long run," Jack grins and the eagerness in his eyes sets something off inside Robby.

"Hold on. How long have you been waiting for this moment?"

"For awhile now. Now listen up, Robinavitch— I need you to take your head out of your ass and go apologize to that woman. Two, make sure you grovel like a motherfucker. She seems like a nice girl and she must've done something right if you're letting her leave her shit around like she owns the place," Jack says, his voice dry and leaves no room for any kind of nonsense.

"Alright, alright," Robby manages to cut in with a quiet laugh. "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."

"Thank me if you'll actually use it, Robby."

Robby might've overdone it with the flowers. Although he couldn't be fully blamed by it, the florist had seemed overeager to put together an 'I'm sorry' bouquet. Maybe cruelly giddy given the sharp smiles that's been sent his way as he hovers by the counter to pay because rather than an assortment of flowers, he's given a dense and large bouquet of 150 deep, red roses that ultimately costed him half a grand.

But there's no time to regret it now as he rings your doorbell, feeling like a complete asshole with his extravagant 'I'm sorry' bouquet.

The door swings open and a startled noise escapes you when the first thing you see is red. "Michael?"

It's only been a few days since the fight but hearing you call his name — especially when he realizes you're the only one that calls him Michael — feels like coming home.

"Hi, Peaches," he greets, a tentative smile on his lips. "These are for you."

You take the bouquet with a smile you don't bother hiding. The sight of it brings a sense of ease for him; at least you like the flowers. "Thank you. Do you want to come in?"

At least you aren't slamming the door in his face.

He follows you inside and shuts the door behind him. Muscle memory has him stepping over the pair of rain boots you leave by the door, recalling the time he had nearly faceplanted because of them. As he looks around, something warm nestles in his chest at the sight of his own items strewn about, very much like yours in his home—

"Is that mine?"

A pretty blush dusts across your cheeks when he points out his navy blue hoodie draped along the armchair of the couch. "Yeah. I wear it when I read," you admit and the intimacy of it nearly floors him. He's grown accustomed to your little habits and routines, knows that after eight pm, you like to settle down with a novel with minimal conversation. The first time around, he had offered to leave but you gave him a pout so deep that he hauled you into his embrace where you could read to him instead.

Knowing that you attempted to continue with his hoodie as a placeholder has him striding towards you with hurried, determined steps.

"Michael—?"

He drops to his knees before you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, desperation bleeding into his gravelly tone as he clutches at the hem of your shirt. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me, I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart."

"Michael, please—"

He chokes on the shallowed breaths he fights for, desperate and shameless as he clings to you. Pride be damned, he presses his face against you, nuzzling you as if you're his lifeline.

"Please, baby, I can't— I can't lose you. You're so fucking good and I know you deserve better, you do, but I need you. Christ, I need you, I didn't realize it 'til you left and it all felt so goddamn empty— I think I've known it for awhile now but I didn't see what I needed fixing until you gave me those fucking peaches…" he lets out a shaking sob, squeezing you tighter. "Give me another chance, sweetheart, please, I'll do better, I promise. I can be better. For us—"

Your hands drop down to his shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of his head when he hides his face into your stomach. "Baby, breathe for me," you whisper, taken aback by the raw vulnerability that he's letting you see. It's rare for him to be so open, so exposed. And you know that this is a genuine moment he's giving you, a piece of him he's kept to himself.

The term of endearment nearly sets him off and you can tell the sharp prickling sensation at the back of his eyes are prompting him to hide. Despite your gentle hands trying to guide his gaze upwards, it's there taunting him to retreat and give up and keep himself from the scorn he fears from you. Instead he takes a deep breath and wills his heartrate to slow down. His hand encircles your wrist gently, counting your pulse points to match the beat.

"No, I need to say this," he lifts his head from the warmth of your stomach to meet your eyes. His beard rasps against your skin and his eyelids flutter close when your thumb sweeps across the space beneath his lash line. "Before you, I was a goddamn mess."

You try to interject but he shakes his head. "No, listen. I was a fuckin' wreck and there isn't any changing that. It's— I'm glad you didn't meet me then, sweetheart, you would've never knocked on my door for help. I didn't deserve you then, and I sure as shit don't deserve you now. But I swear to fuckin' God, I'm gonna spend the rest of my fuckin' life trying to earn you back. because you're you and you make me… Look, the bad shit doesn't disappear, it's never gonna disappear, but it doesn't feel as heavy as it was. And that's," he swallows, staring up at you as if you hung the moon. "That's because of you."

Your hand travels up his cheekbone, cradling the side of his head before you're bending over to lay a kiss on his forehead. "It's because you're finally letting me in, Michael, you don't have to carry it all on your own."

For a moment, he stares up at you in bewilderment. He shakes his head and averts his eyes, pressing his forehead against your naval. "You're letting me off too easy, sweetheart." His voice is gruff, broken in his disbelief that you'd forgive him so easily. You aren't sure of what he's looking for, what more he could want. So you break the thick clouds that's hanging over the both of you with a gentle smile.

"Oh no, you're not out of the woods yet, Robinavitch," you chuckle lowly, a gentle hand tipping his chin back up. "I just don't want you to think that you're unforgivable. Because you aren't, not when you feel guilt far more than you could ever admit out loud."

"I do, it's— some days it feels like I'm drowning," he admits and with his face still angled up towards yours, his eyes close not to avoid your reaction but to rest. To set down the walls he's been trying desperately to rebuild the moment he had lost his temper a few days ago because he doesn't need them anymore.

You gently scratch at his beard, centering him into the moment. "I've been throwing you a lifeline, Michael, I'm just happy you're taking it. Just… don't let me go."

"Never," he vows. A newfound sense of determination fortifies his spine as he gazes up at you. He's still on his knees but in supplication rather than desperation.

"I'm yours, sweetheart. For as long as you'll have me."

The roar of a familiar Bonneville steals the attention of Ahmad and a couple of nurses near the ambulance bay. Larry and Antoine let out an impressed whistle before they're being called back in by Lena to finish up handoffs but Dana raises a brow, puts her cigarette out, and watches Robby climb off his motorcycle—

With a helmet on.

"You're about a month and a half late from your sabbatical, Robinavitch. Didja get lost on your way back from Alberta?" Dana quips and the bright smile she receives in greeting nearly floors her. She hasn't seen that smile since Adamson.

"Never went." Robby throws over his shoulder before he shoulders his way into the locker room. When the door swings shut behind him, Dana's left staring in utter befuddlement.

The rest of the shift brings its usual chaos and little by little, the staff that had initially tiptied around Robby are now staring in blatant bewilderment. Robby's levelheaded, efficient and not as likely to snap at a resident that has a misstep. When he pulls Dr. Al-Hashimi into a spare exam room, Princess hovers to try and catch traces of their conversation.

"… behavior was unprofessional. I did not handle it well and I deeply apologize for my conduct."

"Clearly," Baran replies coolly and a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle follows from Robby. But the other attending places a warm hand on his shoulder. "But it looks like the sabbatical did you good."

"It did. I truly am sorry," he adds with a touch of sincerity that shines through.

Dr. Al-Hashimi gives him a soft smile. "You've been less… volatile. I see that. Maybe keep those temper tantrums for the higher-ups, yes?"

A surprised laugh escapes Robby. "You got it."

The door slides open and Princess quickly makes herself busy, giving both doctors a smile before relaying what she heard to Perlah in rapid-fire Tagalog. The two attendings share a knowing look before separating off to continue checking in on their residents.

In North Five, a young woman sits, relaying her pain around her head after a minor collision of her e-bike against her dorm building.

"I just lost control," she explains to Santos who's carefully examining the laceration on her chin. Her bright blue hair is tied back. "The brakes didn't work and I think there was a rock I didn't see— oh! Dr. Robby? This is your hospital?"

Santos looks over her shoulder to see her attending by the door, his large hands rubbing in the sanitizer. He frowns slightly before realization kicks in. "You two know each other?" Santos asks.

He snaps his fingers as he recalls the student that had been the first to tease you about the nickname he'd given you. "Natalie— right?" At her nod, he offers her a little grin of his own. "We met a few weeks ago, she's an art major. Did you tell your professor you're not coming to class, kid?"

"I did, I shot her an email when I was in the waiting room," Natalie confirms. Such dad behavior, she thinks to herself.

Santos' head moves back and forth in absolute confusion but decides it isn't her place to figure out the connection between the two; she'll just ask Princess or Perlah later.

"Good," Robby nods and starts to retreat, gives a nod of acknowledgment towards his resident. "Dr. Santos will take good care of you. I'll be at Central if you need anything."

The cacophany of the emergency room floods in when Robby opens the door to leave. When the door shuts and envelops them in silence, Santos turns to Natalie. "How do you know him?"

"He's dating my professor."

"I'm sorry, what—?"

News travel fast in the pitt and soon, Ahmad's got a new betting pool drawn up before noon:

Doctor

Doctor (at PTMC)

Nurse

Nurse (at PTMC)

Teacher

Lawyer

In between patients, Santos makes her way over to the security station and hands over a twenty while ensuring her poker face is on. "Put me down for art history professor."

Ahmad gives her a suspicious look. "You know something."

"I have a hunch."

The security guard takes the twenty without breaking contact, scrawls her name down on a bright post-it before slapping it onto the board.

By late afternoon, a woman walks through the ambulance bay. Gravity seems to shift, the space of the emergency department rearranging to center her. Heads turn as she walks by, gazes linger.

"How can I help you, hon?" Dana asks, peering above her glasses while balancing a clipboard against her hip. "Do you have family in here?"

You shake your head and when you smile, it's infectious. Jesus, Dana thinks, you're like sunshine incarnate. "No, I'm here for Michael— sorry, Dr. Robinavitch?"

Surprise paints itself onto the charge nurse's features, brows flying up as a wicked grin curls onto her lips. "Oh, yeah? He's with a patient right now, but I'm sure he'll be right out. You wanna wait in the break room?"

You shake your head with a sheepish laugh. "I'm on a lunch break but I have his wallet, could you give it to him when you get the chance—?"

"Sweetheart, what're you doin' here? Is everything alright?"

Robby's imposing figure cuts through the staff of the emergency department, instinct having everyone part like the red sea as he makes his way towards you. The intense weight of concern and worry in his gaze nearly floors you so you're quick to reassure him with a smile, a hand on his chest. "I'm fine, you worrywart. You left your wallet on my dresser," you chuckle as you retrieve his tri-fold from your purse.

In the background, the entire department almost goes still — or rather, as still as the pitt could be — as they watch the entire scene unfold. Even Joy's mouth is agape, staring at the grumpy old attending nearly buckle under your sweet attention.

"Thanks, Peaches," he chuckles and pockets the wallet before his hand finds your waist. It sates the need to be closer to you but he has enough sense to keep himself from kissing you in front of his colleagues and subordinates. "I'll see you at home?"

"Mhm, I'll see you tonight, Michael. Don't forget your helmet, alright?"

"You got it," he promises, then gives in to drop a fleeting kiss to your hair. When you exit, Ahmad snaps to attention and rushes out with the most important question of the day.

"What's your occupation?"

You pause and look over your shoulder, an incredulous chuckle spilling from your lips. "Art history professor. Why?"

He only groans in response, waving away your questions as he trudges back inside. Before you walk off, you hear a woman cheer in utter triumph.

"Oh, fuck yeah—!"

"Language, Santos."

The ER always felt different at night. Time didn't seem to move right; it stretched, stalled, then snapped forward without warning. One minute it was quiet, the next it was a flood-traumas, drunks, chest pains-ebbing and flowing with a strange, almost lunar rhythm Jack had long since stopped trying to understand, but had come to know.

But the witching hour was when the strange cases showed up, brought in by ambulance or police or just stumbling in off the streets. The dangerous, the deluded, or the medical mysteries no one could quite explain- the ones that made even seasoned ER vets like Jack paused and raise an eyebrow.

Jack had stopped trying to understand it. Night just stripped people down to the basics: fear, pain, anger, all sitting too close to the surface.

He liked it.

Thrived on it, even. The chaos, the constant problems to solve. The army had ruined any chance of a normal sleep schedule anyway, and the ER after dark suited him - everything narrowed down to this place, this moment, this job.

Tonight had been no exception. The evening had started hard and fast with a pileup on the freeway dumping half a dozen patients on them at once. Jack had spent the first few hours of his shift hip-deep in blood and broken bones, shouting orders and barking out instructions- the kind of controlled chaos that made him feel sharp. Alive.

Then, the drugs. ODs- some intentional, most not. A new drug on the streets had spiked, something dangerous that didn't show up in the tox screens right away, sending seizures through half the people who touched it.

They were hard to control and exhausting to manage.

Now, finally, a lull.

Jack leaned against the nurses’ station, nursing a cup of stale vending machine coffee. The caffeine did little to chase away the exhaustion that had settled into his bones, but it was better than nothing.

Movement down the hall caught his eye. He looked up, already knowing who it was before he properly saw you - something in the set of your shoulders, the way you moved, purposeful and steady even at this hour.

You’d been in the department a few months now - one of the new psych nurses they’d put on the floor to help manage the overflow of psych patients they'd never really known how to manage. Long enough that people trusted you. Long enough that Jack did, too.

He watched you approach, taking in the small details without really thinking about it - the way you scanned the room as you walked, clocking everything, the slight tension in your jaw that usually meant a patient was pushing limits somewhere.

You were good. Not just on paper, but in the way that actually mattered here. You were smart and capable, with a dry wit and a no-nonsense attitude that he respected. You handled the psych patients with a firm but compassionate hand, de-escalating tense situations when most would just reach for sedation and hope for the best.

Jack found himself paying attention when you were around. Not in a way he could easily explain. Just… awareness. Like he trusted that if something kicked off, you’d already be halfway to handling it.

Which you usually were.

Still, some part of him - more primitive, more instinct than thought - kept a closer eye on you than anyone else on the floor. It was a reflex he knew better than to take at face value. You didn’t need hovering. You were more than capable of handling yourself.

Didn’t stop the instinct, though. Just meant he ignored it. Mostly.

"Hey," he called out as you drew near, pushing off from the desk and straightening up. "How's our guy in South 14?"

The patient had been brought in by the police: found wandering down a street naked, swinging a baseball bat wildly and shouting about aliens. His skin had a faint green tinge that no one had quite explained yet.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Can you write up 5 of haloperidol and 2 of loraz? He's really agitated- no way I can get an assessment on him when he's like this." You made a face, considering, before adding, "Might be a day shift job. Give him a chance to sleep off whatever he's taken."

“Sure,” Jack nodded, already reaching for the chart. He scribbled out the orders and handed it back with a wry smile. “Anything else I can do for you, doc?”

You rolled your eyes at the title, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “Just keep the crazies coming, Dr. Abbot. It’s what I’m here for.”

Jack always noticed the British lilt in your voice - it cut through the noise of the department, standing out against the heavier American accents around you.

You paused, studying him for a moment with those intelligent eyes. “How about you? You look like you could use some rest.”

Jack snorted. “I’m fine. Just another day in paradise.” He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Besides, the night’s still young. Who knows what kind of entertainment we’ll get before sunrise.”

“Has anyone told you adrenaline and cortisol are bad for you?” you asked dryly.

“Oh, daily,” he replied without missing a beat, pushing off the desk. "Come on. Let's go see our green friend. See if he's got any intergalactic secrets to share."

You fell into step beside him, shoulder brushing his in the narrow corridor. Jack felt it immediately- the brief brush of your shoulder against his in the narrow corridor, the spark of heat that ran sharper than it should have.

Jack exhaled sharply as they walked, jaw tightening. He’d never had issues working alongside omegas before. Never felt anything like this pull of instinct intruding on something as simple as a corridor walk.

He’d never had issues working alongside omegas before. Years in the army, then the ER, had taught him how to ignore anything that got in the way of the job. Instinct, scent, all of it - background noise.

But with you, it wasn’t quite so simple. Your scent was there, just at the edge of awareness - subtle, persistent, impossible to fully tune out. Even with blockers, it cut through in fragments: something warm, faintly spiced and sweet- like those chaii teas Robby sometimes had after dinner. Comforting. Too damn comforting for his own good.

But what could he do other than push it all down, bottle it up in some tucked away corner of his mind? Nothing. So he ignored it. Like usual.

You could hear South 14 before you could see him- voice raised in a feverish rant about government experiments and alien abductions. Jack shot you a sideways look, one brow raised. You just shrugged, already reaching for the handle.

"Welcome to my world, Dr Abbot." you said with a little grin, then slid through the door and into the room.

Inside, the scene was just as chaotic as expected. The patient was pacing back and forth, the thin hospital gown barely clinging to his shoulders, his hair tangled and wild. His eyes flicked nervously between you and the door like he was trying to work out an escape plan.

"Hey, Danny." you soothed, your voice calm and even as you approached the bedside. "I'm me again. You have any of that food I got you?" you nodded to the sandwich and apple he'd left untouched.

"The apples have cameras in!" he screamed, backing away from you. "They'll report back what I say. They know! They know I know!"

You didn't flinch at his outburst, just held up your hands in a placating gesture. "I know it's scary, Danny," you said softly. "But you're safe here. We're not going to let anyone hurt you."

Jack stood back, watching as you moved to stand just out of the patient's reach, your posture non-threatening, tone carefully neutral. You weren't trying to force him into a corner or corner him with questions, just offering a steady presence in the middle of his panic.

"Come on," you coaxed. "Just sit with me. We can talk about it. You want to tell me what's going on with the aliens?"

Danny hesitated, eyes darting to you then to Jack like he wasn't sure he could trust either of you. But after a moment, he nodded stiffly and slunk back toward the bed, sinking down onto it and hugging his knees to his chest. Jack watched as you pulled up a chair, keeping a safe but friendly distance. You sat forward, elbows resting on your knees, expression open and relaxed- not fake, just genuinely interested.

"You want to tell me more about what happened?" you asked gently.

Danny swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the door like he was waiting for someone to burst in. "They...they put something in my head," he whispered. His hand trembled as he ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the strands like he was trying to dig something out from beneath his scalp. "I can feel it. It's in there. They're listening. Always listening."

You nodded slowly, not dismissing it, just acknowledging. "That must be terrifying," you said, your voice soft. "It sounds like you're going through something really hard right now."

Danny's breath caught, and he glanced up at you with wide, desperate eyes. "You believe me?"

"I believe you're really scared," you replied carefully. "And I want to help you feel safer. Will you let me try?"

There was a long pause before Danny finally gave a small, tentative nod.

"Good," you smiled, reaching into your pocket for the med cup. "I brought you something that might help take the edge off. It won't hurt-just help calm things down a bit so you can get some rest."

Jack watched as Danny hesitated, eyeing the meds like they were poison. But then, slowly, he took the cup from your hand and swallowed the pills dry, his whole body still tense.

You stood up then, moving slowly, like you didn't want to startle him. "I'll stay right here with you until they start working, okay? We can talk more if you want."

Danny gave a tiny nod, seeming to settle just a little now that someone wasn't dismissing him or running out of the room. Jack moved back toward the door, giving you both space. He wasn't needed here now. You had everything under control.

You glanced round at him, eyebrow raised slightly as if to ask if he was leaving. Jack just nodded, keeping his expression even. "Call if you need me." he mouthed, gesturing at the panic alarm you always wore on your belt. You gave him a small smile in return and turned back to Danny, who had started talking again in low, rapid bursts about the voices in his head.

Jack slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut softly behind him. His chest felt tight, something sitting uncomfortably under his ribs as he walked away. But there was no time to dwell on it. His pager blared- code stroke, 4 minutes - and he was off again.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of activity, the steady stream of patients keeping Jack and the rest of the ER staff on their toes. There were more OD's and alcohol related incidents, a few car accident victims, and a rather bizarre case of a man who'd tried to open a coconut with his forehead and ended up needing stitches. Jack handled each one with his usual blend of dark humour and efficiency, cracking jokes that fell flat but kept him sane.

Somewhere around 5:30, during a brief moment of peace between traumas, Jack found himself back at the nurses station, leaning against the desk to try to relieve the ache in his stump. You were sitting at the desk, typing away at your computer with a focused little furrow in your brow. You had ear plugs in, a sign you were trying to get something done without distractions. You looked tired, he noted absently, watching as you pushed a loose strand of hair back into the knot at the nape of your neck.

Jack debated whether to interrupt you but decided against it. He didn't need anything from you. Just… wanted to see what you were up to. Not worth pulling your focus away from something that was clearly keeping your mind occupied.

Instead, he pushed himself upright and headed for the break room, gait uneven but steady. Another cup might help keep him moving. The end of the shift was close now-sunrise not far off, handover coming. Robby would be in soon. That thought settled somewhere quieter in his chest.

He poured himself a coffee from the pot then, without thinking, poured one for you too. Milk, one sugar- the way you took it. You looked like you needed it.

When he came back out, you were still at the desk, still working. He slid the cup across to you without a word. You glanced up, surprised, then smiled - tired, but genuine. “Thank you. I was just about to make one.”

“No trouble,” he said, taking a sip of his own. “What’re you working on?”

“Arguing with psych upstairs about taking Danny,” you muttered. “They won’t accept him until neuro reviews him even though there's absolutely no indication for it. It's bullshit."

“You want me to go yell at someone?” he offered, only half joking.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Tempting. But I’ve got it.”

He shrugged, leaning back against the counter, scanning the department out of habit. Calm, for now. Nothing pressing. You’d already picked up the phone.

"Hey- yep, it's me again. Listen, I spoke to neuro and they said they're not coming down. No signs, no symptoms- nothing to review. So can we please just admit him and have your team assess in the morning?" Your voice was firm but not loud.

Jack watched as you ran your free hand over your face, obviously tired of the conversation. The person on the other end was clearly wasting your time.

"Yes, I just sent over the risk assessment. The one saying the ER is a clearly inappropriate environment for him to stay in- yes, even behavioural health-" you huffed, making eye contact with him and rolling your eyes as you listened to the other person talk. "And what's your clinical reasoning for that?" you asked, pausing as the person spoke again. "Alright, well then if it's a staffing concern I'll be raising that as a patient safety incident and- no? You don't want me to do that? Well-" You nodded, satisfied. "Wonderful. I'll be up with him in 20 minutes, I look forward to seeing you then."

Jack raised an eyebrow as you hung up the phone with a mutter of "Absolute prick" under your breath. You glanced at him, shrugging sheepishly.

"That's one way to handle it," he said, grinning.

You took a sip of coffee and looked far too pleased with yourself. "That's the most efficient way of handling it." You stretched and stood up, grabbing a pile of papers and organising them into the man's file. "The hospital's scared of paperwork. I love paperwork. That means the hospital's scared of me."

"Well, I'm glad you enjoy it," Jack said dryly. "One of us has to."

You just grinned and tucked your papers away. There was a pause, the silence hanging between you in that way that felt heavy without being uncomfortable. Jack was trying not to stare, but you were a lot more fun to watch than the rest of the ER.

After a beat, you cleared your throat and shifted your weight.

"Right, I'm going to get him up to psych. Thank you for the coffee again, Dr Abbot!" You gave his arm a brief, absent pat as you moved past, already calling out for an orderly to bring a wheelchair up. Just like that, you were gone - pulled back into the current of the department.

Jack stayed where he was for a second longer, coffee in hand, before pushing himself upright again and getting back to it.

At 7 a.m., Robby arrived, looking far more handsome than he had any right to in his old hoodie and scrubs. His backpack hung off one shoulder as he made his way through the department, nodding to staff as he passed. He was scanning the room as he went, always watching, always observing- it was what made him such a good chief of ER, though the hypervigilance followed him home, leaving him tense and struggling to relax more often than he wanted to admit.

Jack's eyes caught him as soon as he walked in, their bond prickling through the distance as Robby’s gaze locked on him from across the room. It was always like this- Robby's presence felt like a heartbeat just beneath Jack's skin, something steady and grounding in all the chaos. Jack felt a pang of longing so strong it made his chest ache. He wanted to go home with him, to hold him close and feel that warmth right against him, not greeting each other at handover, passing like ships in the night.

"Morning, sunshine," Robby greeted, his voice dry as he clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder. "How was your night?"

Jack glanced over at him, unable to hide the smirk that tugged at his lips. "Oh, you know, the usual. Blood, guts, and green men claiming to be from outer space." He rubbed his eyes. "Oh and someone who drank so much soy sauce he sent his sodium through the roof. Lab made me confirm it three times.”

Robby snorted, shaking his head in amusement. "Only you, Jack. Only you." He glanced around the ER, taking in the chaos. "Anything I need to know about before I take over?"

Jack quickly filled him in on the night's events, pointing out the patients who were waiting for beds upstairs, the ones who would be discharged. Robby listened intently, nodding along and making mental notes, his sharp mind already processing the information and formulating a plan of action.

As they talked, Jack found his gaze drifting back to you, standing off to the side, handing over to the day shift psych nurse. You looked as exhausted as he felt, your shoulders slumped and your eyes heavy with fatigue, but there was still a smile on your face as you chatted with your co-worker. He couldn't help but admire your resilience. Working the night shift was rough on even the best of them, but you handled it with grace.

The thought came uninvited, familiar enough now that it barely startled him- what it would be like to have you there at the end of a shift like this. Not here, in the noise and fluorescent glare, but at home instead, in their bed, tucked between him and Robby, warm and soft against his chest.

He shook his head, banishing the thought before it could take root. It was a dangerous line of thinking, one that led nowhere good. You were young, still building something for yourself, while he and Robby were settled - fixed, in a lot of ways, with too much history and weight behind them to pretend otherwise. It wouldn’t be fair, not to you, and not to what they had already built together.

They had talked about it before, in hushed voices at home long after the stress of the day had faded into quiet. They had acknowledged it for what it was - mutual, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore - but had agreed, just as deliberately, that it was not something they were willing to act on.

Didn’t make it easy.

Not at the end of a shift like this, when he was worn thin and the edges of things felt a little less solid than they should.

"Jack?" Robby's voice broke through his reverie, and Jack blinked, realising he'd been staring off into space. "You still with me, brother?"

"Sorry," Jack mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Long night."

Robby studied him for a moment, his expression softening with concern. "You should get some rest," he said quietly, knowing Jack wouldn't listen to his advice but needing to offer it all the same.

Jack just nodded, pushing himself away from the desk. "I'll see you later." he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Robby's cheek. "Don't work too hard."

"Never do," Robby shot back with a grin. Jack made his way to the locker room, intent on grabbing his things and heading out before he could get roped into anything else. But as he passed you, he slowed just slightly, enough to reach out and let his fingers brush your arm.

“Hey,” he said quietly, waiting until you looked up. “You did good work tonight. Get some rest, alright?”

You blinked at him, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before you nodded. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot. You too.” You hesitated, like there might have been something more to say, then stopped yourself. “See you this evening.”

“See you then,” he said.

He gave a brief nod to the rest of the staff and kept moving, too tired to linger any longer than necessary.

The drive home blurred together, familiar streets sliding past in a haze of exhaustion. He barely remembered pulling into the driveway, or fumbling with his keys before finally getting the door open. Inside, he moved on autopilot- taking off his prosthetic and switching to crutches, pulling off clothes- not even bothering to turn on the lights or check the time before he collapsed onto their bed.

The sheets still carried Robby’s scent - warmth and smoke - and Jack inhaled deeply, letting it settle around him, something close to peace in the aftermath of the night. Sleep came faster than expected, pulling him under as soon as his eyes closed.

You heard the front door open followed by the soft thunks of his bag hitting the bench in the entryway. 

“Hey, you,” he said before you saw him. His voice was sanded down at the edges, lower than it sat before he’d left for his shift. You understood why the nurses gossiped about the rasp of his voice in the breakroom, given you’d been one of those nurses once (and still are). 

His hands came to your hips first, the heels of his palms slotting in the bones there, and then his forehead lowered to the crown of your head. He stood there for a second, breathing you in like he always did when a shift had been difficult. He smelled like the hospital — that ghost of antiseptic that never quite came out of his collar — and underneath it, him. The cedar of whatever soap he kept buying. The faint salt of skin.

“Long one?” you asked.

“Mhm.” His mouth found the side of your neck, just under your ear, and stayed there. The warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin as he said, “Tell me something good.”

He'd come home wrecked and ask you for something good, and you'd give him the smallest thing you could find — the lady at the bodega had a new cat, the tomatoes were finally ripe, you'd seen a kid on the train wearing a tiny tuxedo for no apparent reason — and he'd close his eyes and let you wash whatever it was off him. You were good at it. You'd gotten good at it. Three years of practice.

“Marge is pregnant,” you said.

You felt him smile against your throat before you heard it. “Haven’t heard her name since her going-away party. That one?”

“The same.” You smiled as you let your hand rest over his. 

“Woah.” He laughed, and you felt it move through your back where his chest was pressed against you, tired and fond. “Good for her. I think. Is it good for her?”

“I’m sure it is.” 

His thumb had found the strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up, and he was tracing absent circles into your hip. “When’s the shower?” He peeked over your shoulder to look at the invitation. 

“Three weeks. On Saturday.”

“You going?”

“I have to.”

“Mm.” He hummed against your skin. “Want me to come?”

“You have a shift.”

“I can switch.” 

“It’s alright.” You leaned back into him without meaning to, as though your body had been built with a notch for his sternum. “I’ll bring you cake.”

“My hero.” He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, slow, and then another, lower, and your hand came up automatically to the back of his neck, your fingers finding the short hair at his nape, and you felt him exhale. 

He looked back down at the invitation. “God, can you imagine?”

You opened your mouth.

You didn't know, in that exact second, what you were going to say. You could’ve laughed. Maybe you were going to say something else. Something that had been sitting low in your chest, unnamed, for longer than you'd realized.

You didn't get the chance to find out.

Because he was already shaking his head, already moving on, already pulling you back into him by the small of your back like the thought had been so passing it didn't even need a landing. He pressed his mouth to your temple. You could feel him smiling against your hairline.

"No," he said, into your hair. "Thank god."

--

Jack had the night off, and you woke up at 4:11 in the morning. He was asleep on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow, one arm flung across your waist, the other folded up under his chest like he was bracing for something. The sheet had ridden down to the small of his back, and there was a constellation of tiny scars across his shoulder blade you’d mapped. 

Sometimes, you’d lie in the dark and let your half-asleep mind look at him and feel like you’d gotten away with something. 

His hand was warm against your hip. You’d noticed he always ran a degree hotter than you. In the winter you used him like a furnace and he complained about it lovingly and let you. 

‘Cold-blooded little thing,’ he’d mutter into the back of your neck. ‘Got me out here heating the whole bed.’ 

You stared at the ceiling and, without meaning to, you started thinking about everything you had missed. 

It had been the second Christmas with Jack. His brother’s kid, on FaceTime, a four-year-old obsessed with a stuffed giraffe she kept showing to the camera. You'd been on the couch with him, your feet in his lap, and he'd been good with her. 

He was patient, asking her the giraffe's name, asking what the giraffe ate for breakfast. 

After the call, Jack had set the phone face-down on the coffee table and exhaled and said, “God, she's cute for about eleven minutes and then I am tapped.” 

He'd said it with warmth. He was laughing as he squeezed your ankle. You had laughed too because it was funny, because four-year-olds were exhausting, because you were twenty-five and not thinking about it, because you were in love with a man who said funny, tired things about his niece and that was a personality, that was a bit, that was Jack.

You never believed that memory would ever resurface, at least not as anything that held so much fucking weight.

Then there was the vasectomy consultation. You’d been dating six months.

You'd been sitting on his kitchen counter in his apartment, before you'd moved in,and he'd been making you eggs, and he'd said, casually, his back to you, “Oh, I had a consultation last week.” 

You'd said, “For what?” 

He'd said, “Vasectomy.”

He'd said it so simply, as though he were a man ordering a sandwich. He'd said, “Just exploring options. You know how it is,” and flipped the eggs. 

You had been twenty-five and six months in love and you had said, “Yeah, totally,” because you didn't want to be the woman who made it weird at six months.

The wedding last summer, his cousin's, where his aunt had cornered you by the bar and said, “Honey, don't wait too long, you know what they say. The clock.”

And Jack had appeared at your elbow with a glass of wine for you and steered you away with his hand at the small of your back, and on the dance floor, swaying, his mouth at your ear, he'd said, “Sorry, she's a menace,” and then, “Don't listen to her, by the way,”

You’d said, “what do you mean?”

“The clock thing. don't let anybody put that on you. you've got time.”

Not we. You.

--

You waited eleven days from the afternoon you received the invitation. 

On day four you got your period and stood in the bathroom and cried. You weren’t trying, you weren’t even sure you were ready. But the first thing you felt, looking down, was relief. And you didn't know when relief had become the shape of your body's answer to that question. You didn't know who'd taught you that. You had a guess.

You washed your hands. You went back to bed. Jack was asleep on his stomach and you got in next to him and he made the small sound he made in his sleep when you came back and put his hand on your hip without waking up, and you cried about that too, quietly, into the pillow, because his hand was so warm and because you understood, dimly, that this was the kind of thing you were going to miss.

Eleven dinners you didn’t bring it up at; eleven walks home you didn’t bring it up at; of one Sunday morning where you’d opened your mouth and he’d put a piece of bacon in it instead, laughing, and you’d let him, and you hated yourself for the laugh that came around the bacon. 

He steered you towards the dining table and told you to eat the stew, his voice bossy and tender all at once. You’d eaten, and the stew had been good. He’d told you a story about the upstairs neighbour, and now it was nine-thirty and the dishes were done. He was leaning against the counter drinking the last of his wine, probably before he switched to beer, and 

He'd been off all day. He'd done the things he did when he was off. He'd gone for a run, he'd read on the couch, he'd made a stew that filled the apartment with the smell of bay leaves and red wine. You'd come in from your shift at seven and he'd kissed you at the door and handed you a glass of something and told you to eat in a voice that was bossy and tender at once, and you had eaten, and the stew had been good, and you had laughed at something he'd said about the upstairs neighbor, and now it was nine-thirty and the dishes were done and he was leaning against the counter drinking the last of his wine and you were standing at the other end of the kitchen island with your hands flat on the marble. 

You could feel his gaze plastered onto you, it had been for the last few minutes. He’d been watching you, you realized, for the better part of the evening. He’d been stealing glances for the last hour or so, as if he believed something was off and he wanted to find out what. You’d never been good at being discreet; you were surprised you’d managed to be for the last eleven days. 

“What?” he said, finally, breaking the unintentional silence. 

“Nothing,” you lied. 

“Mm?” His hum picked up at the end, a corner of his lip twitching down as he tried to read your thoughts right out of your brain. 

Because he never pushed you, he took another sip of his wine and set the glass down.

You stared at the marble. You’d picked it together, though it had been more than you. You’d gone to the stone yard in Long Island on a Saturday and walked through aisles of slabs and he’d asked you to pick. You picked this one. You weren’t even sure what it was called, this white marble with gray veins that looked like rivers on a map. Three months later, it’d been installed in the kitchen in the apartment you’d moved into because he’d asked you to. 

You’d thought—when he asked—the marble meant something. You were realizing you thought a lot of things meant something. 

“Do you ever—” You cleared your throat, because something had lodged inside it making your voice thick. “Do you ever think about the future?” 

You continued staring at the marble.

“What do you mean?” he asked after a minute of silence. His voice was unnervingly careful. 

“I mean,” you said. The words were coming out on their own. You had not, after eleven days of rehearsal, prepared this version “Do you think about where we go?”

“Where we go?” You could practically hear his head tilt to the side, like a puppy when it heard a new sound. 

Except Jack was not a puppy, and a part of you knew that this wasn’t new, had likely crossed his mind at least once.

“Yes.”

“I think we’re going pretty good,” he said. “Are you not—”

“I don’t mean—I’m not saying—Jack…”

You turned to face him now. He was looking at you with his arms folded and his face so neutral you were almost insulted. Except for his neck, for there was a tendon standing out on the side of it. You watched it and realized he knew what you were about to ask, and he was only figuring out how to answer now. 

Your chest went cold, like someone had put a coin right under your sternum.

“I mean, do you think about—kids.” The word slipped out of your mouth like a snap of a rubberband. 

“Baby,” he said.

You felt the rest of the sentence assemble itself in the air between you before he said it. You knew the shape of it. You'd nursed long enough to know the cadence of a doctor about to tell a family something they didn't want to hear; there was a soft entry word, a pause, a lowering of the chin half an inch.

You'd watched him do it. You'd watched him do it to mothers, to husbands, to the daughter of the man in 4B who'd come in with chest pain and not gone home. You'd stood at the foot of the bed and handed people tissues afterward and thought that he is so kind, that he is so good.

You understood, now, that you were the family.

“Don’t—please don’t do that. Just answer.”

He looked at you for what felt like a very long time. The refrigerator hummed behind the two of you. 

“No.”

The same word he'd said into your hair three weeks ago in this same kitchen, with his mouth at your temple, no, thank god. Except now there was no thank god. Now there was just the no, naked, with no padding around it, and you understood—you understood in your spine, in the soles of your feet, in the place behind your eyes where you kept the things you couldn't afford to know—that he had taken the padding off on purpose. He had taken it off because he had decided, in the silence between your question and his answer, that this was a conversation that needed the padding off.

“Ever?” you said, and hated how it came out choked.

“Ever.”

“You’ve never—”

“Not once.” When you stayed silent, he added, “I’m sorry.”

“Jack,” you said, and your voice was almost pleading.

“I’m not going to do that to you,” he said. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend I have to think about it. You asked me a real question, and I want to give you a real answer.”

“So you’ve—” Your throat clamped up. Again. “You’ve thought about it?” 

“Of course, I’ve thought about it,” he said, voice going lower. “I’ve thought about it the whole time.”

The kitchen, you noticed, had developed an echo. Or maybe your ears had. There was a small ringing somewhere behind your jaw. You put your hand on the marble. The marble was cold. You concentrated on the cold.

“So when—” You had to stop  to find your voice. You found it lower than you'd put it down. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“With me.”

He looked down at the same marble you were staring at, then looked back up at you. “The second date.”

You laughed. It came out wrong, a small dry laugh, like something breaking inside a wall. You hadn't been prepared for the second date. You remembered the second date. It had been a Thai place on 9th. He had ordered for both of you because you'd let him. He'd walked you home in the rain under his coat held over both your heads and you'd thought, ‘this one. this is the one.’

He had been deciding something else. 

“You told me about your sister’s kid and—yeah,” he said.

“I told you about Joey and you went home and decided—?”

“I didn’t decide anything that night,” he said. “I already knew. You told me about Joey and I—I watched your face and I thought oh. That's all. I thought you were going to want that. And I thought I should tell you, and I didn't.”

There was a small high ringing somewhere behind your jaw. You got those when you stood up too fast. “And the vasectomy consult—”

He paused, eyebrows pushing in together. He hadn’t expected that one.

“I didn’t do it.” He pushed off the counter finally. He came around the island, slow, the way he moved toward a patient he didn't want to spook. He stopped a foot away from you. He didn't touch you. Three years of him not being able to walk past you in a kitchen without putting a hand on your hip, and he stopped a foot away and held his hands at his sides like a man at a wake.

“I didn't do it because I met you and I thought—I thought I should talk to you first, and then I didn't, because I didn't want to scare you, and then time went by and it seemed—cruel.”

You laughed. It came out of you like a cough. You didn't know your face had done anything until you saw his face change in response to yours.

“Don’t do that.” He shook his head, tongue running over the inside of his mouth. 

“You thought it was cruel?”

“To bring it up out of nowhere. Six months in. Eight months in. Whenever. There was never a—never a moment. There was—what was I going to do? Sit you down at a restaurant and tell you my reproductive plans? At a year? Two? When?”

“Any of those times, Jack. Any of them.” 

“What would you have done if I had sat you down at fourteen months and said, hey, just so you know, never? What would you have done?

The answer was that at fourteen months you were so in love with him you would have eaten glass for him. The answer was that at fourteen months you would have said that's okay and meant it, or thought you meant it, which was the same thing. The answer was that he was right, which was, you understood now, the thing about him that was going to end you. He was right about you. He had always been right about you. He had clocked you, somewhere in the first year, as the kind of woman who would talk herself into it, and he had been correct, and he had let you, and now you were in your kitchen at thirty years old with your hand on the cold marble and he was telling you, gently that he had known.

“You should have told me,” you said, and it came out a whisper. 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Maybe.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I should’ve done. I’m not—” He ran a hand down his face. He looked tired. He looked, for the first time in the conversation, like himself. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not good at this. I’m sorry—I am sorry.”

“Jack.”

“I am.”

“You’re saying never. That there’s—there’s no version of this where—”

“No.”

“Where you and I—”

“No, sweetheart.”

“Jack.”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “I'm not going to do that. I love you. I'm not going to lie to you. I love—”

And the worst part — the part you would not, later, be able to forgive yourself for—was that your chest did the thing. The small lift. The half-second of Jack is here, the way a dog's head comes up when it hears its name. Three years of him saying it and your body learning to lean toward the sound. Your hand, you noticed, had twitched a quarter-inch toward him on the marble. You had not told it to.

You hated it. You hated your hand. You hated the dog of you. You hated that some part of you was going to want him tomorrow, and next month, and probably — the thought arrived whole, terrible—for the rest of your life, because three years was a long time to teach a body something and you did not know how to make a body unlearn.

“That’s not enough, Jack.” 

You were crying. You hadn't noticed. Your hand was still on the marble and your face was wet and he was a foot away from you and not touching you, which was the part you would remember later, which was the part that would, in the small hours, be the thing you couldn't get past — that he had not, in this moment, reached for you. That he had read the room and known better.

"I would be a bad father," he said.

"Don't."

"I would. I — "

"Don't do that. Don't make this a — don't make it about you being noble. Don't."

He stopped.

He looked at you. He looked at you for a long second and you watched something you had not, in three years, seen happen in his face, a small private collapsing, a giving up of a position he had been holding for so long he had forgotten he was holding it.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

“Okay. Then — yeah. I don't want them. I have never wanted them. I'm fifty-four years old and I have been a doctor for almost thirty of those years and I have watched what happens to people who have kids in this job and I have made my peace with not having that life. I made my peace with it before I met you. I should have told you. I didn't tell you because I — “

He stopped.

“Why?” 

He looked at you. “Because—you—” He shook his head, like the words were physically painful to say.

“Because I wanted you,” he said. “And I knew if I said it you'd go. I thought if I was good enough at the rest of it you wouldn't notice the shape of the thing that wasn't there. And then a year went by and I thought you haven’t asked, maybe you don’t—" He stopped. He didn't let himself finish that one. "I knew you did. I knew you did the whole time. I watched you with—I watched you with the kids that came in and I knew. I just—I wanted one more month. And then I wanted one more. That's all it ever was. One more month.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

You stood there with your hand on the marble and your face wet and your chest doing a thing that wasn't crying anymore, that had moved past crying into some other room, and you looked at him across the foot of air between you and you understood, finally, that he had done this on purpose.

Not the cruelty. He hadn't been cruel on purpose. He'd been cruel by accident, the way honest men are cruel.

But the choice. The choice to let you stay. The choice, three years ago, to look at a twenty-seven-year-old woman who wanted things and to decide that he wanted her more than he wanted to be the kind of man who told her the truth on time. That he had done on purpose. That he had known about. That he had been carrying, all this time, in the part of himself he didn't show you, and he had carried it well, he had carried it so well you had not, in three years, suspected the weight.

You said, "Wow."

It came out small. It came out almost amused. He flinched, finally, at that one. You watched it move through him. You filed it away. You thought, in some cool clean part of your mind, you would need to hear that flinch in your mind a hundred times over so you could forget how you felt right now. 

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what."

"Don't — wow me."

"Jack."

“I love you. I'm not — I'm not going to defend it. I'm not going to — yeah. I wanted you around. I knew what I was doing. I knew — yes.”

You took your hand off the marble. You looked at your hand. Your hand was shaking, which surprised you. Your hand had not, until this moment, been a hand that shook.

You said, “I have to—”

You didn't finish the sentence, because you’d already started walking out of the kitchen.

You walked out of the kitchen.

He didn't follow you.

“Jesus,” you jumped in your spot as your phone and smartwatch suddenly started buzzing, both making an awful sound on the metal stool you left them on.

You stretched your body up as much as you could from your spot to catch a glimpse of your screen. Mel. You sighed, secretly hoping it had been spam you could ignore since you were busy. If you had your watch on, you could’ve simply answered the call with the tip of your nose, but of course you had been deep in sterilization processes, so you took it off earlier.

You finished sealing your autoclave packages and placed the “sacrificial” tools and their testing vials properly into the new machine. This admittedly could’ve been done earlier in the morning, but it was a new machine. It didn’t matter how many autoclaves you’ve worked with at this point or how minimal the differences truly are from company to company; you had to read the manual front to back.

By the time you were able to dispose of your gloves and wash your hands again, about ten minutes had passed since the phone stopped buzzing, besides a couple of texts sent after the fact. You double-checked the time, set a timer on your watch, and walked out to your piercing room. Rather than read the texts, you figured you’d just call her back.

“Hey, what’s up, blondie?” you greeted her playfully, tapping the speakerphone symbol.

“I slept in late today. I didn’t wake up until 8:30,” she chirped before immediately admitting: “Well, I woke up at 7:00, but I stayed in bed until 7:30! I really had to pee so I got up for that, but I went back to bed until I was hungry.”

“That’s great, Mel. Not meant to feel like a prison sentence, but I think you’re on the right track,” you laughed, looking over your to-do list for the day.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked in a way that kept the slight smile on your lips.

“Oh, just the most exciting stuff—actually, you might really like this—I’m doing spore tests on the new autoclaves.”

“That is really exciting! Do you do the testing yourself? Do piercers have tiny labs? I guess I never really considered the science side of it, but that’s on me for not asking more questions about it.”

You took a deep breath for yourself, mentally taking it for her as well when she was done rambling.

“No. No tiny lab. I get kits for testing the machines and they get sent out to a lab... Would’ve liked to get this done sooner, but the machines came in kinda late,” you grumbled to yourself over the minor setback from the delivery service, but decided not to get into it.

“That’s fun! Can I see the results? Or is it confidential…” she sounded hesitant at the end, the way she usually does when the possibility of a faux pas hits her.

“No, not confidential. Actually, anyone can come in and ask to see proof that our autoclave is working properly. I can show you the results when I get them.”

“Oh, cool!”

You added something to your list, about to ask what she wanted to talk about, unless it was just to let you know about her sleeping in, but she kept talking.

“Do you use the autoclave on everything?”

“Just about, yeah. We get some stuff in that’s sterile in the packaging, but yeah.”

“That’s really reassuring, actually, I wonder—” Mel continued on, occasionally interrupting her own train of thought with clarifications or comments to herself. You set your notebook aside with a little laugh.

“Mel.”

“Yeah?”

“Was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, sorry, um… darn, what was it…”

There was some shuffling on her end and you shook your head with an amused smile, checking the timer on your watch.

“Oh! I wanted to try something else on the list. I know we’ve been doing a lot of movies and I slept in late today, but I want to check something new off the list.”

“Very cool. You’re getting awfully brave over there, Dr. King.”

There was a faint, awkward laugh on her end right as your attention was briefly pulled aside by Mabel poking their head in to say something about food being delivered. Growling music Mel was still getting used to flooded the room until the door was closed again.

“So what were you thinking? I’m gonna have to let you go in a couple minutes to eat, but I wanna know what’s next on the list.”

“I’m still unsure, but I think I’d like to try going out dancing! I know you said clubs can get pretty crowded, so I think I’d like to try going to one before it’s too hot out. Would you and Dr. Santos be able to take me?”

Oh, great. This is gonna turn into multiple things being crossed off that list if Trin is joining, you think to yourself. You refrained from starting a discussion on the fact that she would still be dealing with a lot of sweaty bodies in May. Even if you went to a club in the middle of winter, honestly.

“Sure, Mel, whatever you want.”

ʚɞ

Mel’s desire to go dancing was probably the first time you saw Trinity get genuinely excited about this little journey the blonde set herself on.

“Oh, we’re so getting that girl wasted,” Trin said from her spot on your bed, burned out after a long day and ready to drink.

“Real White Girl Wasted—” she mimicked the stupid raise-the-roof motion as she went “Oo-a-Oo!”

“She’s not drinking,” you laughed with a shake of your head, unfolding a shirt to consider it.

“You’re joking,” she immediately deflated, groaning and flopping back when you shake your head.

“That girl will hate every second of that club if she’s sober.”

“Oh, I know, but one at a time. I think she’d prefer trying like a sip of wine or something in the apartment if she’s ever really going to check that one off.”

“Boring,” Trinity drew out the word. “I did not switch my day off this week for this.”

“Let’s just see how she feels when she’s there. She might want to try more,” you shrug, holding up an outfit to ask for her thoughts on it. She scowls and shakes her head.

“You can still drink, just don’t get wasted until we get back to the apartment,” you laughed, playfully whipping her leg with a lazily twisted shirt.

You both glanced at the door when Mel approached with a hopeful smile, holding up a formal work-type dress.

“I could go in this, right?”

“She doesn’t plan on getting laid, so I don’t see why not,” Trin muttered, cursing at you under her breath when you hit her with the shirt again. She tugs it from your hand to give your side a quick snap in return.

“Isn’t that your nice dress for conferences and stuff…?” you asked carefully, and she nods. “Yeah, Mel, hon, if you wear that to the club, it’s gonna get stuff spilled all over it.”

“Oh… I didn’t think about that,” Mel hummed in disappointment, brows furrowed as she looks at the dress.

“Why don’t you borrow something from my closet?” you offered. “I don’t mind.”

She bunches her mouth off to the side in thought, considering your open closet and the piles of clothes that had already wound up on your bed.

“I can get down with dress-up time. C’mon, Mel-ignant,” Trin sighed, getting up to gently hold her upper arm and guide her to the clothes that had already been laid out—most of which Mel was bound to decline, but there had to be something.

You continued to look through as well while Trinity helped her find an outfit. Mel held her hands close to her chest the whole time, shaking her head here, nodding there, sometimes unsure, which was more than evident in her expression.

“Okay, how about this?” the brunette sighed, gesturing her hands to the clothes she had laid out. “Simple, but classic. Very chill approach to the club.”

You let out the lightest breath of amusement over her acting like she was selling something to the girl in the most lackluster tone. On top of that, poor Mel was not expecting how comfortable the two of you were with changing in the same room. She was about to answer when you slid your shirt off, tossing it into your hamper.

“Um…” she trailed off, face a bit warm by the time she pulled her attention back to the clothes. Trinity had laid out low-rise jeans and a simple t-shirt that was cropped just enough to land around the belly button.

“I don’t know… won’t my stomach be out?” Mel asked, unsure.

“Ah, but that’s where the boxers come in,” Trin pointed out, tugging at the band of the boy shorts she had laid under the jeans so Mel could see them better. “If you feel like your stomach is out too much, just tug these up a bit more.”

“But then everyone will see my underwear.”

“That’s the point,” you and Trinity replied in unison, prompting Mel to glance at you again. She wound up briefly watching you step out of your sweatpants.

“Okay… I’ll try it on…” she gave an affirmative nod, even if her tone was still unsure.

“Tight,” Trinity said, balling up the clothes to happily shove them into her arms. Mel blinked as she clumsily accepted them, heading out of your room with her head ducked down to go change in her own space.

“Extra points if you go no-bra!” she called after the blonde, who gave a simple “No thank you” before closing her bedroom door behind her.

“Let them be free, King! You’ll never be free until—ow!” Trin frowned, rubbing the arm you lightly smacked.

ʚɞ

This poor girl. Why must she insist on experiencing these things.

This is all you can think as you watch her constantly tug at the waistline of the jeans back at the apartment, as if she tried hard enough they’d cover her entirely and stop making her feel like her stomach was fully showing or like her butt was going to fall out of them if she had to lean forward. Then she was shifting constantly in the Uber, constantly tugging at the bottom of the shirt to try covering herself more while she was sat down. Meanwhile, Trinity was plotting as much as possible on the drive there.

“I’m telling you, I wish I got it all out of the way in a night. Then it’s over with and you have nothing to worry about,” she whispered to Mel, trying to convince her to at least go for a drink or two and a first kiss tonight. She wanted Mel to have fun, and… she admittedly wanted some entertainment as well.

“Trinity,” you warned, giving her a look after scoffing at the blatant lie as if she hasn’t had entire nights out where she did at least half of the things Mel rejected from her list.

“What? You know it’s true,” she pointed out and you didn’t have anything to say out loud. You simply gave her a look to leave the woman alone.

Meanwhile Mel was thinking it over, considering Santos’ advice as carefully as she would in the workplace.

“I think a first kiss would be nice to get out of the way tonight,” she agreed suddenly with a determined and singular nod. Your mouth fell slightly open in surprise, immediately shutting it again before Trinity could give you a smug look of success.

And oh how the mighty fall. Yes, a very successful convincing on Trin’s end. But now, rather than going straight into the club when you got there, Mel was nervously pacing with the change of plans practically floating over her head like a cartoon rain cloud.

“Just think of it as us celebrating the shop opening, if that takes some pressure off us going out tonight,” Santos offered, groaning to herself and walking off to the side when her phone started buzzing.

“It’s not that, although that’s a good point. Maybe we should be focusing more on celebrating you,” Mel spoke desperately, pausing her frantic walking back and forth to look at you.

“I don’t need tonight to be about me. And we can go home, Mel. We don’t need to go clubbing. You certainly don’t need to force a first kiss tonight,” you huffed out a laugh, shoving your hands into your pockets as you took in the scenery, admiring the blend of warm and cool glows in the distance as the sun was setting. You smiled when you caught Trin’s eye and she mimed blowing her brains out with two fingers pressed to her temple.

Your eyebrows shot up when you looked forward again, finding Mel way too close to you.

“Whoa—uh…”

“Do you think you could kiss me so I can practice? I’m always better with hands-on experiences. I don’t do as well with theoretical learning. I can grasp concepts well, but when it comes to applying them, I really do much better when I’ve actually physically done whatever it is,” she explained in a rush, gulping down a breath once her body forced her to.

“That’s one hell of a pickup line, King, but no way.”

You realized then that Mel had been gently holding your arm because she tugged a little, her expression pleading. You sighed out a quiet curse under your breath and awkwardly scratched at the back of your neck with your free hand, swinging your attention around for absolutely anything else. You landed on Trin, who was still on the phone, explaining her change of plans to her roommate for the thousandth time.

“Ask her. You’ve known her longer than me.”

“Well, I would need to talk to HR first if I kissed Dr. Santos,” Mel replied simply, as if it was obvious. Apparently, Trinity had overheard because she temporarily pulled away from her phone to say, “She couldn’t handle all this,” while gesturing to herself.

You laugh despite the slight betrayal, your attention painfully drawn back to the blonde in front of you.

“Please,” she begged, so nervous you could feel it, or maybe it was your own anxiety. You wished for one second you could plant your experiences into her brain to help her feel just how cruel this was and how, if you were going to have a good time tonight, it would be best to not feel like you were in high school again. But you can’t, so.

Instead, you gently hold her chin between your thumb and curled index finger. You lean in hardly an inch, Mel’s lashes fluttering like she was already about to close her eyes, but you had stopped.

“You shouldn’t use your gay friends like this. It’s just mean,” you whispered playfully, and her eyes widened, cheeks burning a deeper red than you’d ever seen them.

"Alright, let's gooo."

Mel was babbling some apologies, but you didn’t listen all that closely, too busy checking over your shoulder to see if Trinity was aware once you turned the other girl around with your hands on her shoulders, leading her toward the entrance.

“No, no, I don’t care. Just fucking eat it, I don’t care that it’s the last one. You’re going to anyway and you know it—goodbye, Huckleberry,” Trin groaned and hung up, shoving her phone into her pocket while catching up to the two of you.

ʚɞ

“I asked them to make your Sprite fancy too, Mel, so you wouldn’t feel left out,” Trinity explained as she handed her the Sprite in its fun glass with the tiny umbrella, some cherries, and a flat disc-top cocktail stirrer.

“What’s the umbrella for?” Mel smiled before sipping from the two small red straws Santos plopped into the cup as a final touch.

“To protect your drink from the rain,” Trinity explained reverently, dodging your elbow she knew would be seeking out her side.

“It’s just 'cause it’s fun, Mel, c’mon,” you laughed, resting your hands on her arms again to guide her while Trinity and you kept an eye out for a table. You missed the face Mel made at her drink, opening and closing her mouth a few times as she tried to taste if something was really off or if it was just her. She took another sip and decided it must’ve just been in her head, or maybe it was the cherries that were added.

Trin finally spotted an open table among all the occupied ones on an elevated portion of the room surrounding the dance floor.

“Everything’s so sticky,” Mel observed out loud, attempting to pull her lips away from her teeth to offer a grateful smile for the night out, but it was awkward and her discomfort was obvious. She kept her hands locked together by her chest as she leaned forward to sip at her drink again, humming her gratitude when you tugged her drink away to lay out some napkins on the spot in front of her before putting her drink back.

“It was like this at that bar too. Are these places always like this?” she asked over the music.

“Oh, wait until you see the bathroom,” Trinity laughed. “It only feels acceptable when you’re puking your guts up or getting lucky in a stall.”

“Oh.” Mel tilted her head curiously, then glanced at her drink that was half gone already and decided to lay off it a bit. She planned on not needing the bathroom the entire time she was here, if she could help it.

“Speaking of getting lucky,” Trin bounced her eyebrows as she nudged both of you.

You and Mel looked up to glance in the direction she nodded towards. There was a guy on the dance floor who kept looking at Mel. When he saw he got her attention, he grinned at her and waved. Confused, she looked behind herself, then gave both of you a wide-eyed, questioning look while pointing to herself.

“Just go before I tip you out of your chair myself,” Trinity groaned.

“It’s okay. We’ll keep an eye on you,” you reassured her the best you could, offering Mel an encouraging smile.

“Can you come with me?” she asked you as she barely set her feet back on the floor, not really wanting to leave her seat.

“Ehh… I think I’ll just keep an eye on you from here,” you got out carefully with a little laugh, explaining further when she looked at you all confused and maybe even a bit betrayed.

“He’ll get the wrong idea. Just go have fun, or wait for someone else to catch your eye.”

“Mm, no way, don’t do that to yourself,” Trinity spoke up between taking a drink from her straw and swallowing, pushing Mel’s drink towards her on its coaster-napkin float.

“Okay, first, she means he’ll think you both want to fuck him if she joins you—What? It’s true—If you go alone, it’s a basic ‘sure, whatever, I’ll dance with you,” She explained bluntly.

“‘Sure, whatever, I’ll dance with you,’” Mel repeated nervously under her breath, nodding as if this really gave her the support she needed. She took her drink off the coaster, grateful for the buffer it created by giving her something to hold.

“If you wait, you’ll never leave your seat all night. He’s already interested. He looks clean and decent… I guess,” Trin shrugged, frowning slightly as she looked at the guy. What would she know? Guys don’t do it for her. “Just try and if you don’t like it, then come back here. Oh, and… probably stay where we can see you.”

“Yeah… okay,” Mel nodded, swallowing nervously before heading towards the dance floor, frequently looking back at the two of you to make sure she could still see you.

You both waved at her the last time she glanced back before she was right in front of the guy.

“Oh, she really does not want men,” Santos murmured under her breath behind the partial smile she gave as she waved.

“Then why are we making her suffer through this?” you replied similarly, the two of you dropping the motionless muttering the second Mel looked away.

“Hey, she wanted the different kinda twenties messy than the one she got handed first go round,” Trin declared her innocence in the situation with her hands up. “Not like she’ll listen if we just tell her she’s a dyed-in-the-wool carpet muncher, anyway.”

“In that sense, she is metaphorically colorblind,” Trin concluded then with a distinguished raise of her finger as if giving a very intelligent lecture rather than being two steps away from calling a friend the d-slur.

“Ah,” you replied playfully with a considerate tone before she paused to give a server a languid smile while requesting a few shots.

“She might listen if she looks into it,” you added with a laugh, eyeing the brunette and all her excessive facial expressions while you drank.

“Yeah, I bet you’d like her research,” Trinity cackled around her straw, “hey"-ing you when you kicked at her under the table. She kicked you back and hit your shin perfectly. She curled her lips inward to try holding in her laugh, barely getting out her “apology” while you rubbed your shin.

“I meant reading about it, you lil’ shit,” you retorted as you folded your leg up onto the seat with you to keep rubbing the spot. You both glanced at the dance floor to quickly spot Mel again before continuing.

“Mhm,” she nodded, doing so well hiding her amusement. Her smile was still pulling at her lips while she finished off her first drink.

“But seriously, I don’t… y’know,” you gestured vaguely as she looked at you with a lazy brow raise. “Not her.”

“I’m all set on being another intro course for some straight girl,” you huffed. “Even if she’s not straight, or at least not as straight as she thinks she is.”

“Mm, guess I get that,” Trin hummed out with a full mouth pout, admittedly bummed by the lack of roommate drama.

“But she was really beggin’ earlier, huh...?” she cautiously teased moments later before tugging a cherry off its stem with her teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I just mean I’m proud of you for not breaking,” she mock-praised you while she chewed on the syrup-soaked fruit. “Some psychic part of her totally picked up on a kink.”

“I actually cannot stand you, you know that?” you countered, despite the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You sighed shortly after, rubbing your temple for personal reasons in addition to sympathetic ones as Mel tugged at her jeans yet again on the dance floor. Free hand splayed out, she was very clearly rambling out an apology to the person next to her she had accidentally elbowed.

“You love me and you know it.”

ʚɞ

One and a half drinks and a shot later—well, two drinks and two shots later for Trinity—you both got out of your chairs to lean back against the edge of the table, keeping an eye on Mel, but she seemed to be having fun. Yet still no kiss.

“We should’ve specified to get a kiss and get out. I thought we were all dancing tonight,” Trinity grumbled as she settled her head on your shoulder.

You were finishing off your second drink, reaching over her to put it back on the table.

“She’s been okay. Maybe we could go dance and try to stay near her,” you pointed out, and yet you both stayed leaning against one another, distantly watching over your friend as she did an odd move that made you laugh and Trinity look away with a groan.

“I’m bored,” she complained.

You simply nod, raising a brow when you look at her and she’s staring you down. She looks you over as if considering a business deal before proposing it with a squint.

“Wanna make out?”

You let out a laugh as you look forward, thinking it’s a joke offer. After a second, you both look at each other again. Seeing she’s still staring, the two of you consider it before shaking your heads with a lackluster “nah” at the same time.

“Alright, she has ten minutes before I’m making that dance floor my bitch,” she declared, pointing to her watchless wrist.

ʚɞ

“What?” Mel mouthed with furrowed brows when she caught Dr. Santos in her periphery.

She pointed at her wrist as if pointing to a watch. You tugged at her arm and shook your head in Mel’s direction, but Santos held up her arms again, this time bunching her fingertips together on both hands and pressing them together as if making her hands kiss.

Oh. Oh.

She had been enjoying dancing so much that she forgot about that part. She blinked, looking at that random guy again who was definitely out of it as he got closer and said something about liking her hair. Alarms were going off inside her, yet she felt looser than usual for some reason. She’d read plenty of stories where initial attraction meant getting butterflies. This… must be what it felt like…? She imagined she’d be a little nauseated if there were insects fluttering around in her gut.

“You can kiss me,” she told him over the music.

“What!?”

“You can kiss me! I’d like to check it off my list!” she said louder, and he looked at her with the dumbest expression until his mind caught up.

ʚɞ

“Oh! There she goes,” Trinity pointed out as the guy put his mouth on Mel’s. Mel had no idea what to do with the situation or her hands as she visibly cringed inward. Her hands kind of stayed in limbo in the air before she held them in front of herself like an awkward barrier between the two of them. She twisted her arms slightly and gripped at her own hands.

“Yeah, looks like she’s having the time of her life,” you replied with a cringe, your attention straying out of secondhand revulsion.

ʚɞ

Mel sank back into her own thoughts as she tried to focus on anything but the textural nightmare that was having this man attached to her face. Like a frantic tide, her mind went from words of encouragement to this messy kiss and how grating his facial hair was. Then, “Was Dr. Santos staying over tonight? She must be, she took tomorrow off—” to the kiss and all the spit involved again to, “How long are these things supposed to last?” Then right back to the spit. And on and on.

Actually, the more she thought about it, the amount of saliva was somewhat abnormal. Could that be the alcohol? She wondered how many substances were in his system. Then she thought of how people tend to salivate more before throwing up.

“Are you feeling ok?” she asked after pulling back so suddenly that the guy swayed slightly.

“Yeah, great,” he grinned and leaned in again. She leaned away, brow furrowed in thought.

“No nausea? Really? Hm… and how many drinks have you had?”

ʚɞ

You lifted your hand in a lazy wave to some girl Trinity started talking to, only briefly introducing you to be nice and because she wanted to establish that you were only a friend.

The two of you were still leaning against the table, you checking your watch. Trin kept her body facing forward but had her arms casually propped back on the table, all casual and cool as she busied herself with flirting with the woman beside her.

You glanced up again with a sigh, ready to point out whether or not Mel was still kissing that dude to see if your group could finally all hang out. Whether it was finally dancing together or leaving, you just couldn’t stay stuck in this spot forever.

Your brow immediately furrowed in confusion, a laugh waiting somewhere in the back of your throat.

“Trin?” you tilted your head.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about doing surgery too, it’s whatever y’know? I—what?” she practically hissed out the whisper when you nudged her side.

“What… is she doing…?” you asked slowly, head cocked to the side.

“What? What are you—oh jesus…” she groaned the second she spotted the blonde, and that little laugh finally fell from your lips.

Mel was using the flat drink stirrer from her now-forgotten glass to press the guy’s tongue down while she looked at his throat with the flashlight of her phone.

You both went off into the crowd.

“‘Scuse me—sorry—”

“Hey, fucking move—”

“Say ‘ahh…’” Mel’s lips were slightly parted, nose scrunched up as she put all her focus on looking into this complete stranger’s mouth.

“Hm, well your tonsils do look a little swollen, but I don’t think that’s the problem. Looks like you take good care of your teeth…”

“‘Ank yuh,” his gratitude seemed genuine even with his tongue still pressed down, although he must’ve been wasted if he was being so cool about this. Mel put her phone away while he blinked away the stains in his vision from the light, and she took the stick from his mouth.

“You’re welcome! Are you on any medications? Or any problems with heartburn, acid reflux, anything like that?”

“You got acid?”

“Heyyy, Mel…” Trinity laughed awkwardly and breathlessly as she got to the blonde first, gently hooking a hand around her arm. “Whatcha doin’ there?”

“Oh, I was just—hey,” she blinked in surprised as the two of you herded her elsewhere as gently as possible. “I should at least remind him to check with his PCP.”

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

“He has hypersalivation,” Mel stated, briefly turning to you to include you by clarifying what hypersalivation was.

“I—Mel, I know what that is,” you spoke over the music. Mel smiled shyly and nodded, looking forward again with a little “oh,” when she nearly tripped on the step to the part of the room with all the tables. Trin had been too dedicated to blindly steering the girl elsewhere; you quickly wrapped an arm around her to keep her upright and to partially help lift her up onto the platform.

“Maybe you’re just too pretty, Mel, so he couldn’t stop drooling,” you joked, and Trinity finally glanced back with an amused smile.

“Well, it wasn’t full-on sialorrhea, but…” Mel trailed off.

The three of you stopped back at the table to grab the bag you almost forgot (also in hopes of Trin getting that girl’s number, but she had already walked off).

“Cool, love how patient people are,” she nodded, pressing her lips together in a tight line.

Her disappointment was more than obvious, but the moment you two made eye contact, you were both thinking about Mel checking some dude’s throat on the dance floor. You pressed your lips tightly together, fighting that feeling. You and Trin have always been predisposed to the post-drinking giggles, and this definitely wasn’t helping.

“Fuck you,” Trinity pointed at you as a few huffs snuck out.

“What? I didn’t do anything!” you countered between involuntary laughs.

You were both giggling off and on, your stomach aching until you and Trinity gradually broke into full laughter. Mel let out a hesitant “heh” at first because she wasn’t sure what was so funny. Then it was the simple act of you two laughing so hard that started to pull it from her as well.

“Fuck, I needed that,” Trin sighed, not even attempting to be delicate with her eye makeup as she rubbed the tears away. “You’re pretty funny for a goody-goody, King.”

“She’s being serious,” you whispered to Mel with a leftover laugh when you saw her toying with her hands.

“Oh… well, thank you… I think,” she smiled sheepishly as she accepted the compliment. Moments later, when neither of you were looking at her because you were too busy guiding her again to the lobby, her expression was right back to confusion. She still didn’t know how she made you both laugh so hard. She figured it had something to do with the alcohol.

ʚɞ

It was already late, and you were all tired, so there was no fight to find a different corner of the dance floor to dance in. The second you mentioned takeout and pajamas, the two doctors nodded gratefully. You waited outside of the club, a cigarette hanging from your bottom lip, still unlit because you were too focused on getting a ride.

Mel did a bad job keeping her opinions off her face, watching Trinity light the cigarette she got from your bag before lighting yours. You selected an Uber, sucking in before pulling it from your lips to be slotted between your fingers for now.

“I love you,” you sighed dramatically from your spot against the building, and Trinity smirked as if these weren’t literally your cigarettes and your lighter.

“Yeah, I know.”

“What’s it like?” Mel asked, trying to find a way to remain friendly despite her feelings on smoking.

“Wanna try one?” Trin asked, oh so very generous with the pack in your bag.

“No. No thank you,” Mel laughed awkwardly, shaking her head.

“Mm, your loss.”

You felt a fondness warm you as your body enjoyed its mix of alcohol and nicotine. It was the feeling that made Trin snuggly with you—occasionally emotional if she was far gone enough—and the feeling that had you openly declaring your platonic love for her when she lit your smoke for you.

It was that, but a little different as you looked at Mel. Tipsy you had no interest in analyzing it right now, letting any questions that could come from that feeling float away with the smoke curling into the air.

“What?” Mel smiled shyly when she looked up from her sneakers, noticing the way you were looking at her.

You shrugged, smiling as you tucked the cigarette between your lips again and held your arms forward, beckoning her more than offering a hug. She eyed you, or more like eyed the stick of lung disease in your mouth, but hesitantly moved forward.

“Ugh, she’s a sappy-smushy drunk, just ignore her,” Trinity groaned, making you giggle. She turned her body toward the building, resting her head against it.

Mel still got close enough for you to gently run your hands over her hair and tuck it behind her ears as you intended. She blinked, involuntarily swallowing as her throat felt dry, likely from the smoke.

“I’m sorry if I ruined tonight’s plans,” she said in a soft voice.

“Are you kidding me? That was so fun,” you smiled, the filter tip hanging from your lip again. You ran your fingers through her hair, making Mel tense up. She kept staring, unsure of what to really do or think.

“Yeah, you’re wild, Mel,” Trin chuckled against the bricks before turning back around.

Mel had an unsure but pleased expression as she considered something to say, ending up trying to not smile as big as she wanted to. Trinity dropped the cigarette butt to the sidewalk and ground it under her shoe. You had stopped touching her to hold yours between two fingers and breathe in again before doing the same.

“This is perfect, actually. You owe us a second night out, Melatonin,” Trinity grinned. “And next time, we’re getting you drunk.”

Mel jumped slightly when you slung an arm over her shoulders as you watched a car slow to a stop by the sidewalk. She felt grateful it was nighttime considering how warm her face felt.

The three of you piled into the backseat. Trinity relaxed back, legs splayed as she sighed. You leaned forward, also sighing, and settled your forehead on the back of the seat in front of you. Mel clicked her buckle into place and happily settled her folded hands in her lap.

“Oh!” you gasped partway through the drive after being so silent Mel thought you had fallen asleep (it’s entirely possible you did for a few minutes). She blinked, giving you her full attention.

“Oh my god: how was your first kiss?” you asked now, and Trin hummed to show her curiosity as well.

“Yeah, how was it? Everything you ever dreamed of?”

“Uhm, it was very… damp,” she answered you both with that unsure smile, toying with her hands again.

“Oh, honey…” the Uber driver spoke up, glancing at Mel through the rearview mirror. She kept shaking her head sympathetically as she looked forward again.

You and Trinity fought that drunken, bubbling urge to start giggling again. She covered her mouth with her hand as she stuffed it down, and you leaned forward to hide your head between your knees with Mel observing both of you curiously.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ the photos and gif used in this post do not belong to me

-previous- -next-

She’s been eyeing your place for a while. It’s conveniently close to her favorite coffee shop, and on her days off when she allows herself to wake up slowly in the mornings with tea and a pastry, she always has the urge to slip into your shop afterwards to check out what you’ve got for sale. 

It always looks so beautiful through the windows. The shop is soft and sunlit, cool even in the summer to preserve the state of the flowers, and occasionally she catches glimpses of customers leaving with the most beautiful bouquets she’s ever seen. The shop’s hours are flexible, the atmosphere quiet, and whenever Baran passes by she thinks about how peaceful it must be to work somewhere like that instead of in the chaos of the hospital. 

She found out about her sister’s engagement over the phone last night. It hadn’t surprised her, she’d been expecting it to happen for a while, because her sister has been with the same boyfriend since high school and they’ve always had the same plans regarding marriage, settling down, kids. 

Baran agreed to dinner with her sister and her sister’s fiance during that same conversation. The couple had already planned a small gathering, just friends and select family, at a restaurant downtown. It would be casual and informal and for the handful of people they’d chosen to tell before a bigger reveal to the rest of their circle, after which they would throw a much larger party.

Baran thought flowers would be a nice gesture. But as she stands in the middle of your shop now with all different kinds surrounding her, bouquets and gift baskets and arrangements she can’t even name, she feels lost having just stepped in through the door. 

Then she sees you. You’re behind the sales counter near the back of the shop jotting down notes in a journal, so completely engulfed in your work that you haven’t even noticed her yet. You look at peace here, not intimidated like she is by all of the excess. 

Baran approaches the counter, stepping carefully so as not to disrupt the displays around her — she hadn’t realized before how cramped this place is — and when she finally reaches you, something about your presence in front of her brings a faint nervousness to flutter in her stomach. 

You look up from your notes. You, too, freeze for a second. You hadn’t noticed her, you hadn’t been expecting any other customers tonight since there’s not usually much of an evening crowd. And apart from that, there is something about her — soft brown eyes that study you intently, curls long down her back, cream-colored sweater that you think might have cost more than your car payment. 

There is so much that draws you to her. 

You clear your throat, force yourself to find your voice. “Good evening,” you say, and curse yourself for how awkward you sound. “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

Baran looks around again, taking in the shop. She thinks she needs to keep her eyes off you or else she won’t be able to speak, to do anything but stare into your eyes and get lost in them. 

“I’m looking for a bouquet I could bring to an engagement party,” she says. “It’s a small event, but I thought it would be a nice gesture.” 

You’re not sure why you feel so suddenly disappointed by that, the idea that this random woman who just walked into your shop might have someone waiting for her. An engagement party. 

Regardless, you nod and circle around the counter to guide her across the store to a display of bouquets. There are bouquets in every style and color combination, with every type of flower that you could find inventory space for. 

“We have these over here,” you tell her, gesturing to the bouquets. “Roses are pretty typical for romantic gestures—” 

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” she says quickly. “They’re for my sister, it’s her party.” 

Oh. You pause, reassess. You allow yourself a moment to look at her again, as if you feel allowed to look now. Your disappointment fades. 

Next to you, she reaches out for a bouquet you made this afternoon. It’s one of the bigger ones on display, with peonies and hydrangeas all selected by you and tied together with a light purple bow. 

“How much is this one?” she asks, turning it in her hands and studying it intently. 

You tell her the price, and she turns back toward the counter. 

“I’ll take it.” 

Usually, it takes your customers at least five or ten minutes of wandering around the store and another five or ten minutes of sales pitches and coercion before you can make a sale — selling flowers isn’t always the most profitable profession. But the woman before you is quick and decisive, and by the time you round the counter again she already has the cash ready in her hand. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to look around a little more?” you ask. “There are plenty to choose from, and—” 

“This one is perfect,” she smiles. “Thank you, though.” 

You complete the sale, give her change for the cash she hands you. 

“This place is beautiful, by the way.” 

You look up at her, smile. You allow yourself to look into her eyes for a moment and remark to yourself that they’re so beautiful, that she is so beautiful. You don’t want her to leave. 

“Thank you,” you reply. Then, going out on a limb, you tell her your name — and extend your hand across the counter for her to shake. 

She does shake your hand, but only after a moment of holding it, and for too long — to savor the warmth of it, the softness of your skin, of this stranger who makes her want to ditch the engagement party and pretend to look around the shop a little longer.

“Baran,” she offers, running her thumb over your knuckles once before releasing your hand. “My name is Baran.” 

“Come back soon, Baran.” 

You know she will, and that this won’t be your last meeting — part of you has known that since she first walked up to the counter. 

— 

The second time you see Baran is the morning after the engagement party. She walks into the shop with two paper to-go cups of coffee in her hands and a smile directed at you that makes her look a little more anxious to see you than she would like to appear. 

“You’re back,” you say. You wave her over to the counter and offer her a red rose from the bouquet you’ve been making, setting it down in front of her on the counter. “How was your sister’s party?” 

Baran shakes her head, looking down at the rose and studying it for a long moment before answering. “Long, loud, and not nearly as small as I thought it would be.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she says. “It brought me in here, didn’t it? Highlight of my night.” 

“Oh, come on.” 

“I’m serious,” she says. Then she sets down one of the coffees and takes the rose in exchange. “That coffee is for you, by the way, to thank you for your help last night.” 

Really, it was just an excuse to see you again. And that much is clear to you, but you don’t comment on it. 

“Oh, thank you. You didn’t have to,” you smile. 

You look her over, taking in the casualness of today — her white t-shirt, hair up in a clip, face bare of the heavy makeup she had worn last night. She looks just as perfect like this, sipping her coffee and fiddling with the stem of the rose in her hands. 

“I wanted to,” she says. 

You look down at the bouquet you’ve been arranging, adjusting some of the flowers in it. You need to keep your hands busy — something about being around her makes you nervous. 

“Do you have business cards?” Baran asks, watching you handle the flowers. “I’d like to give my sister your number, if you’re in the business of doing floral arrangements for weddings.” 

You pause, looking up to meet her eyes. You move away from the flowers and lean forward against the counter. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were just trying to find a clever way to ask for my number.” 

She raises a brow. “Is that what you think this is?” 

“Maybe. Or maybe your number is here on the coffee cup, like in the movies.” You make a show of examining the cup of coffee she brought you. “Shit, where could it be? Under the sleeve?” 

“Do you really want it?” 

“Would you give it to me?” 

Baran crosses her arms, studying you. She likes your insistence, it gives her courage. And maybe it’s just the spirit of romance that she picked up from the engagement party last night, but after a moment she finds the bravery to pick up a pen from the cup on the counter and scribble her phone number down on a pad of sticky notes near the register. 

“There,” she says. She rips the sticky note off the pad and sticks it to the side of your coffee cup. “Fixed it.” 

“Perfect.” 

“Now that you have my number, do you promise to call?” 

“I promise,” you nod. “I’ll send you a picture of this bouquet once it’s done, and then maybe I can give it to you at dinner tonight.” 

She raises a brow. “How forward of you.” 

“Too far?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“So you will meet me for dinner?” 

Baran considers you. She doesn’t see the harm in accepting a dinner invitation considering she just gave you her number, and that the whole reason she came in this morning was just to see you in the first place — she wasn’t even planning on buying anything. 

“Sure,” she agrees. “Text me where you want to meet, and I’ll be there.” 

When she leaves, she takes the rose you offered her earlier. She puts it in its own vase at home and sets it on her dresser, a reminder of you that’s set next to her perfumes and medication bottles, that she looks at while she picks her outfit for dinner and runs her fingers over the soft petals of once she’s back from it. 

And while she knows with her entire heart by the end of the night that it will not be the last rose she receives from you, it will always remain her favorite as the very first. 

—

You’ve been seeing Baran for two months, and you have developed a routine. 

Every Friday, you pick her up from work. You park in the parking lot of the hospital and wait for her to meet you at the car, bag slung over her shoulder. You take said bag and load it into the back seat, then rush around the car to open the front passenger door for her before she can open it for herself. 

Then, as always, she finds a tiny bouquet waiting for her on the seat. It changes every week — sometimes it’s more roses than anything else, sometimes a mix of peonies and hydrangeas and baby’s breath, sometimes it’s completely random flowers thrown together. But every week a new bouquet is waiting there on her seat, and every week it rides on her lap during the drive back to her home or yours. 

Baran once asked you what you do with the flowers that wilt too early, or the ones that get smashed during transport, the ones that aren’t fit to be sold. She had been lying on the couch with her head in your lap after a hard day at work, and you got the feeling it wasn’t a question she would ask under better circumstances. But she had needed something fragile to mourn in the place of a patient, and she had chosen the flowers. 

You told her that you tend to keep them. That you make little bouquets out of them that you keep at home so they don’t go to waste, because you are still able to find beauty in them even with petals missing and stems bent. 

She had liked that. She had asked to see those bouquets, to run the pads of her fingers over the petals of the flowers and grace them with gentleness they wouldn’t have received at anyone else’s hands. So you incorporated that into your routine with the Friday flowers: every flower in the bouquets you make for her on those days are the ones that would have gone to waste otherwise, the ones with bent stems and missing petals. 

Baran cherishes them every single week. She loves them with a grace that makes you, in turn, love her. 

— 

You’ve been dating Baran for four months when she formally introduces you to her son. 

You weren’t expecting it to happen so soon. Baran was very clear with you from the beginning that she would only introduce you to Kaveh if things got serious with you, and that she didn’t want you to be offended if that meant waiting a very long time for an introduction. 

You had been willing to wait. You had been understanding and content with hearing stories, seeing pictures, being rushed out of the house before his visits. But now the door chime is ringing and Baran is leading a six year old boy into your shop, his little hand clinging to hers, and you are terrified. 

He’s smaller than you expected him to be, at least when he’s standing next to Baran, and she handles him with the same gentleness you’ve seen her use with the flowers you give her. The ones with the broken stems, the ones she cradles in her hands and looks down at with so much care. 

She hoists him up onto her hip and holds him close, letting him rest his head on her chest. You wonder how long it will be until he is too big to carry, and how fiercely she will try to deny that day when it comes. You wonder if she would ever want another child to carry on her hip and close to her chest, one that would come from you this time. 

“Kaveh,” she says, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “There’s someone I want you to meet, my love.” 

When she gestures for you to come around the counter, you meet her on the other side of it and offer her son a small smile. You tell him your name, and in response he murmurs his so quietly you almost can’t hear him — Baran told you beforehand that he tended to be shy, just like she was at his age. 

“She’s going to be spending a lot of time with us,” Baran tells her son, nodding over to you. “I want you to get to know one another. You don’t have to be shy around her, it’s okay.” 

He nods, brows furrowing as he assesses you. You’ve seen that look before. 

“Your mom invited me to your soccer game this weekend,” you say, and you can hardly believe he’s big enough to be in any sort of sports league, even with kids his age. “Would it be okay with you if I came to watch you play?” 

Again, he nods. And maybe it’s too soon to tell, but you think that soon he will warm up to you. Soon he will be running into your shop to pick flowers out of bouquets, taking them home just because he knows he can, because you won’t scold him for it. 

Soon, this shop will belong to all of you. 

— 

It’s been six months, and the two of you have just gotten into your first argument. It started over something stupid, more a result of your combined stress than anything really worth arguing about, and escalated from there. 

You stand alone in your shop and all you can think about is how much you miss Baran, and that only seems to piss you off even more. It’s only been an hour since you last talked to her over the phone, but it feels like an eternity — you wonder how you ever lived without her. 

You have abandoned the work you’re meant to be doing, and instead you sit behind the counter at the back of the shop and sulk. You draw little doodles on your pad of sticky notes and choose not to listen to the part of you that says you’re being childish and need to apologize. 

The chime on the door rings, and you almost call out to greet your customer when you look up from the counter and see it’s Baran. She carries two paper to-go cups from the coffee shop next door and a small paper bag, and when she comes up to the counter you can smell the pastry within. 

Baran sets all of it down without a word. She brings her cup to her lips, and you notice the string and paper label of a tea bag hanging out from beneath the lid. 

“What’s all this?” you ask, trying and failing to seem unaffected. You ache to make up with her, to set your conflict behind you. 

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she says. Her voice is even and controlled, the same tone you’ve heard her take with rowdy patients at the ER or Kaveh when he’s throwing rare tantrums, and you’re able to hear the suppressed anger beneath it. 

“I don’t want to fight, either,” you say. And you could leave it at that, but you’re still angry, so you don’t. “But I’m not sorry.” 

“You don’t have to be. Neither am I.” 

It bugs you, but you don’t know how else to keep fueling the argument. ‘Agree to disagree’ might be your best bet at this point, even with how rarely that bullshit tends to work for people. 

Baran nods to the paper bag and the coffee cup. “I brought your favorites.” 

You try to joke with her, but it comes out sounding too harsh: “Trying to win me back?” 

“I wasn’t aware that I’d lost you.” 

Now you feel bad. Now you have to fold. 

You shake your head, reaching across the counter and placing a hand over hers where it rests. You give it a small squeeze and she squeezes back. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, that was stupid.” 

Baran nods. ‘It’s okay,’ she wants to say, because that’s how she remembers responding to every apology in her marriage with Kaveh’s dad, when whatever had offended her was in fact not okay. So instead she tries, “I forgive you.” 

—

It’s been nine months, and sometimes you pick Kaveh up from school when Baran is working and his dad can’t make it. You have been authorized for the pickup line and you close the store temporarily to be there at 3:15 when duty calls, and when Kaveh jumps into the backseat of your car he feels comfortable enough with you to jump right into telling you about his day. 

You sit at the counter sometimes and help him with his homework on those days. You help him with his math equations and his spelling, occasionally brushing away some flower petals that fall onto the pages, and when Kaveh does well on his exams you always let him pick something out to take home from the shop. He prefers the tiny teddy bears in the gift baskets displayed near the window, and you don’t care that it messes up the display when he plucks them out. 

You FaceTime Baran together on those days, too. Kaveh laughs at her when she accidentally has the camera oriented the wrong way, and then he holds up the graded school assignments he brought back with him and tells her he’s getting the best grades in his class. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she always says, and then presses her face too close to the camera whilst trying to get a good look at the two of you, which makes Kaveh start laughing again. 

— 

It’s been eleven months, and Baran keeps hinting at the idea of taking the two of you on vacation for your one year anniversary. She comes up behind you when you’re writing notes behind the counter and she wraps her arms around your middle, asking if you wouldn’t prefer to be lounging on a beach somewhere right now. 

“Think about the sun on your face,” she says. “Imagine the flowers.” 

You roll your eyes, suppressing a smile. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t want to leave the shop. I couldn’t leave my flowers.” 

“Get someone to cover for you,” she says. “Come on, surely there’s someone who could take over for a little while.” 

“Maybe.” 

She presses a kiss to the top of your shoulder, then the base of your neck, then up until she reaches the curve of your jaw. Her mood always lightens when she is around you and your many flowers. 

“I want you all to myself,” she continues, “in a beachside villa where we can watch the tide come in.” 

You do allow yourself to smile at that, but just barely. You don’t want to encourage her. “That sounds expensive.” 

“Of course it will be expensive,” Baran murmurs, hands running up and down your sides. “And I have the money for it, azizam. Only the best for you. For us.” 

You feel her hands sliding just barely under your shirt, resting on your waist not-so-innocently. You get the hint that if these regular methods of persuasion don’t work, there are others she will employ. 

“Okay. Okay, fine.” You relent, turning in her arms and pulling her in to kiss you, soft and indulgent, and you couldn’t care less if someone walked into the shop right now. 

— 

It’s your one year anniversary, and the shop is being run by your best friend for a week. You’ve shown her the ropes, how to do inventory and complete sales, and you trust that your business is in good hands. 

Meanwhile, you are lounging in a hammock at a beachside villa with Baran. You watch the tide come in and ever so often you look over at Baran from where she lies across from you, legs tangled with yours. Within ten minutes of settling down in the hammock, she is already asleep. 

The hammock rocks softly in the breeze, which is salty in a way that makes you feel much closer to the water than you really are. The sun is out and in a bit you will sit up and wake Baran with gentle kisses to her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, and the two of you will put your bathing suits on and go lounge in the sand. Baran will lecture you about forgetting to bring the beach bag, the one with the sunscreen and towels. You never seem to remember it, but maybe that will change when you’re the one hiking up the dunes and back to retrieve the bag. 

For now, you let her rest. She looks so beautiful like this, with the wind blowing at her hair and her face peaceful with sleep, and you can feel your own body growing heavier at the idea of rest. 

— 

It’s been a year and a half, and your shop is flourishing. You have been getting more business than ever, you’re thinking of buying a second location, and your home life is just as beautiful. 

Since your anniversary, you have moved in with Baran. You live closer to your shop now and you get to wake up with your girlfriend every morning, your girlfriend who always insists that you bring home some extra flowers to decorate the house with on weeks where you don’t sell as much as you planned. You’ve learned that she loves orchids, but she can never keep them alive for long. 

It’s June, and you are happy. Summer is in full bloom and your life along with it, full with the most gracious love, and you always make sure to change out the rose in the vase on Baran’s dresser. 

thank you for reading <3 this fic might be one of my favs that I’ve written for the pitt tbh

✦ okay they’re cute or whatever… they’re extremely cute let me not lie. i think pitt princess!reader would be the end of trinity’s addiction to doomed wlw situationships. do you guys think dr. garcia would be annoyed/jealous though? ooo drama opportunity!

You’d gone a whole half hour without thinking of him, which you think must be a sort of record at this point. You’d been trying to get over the guy for months, and Trinity told you the best way to do that was by getting under someone else. Turns out it wasn’t as foolproof as she made it out to be.

“You gonna get that?” Park wonders suddenly, slurring slightly when he pulls back from you for the first time in several minutes. His thin lips are slightly swollen from his kisses and slightly rosy from your lipstick. Your spit glistens on his chin like gloss.

Your heavy eyes flit back and forth between his for a moment. “…What?”

“Your phone,” he says. “This is, like, the third time it’s gone off.”

You blink hard and turn your head against the arm of the couch, to where your purse slouches on the floor beside you. Your phone vibrates inside, glowing faintly within its depths. You can see half the caller ID from here — Jack (ABSOLUTELY DO NOT ANSWER). Your stomach swirls with a sick feeling that your body almost mistakes for excitement.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

Brendon’s expression darkens immediately.

He can tell who it is by the look on your face — a subtle annoyance mixed with a touch of longing. He leans away from you with a huff, slouching back against the corner of the sofa with his muscular thighs spread and his arms propped along the back. He couldn’t hide his irritation if he tried, because this was the first time he’s ever had to compete with another man for another woman’s affection. (The fact that this man was nearly twice his age only rubbed salt into the wound.)

“You should ignore it, you know?” he tells you, half-muffled behind his hand as he swipes lingering desire from his heavy eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah, I know—” you sigh and sit further up, not bothering to adjust the dropping sleeve of your dress as you bring the phone up to your jaw. “—What?” you snap.

“Wow,” Jack laughs. His familiar, gritty voice sounds much louder in the quiet of Brendon’s expansive apartment. You hate how much it soothes you. “Good evening to you, too.”

“I’m busy, Jack. What do you want?”

“There’s a patient here asking for you,” he says, a bit more solemn now. His voice goes a little distant on the other line, like he’s looking over his shoulder at something. “Name’s Smith. Bethany. Her chart says she was here two nights ago for a—”

“Yeah,” you sigh, and let all your lingering annoyance evaporate on the exhaled breath. “I know. I treated her.”

“So I’m sure you know why she doesn’t want to be seen by anyone else.”

You avert your gaze, tugging anxiously at a thread in the hem of your dress until it becomes a more noticeable problem than before. Bethany was a young kid, a good one, who got herself mixed up with a string of bad people. She came in a couple nights ago after a particularly brutal assault, and insisted she didn’t need any help when you offered it to her. You told her, however, to swear to come back in if things ever got too bad again, that you’d help her with no questions asked.

The night came much sooner than you thought.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” you huff. “Don’t let her leave—”

You hang up before he can utter another word and pretend not to notice Park’s glaring as you slide off the couch. “There’s no way you’re leaving right now,” he scoffs, watching with an emotionless grin as you toe your shoe back on.

“It’s a patient—”

“It’s Jack,” he corrects with a dry laugh. “How do you not see that? He’s doing this on purpose because he knows we’re out together.”

“He wouldn’t lie to me about a patient,” you huff and stand to full height, slinging the strap of your bag over your shoulder and heading towards the door. How quickly you’ll drop everything when he comes calling, a cynical voice in the back of your head berates you.“He’s an asshole, but he isn’t that big of an asshole.”

“Yeah, I beg to differ…”

You flash the man a pleading look from where you stand in his doorway, midnight air rippling in the fabric of your dress — which Park had been so achingly close to ripping off of you.

“You’re not too mad at me, are you?”

“Go save your patient,” Park dismisses with a wave of his head, huffing as he rises off the couch. He heads to the organized minibar by the kitchen island, plucks a clear bottle of amber liquid from the shelf without looking back at you. “And when you’re done, try to save whatever the hell’s left of your judgment.”

You roll your eyes to hide how much his words truly sting and close the door behind you. “Yeah, I’ll see you at work, Shark…”

—

Your kitten heels click along the pristine linoleum as you rush to the workstation from the ambulance bay. The automatic doors swish open and shut behind you, replacing the cool night air with something colder and far more sterile. Chills pebble along your exposed skin as you weave through the familiar chaos of the PTMC, peering through each glass door you pass for any glimpse of the young girl you came to find.

“Lena,” you call to the red-haired nurse.

“Yep?” the older woman responds automatically, right before she glances up from the monitor ahead of her. She smiles at the sight of you and croons, “Well, don’t you look pretty…”

“Thank you…” you smile shakily, as your face flares with a mild embarrassment. Your arms cross over your chest in an instinctive attempt to hide. “I got a call from Jack— Dr. Abbot. Uh, he said Beth, my assault patient from a few days ago, came back in and wanted to see me. Do you know which room she’s in?”

The woman ponders for a moment, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “I think you just missed her…”

“…What?”

“Last I heard, Dr. Abbot was taking care of her,” Lena explains absentmindedly as she turns back to her computer. Her manicured fingers fly across the keyboard while she rambles. “Yeah, he patched her up and sent her home with a few refills of chlorazepam for the withdrawals. I’m pretty sure he gave her some money for a hotel room, too, called one of his police buddies to pick her up and make sure she’s okay for the night. He’s a good guy— It’s a shame it didn’t work out between you two.”

“Work out?” you sputter through an awkward laugh. “I don’t— We never even— I don’t even know what you’re—”

The woman flashes you an unamused look over the top of her cat-eye glasses.

You swallow down the rest of your excuses. “Do you know where he is?”

“Well, he came in after working TEMs today complaining about his shoulder, so… I’m sure he’s somewhere hiding.”

You exhale a grieved sigh, wiping at your tired eyes in a feeble attempt to wake up. “Yeah, I’ll find him…” you grouse and walk off.

“Clean up your lipstick while you’re at it!” the woman calls after you.

You swipe aggressively at your chin with the back of your hand, cursing quietly under your breath as you. “Shit—”

You find Jack with a greater ease than you’d like to admit to. He has a habit of disappearing when he’s hurt — equal parts because he’s stubborn and because he hates nothing more than being fussed over. You find him in the last treatment room at the end of the hall for that reason, where the chaos of the emergency department dims into a distant nothingness.

You open the door without knocking and find Jack sitting on the edge of the exam bed, with a trauma kit spread out neatly on the metal tray before him. His scrub top lies forgotten on the mattress behind him, revealing the freckled expanse of his torso, made of toned muscles and milky-white skin. The sight of him takes your breath away for a fraction of a moment before your brain reminds you to stay angry.

Jack glances up when you enter, with his brows raised to his hairline. His mouth curls into a slow smile as his light eyes rake over your form. “Well… Don’t you clean up nice,” he croons lowly, then motions to his scruffy chin with his pointer finger. “You missed a spot, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” you huff, still scrubbing off the lipstick smudged on your mouth.

“I remember that dress,” the man continues, too casual for his own good, as he tears off a sliver of medical tape. He presses it along the edge of a square bandage with practiced hands and says, “I’m pretty sure you wore it for me once—”

“Where is my patient?”

“Already discharged,” Jack shrugs, then winces when it adds to the ache in his shoulder.

“So you lied to me?” you huff in annoyance, but pluck a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall all the same.

You shove them on and close the distance between you, trudging towards him with all the exasperation of a woman scorned. Jack follows your form with careful eyes, that glimmer distantly with amusement.

“I didn’t lie,” he corrects as you round the bed behind him. He faces ahead while you survey the wound he sports on his left shoulder. The muscles in his back flex slightly when your gloved fingers run over the warm, red scrape — still raw from where the bullet had grazed his vest, and angry at having been left untreated all day. “I just happened to win her over. With my good looks and charming personality.”

You scoff drily. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

You reach over the man for the tube of antibiotic ointment sitting on the tray in front of him. Jack inhales, getting a whiff of the musky-sweet scent clinging to your hair and skin. “Oh, wow…” he lilts in a monotone. “You broke out the expensive perfume tonight—”

“Shut up,” you grouse harshly, spreading the ointment along the abrasion with a much softer touch in comparison. He tenses under you, clenching his jaw to hide how much it hurts. You fight the urge to apologize. “How’d this happen to you, anyway?”

“Bullet grazed my vest—”

“You were shot?” you exclaim.

“Shot at,” he corrects, like that makes any difference, and crosses his muscular arms over his bare chest. “A bunch of geniuses thought today was a good day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t realize how long it’d take to load the supplies, so… They panicked, obviously, and… All hell broke loose.”

You shake your head at him, swallowing down your rage like bile. He isn’t yours, you remind yourself, you have no right to tell him what he can or cannot do. The words tumble from your mouth anyway.

“I wish you’d stop doing this.”

“I’d rather be shot at than spend a night with Park the Shark— Ow.”

His head whips over his shoulder to glare at you when you press down harder on the wound. “That’s what you get for interrupting my date, asshole,” you spit at him and reach for the prepped bandage on the tray. “God, I cannot believe I keep letting you do this to me.”

“Do what?”

“Keep me late. Call me in,” you ramble, pressing the gauze gently to his shoulder. “Sabotage every relationship I try to have, like you weren’t the one who left.”

Silence falls over the two of you, heavy enough to suck all the air out of the room. Jack can hear the quiet buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead and the subtle hitch in your breath when you don’t get a response from him. Your bitter laugh sounds much louder in the quiet, along with the pop of your blue gloves as you pluck them off.

“That’s it? I don’t get one of your snarky responses to that?” you scoff and part from his side to chuck the latex into the bin. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised— You left that morning like it didn’t mean anything to you, I don’t know why now would be any different.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jack assures you in a low, solemn voice and a mournful glint in his soft eyes.

You almost believe him. You almost feel sorry for him, even. Almost. Until you’re bitterly reminded of the morning you woke up alone in your sun-drenched bedroom, the morning after you and Jack decided to cross a line you swore you never would. You remember calling out his name, and then reaching for your phone when you didn’t get a response, only to find that there was no message from him there either.

You remember how cold the sheets felt, how one side of them was still twisted with his shape. You remember the ache between your thighs as you got ready for the day. You remember the white-hot pain in your chest when he treated you like a stranger the following shift.

“Well, what was it like, then?” you say with a cynical laugh as you migrate to the sink against the wall. The faucet hisses on, spitting out scalding water almost instantly. You revel in the burn as you scrub your hands with a meticulous precision that’s more of an anxious tic than anything. “Because for me it’s like you got what you wanted and then you left—”

“That can’t be how you see it.”

“—And now, you can’t stand that I’m moving on from you,” you continue, then mumble under your breath as you pluck a wad of paper towels from the dispenser. “Or trying to, anyway…”

“I left because I was happy,” Jack blurts for the first time out loud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder. You find the man standing to full height again with a soft grunt in the very back of his throat. He keeps his shirt balled into his fists, fidgeting awkwardly with the fabric. He winces as he adjusts his weight on his prosthetic when he turns to face you.

You blink owlishly back at him. “What?”

“It was the first time I’ve slept in a bed with someone— or with someone since my wife passed,” Jack mumbles, focusing most of his attention on locating the sleeves of his scrub top. “And the first time I woke up not missing her, and I… I felt guilty.”

Your anger ebbs almost instantly. The rage that had been building a home inside of you for so long caves in a landslide.

“I was scared that if I stayed, I’d never be able to leave. And that scared me—” He rambles as he slides his pale arms through the sleeves, grimacing when the bandage on his shoulder tugs slightly. “And I didn’t know how to tell you… I guess I still don’t, if I’m being real honest.”

His voice muffles as he tugs the shirt over his silver curls.

“I thought I was doing us both a favor, and I just… Made it all worse.”

Jack tugs the hem of the black top down his toned stomach. He gives you a strange look — an emotionless, tight-lipped grin and a pair of brows raised to his hairline — not quite happy, but not quite sad either.

Your hands clench tight around the damp paper towel still wadded between them. You forget, momentarily, to respond. You wouldn’t know what to say if you could speak, anyway.

The silence between you swells suddenly with every conversation you never had before, every feeling you both have spent weeks swallowing down. So many months spent hurting, pretending, wasting.

Your eyes catch the blur of a shadow across the room. They widen as they flit away from Jack and toward Samira, who appears suddenly in the glass door, shoes squeaking when she stops suddenly in place at the sight of him standing there. She’s visibly exhausted when she swings the door open, dark eyes heavy and black hair wild. Her chest heaves with heavy breaths beneath her scrub top, as if she’d been searching for quite some time.

“I’m not interrupting something, am I?” she pants, eyes darting back and forth between the two of you. They linger briefly on your form. You think this is the first time she’s seen you in anything other than scrubs. “Lena was worried I might be interrupting something.”

Jack doesn’t give her a straight answer. “You need something, Mohan?”

“We got a trauma. Five minutes out,” she tells him. “Possible splenic rupture.”

Jack’s expression hardens. He nods once in concurrence, shifting back into physician mode in a blink.

“Got it,” he says, and waits for the door to shut behind Samira before turning back to you. There’s something distinctly shier in his eyes as he clears his throat and scratches at the back of his corded neck. “I’m, uh— I’m sorry... For sabotaging your date and… Everything before that…”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You nod with a wavering, tight-lipped grin. “Yeah, I know…”

He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He tilts his scruffy chin to peer down at you from the bridge of his nose. You can tell by his suddenly defensive stance that he’s about to ask you something — or, more specifically, something he’s scared to hear the answer to.

“You going back to Park the Shark?”

Your sheepish smile spreads into something more sincere. “Depends,” you shrug and turn away to chuck the paper towel into the bin.

“On?” Jack crosses his arms over his chest, biceps straining against his scrub sleeves.

“On if you’re gonna let me scrub in or not.”

His pink mouth lifts into a smug half-grin. “Then I guess you’d better go get changed, doc…”

Baran was irritated.

No, she was infuriated.

As a matter of fact she despised you right now.

The two of you had woken up relatively early that morning, limbs tangled with each others and your slow breath against Baran's neck.

It had started harmlessly. You had walked out of the bathroom to Baran in her scrub bottoms and singlet, sorting her hair. She had looked irresistible in the morning light. You approached from behind, hands settling on her waist while your lips brushed her jaw.

You couldn't even remember how Baran ended up laying back on your shared bed with your hand between her thighs and lips connected to her neck.

She had gotten so close. Hands gripping the sheets tight, the coil in her mid-section about to snap when you pulled your fingers out suddenly. She had whined and in turn you cocked an eyebrow.

"We should probably get going" you mused nonchalantly. Baran sat up and watched in bewilderment as you just straightened out your scrub top and exited the room.

The drive to the hospital was just as excruciating for Baran. You insisted on driving like you usually do, scooping up your keys and opening the passenger door for her. Once you started the car your hand found her thigh, giving her knee a quick squeeze. It wasn't exactly a long drive to your shared work but you made it hell for her.

Your hand would inch up ever so slowly until your fingers were resting right next to where you knew Baran needed you. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy when you looked over at her.

"You okay baby?"

Your voice was unnaturally sweet as you feigned obliviousness. She just hummed, eyes remaining forward which drew a smirk from you at her uncharacteristic quietness. You fingers began moving in slow circles on the inside of her upper thigh. Baran made a low noise which she masked by clearing her throat. You hadn't missed it though.

The two of you went your separate ways upon arriving to the hospital. You left Baran with a quick kiss and lingering hand on her lower back, the heat of it remaining long after you left.

She was thankful the two of you worked on different floors. She knew she wouldn't be able to handle seeing you work in the condition she was in. Your toned arms and stern but warm demeanour when dealing with patients and staff alike. She had been going fine until you came down for a surgical consult, something you rarely if ever did.

The knowing smirk playing on your lips as you entered and found her eyes was enough to let her know you were doing this on purpose.

"What's up everybody, doctor Al-Hashimi" you nodded in her direction. She gave you a brief glance, cheeks flushed before one of the residents gave you a run down. You had looked over the patient, confirming the diagnosis before arranging for an OR to be freed.

You caught Baran leaving the trauma room from the corner of your eye and you were quick to excuse yourself and follow her.

"How's your day beautiful" you murmured, shoulder brushing hers. "Good, you?" She didn't look at you once. Her jaw was tight and you huffed a laugh. "It's fine. I'll see you later?" She nodded and you had pressed a chaste kiss to her cheekbone before disappearing back upstairs.

Now Baran is laid back in bed, hand shoved down the front of her pants. She had received an apology text from you saying you were going to be stuck in surgery.

That was a couple hours ago now.

She had tried to busy herself with house work, reading, online shopping, literally anything to keep her mind off the growing ache between her legs but she was fighting a losing battle.

The house is quiet when you enter. The lights are off and Baran's presence is missing. You drop your bag and kick your shoes off, placing them neatly onto the shoe rack next to Baran's. You wander down the hallway when you hear noises coming from your bedroom. The door is pulled closed which is unusual. You push it open cautiously to see Baran layed out in bed, whining as she pumps her fingers in and out of her soaked heat.

Your eyes widen, a shiver running straight down your spine as your body heats up at the sight. You take a moment to collect yourself before announcing your presence.

"Need a hand?" Her eyes shoot open and she looks over at you, nodding meekly. That's all you need before closing the distance and tugging her pants and underwear down in one swift motion.

The sight you're met with makes your mouth water. Her glistening cunt all swollen from the time she's spent trying to make herself cum to no avail. Your hands find her thighs as she lifts her legs up, running up and down the exposed skin. You drop a kiss to her knee.

"You just couldn't wait for me to get home, huh?"

"No. Not after this morning" she grumbles, clearly still resentful. "I'm sorry baby, I'll make it up to you".

You push her legs apart and level your mouth with her core, meeting her gaze before licking a stripe up her folds. Baran lets out a shaky sigh, her hand coming to the back of your head to grip your hair.

"Shit azizam" she mutters. You only mess with her for a moment before giving her what she needs, your tongue pushing past her folds. The taste of her makes your stomach flip as the familiar heady scent clouds your mind. Her fingers tighten in your hair and you moan in response, the sound vibrating into her. She attempts to tighten her thighs around your head but you hold her legs apart by her hips as you practically devour her pussy.

Her hips begin to rock against your face, her other hand grasping at the sheets as her body begins shaking.

"Fuck— eshgham" she gasps, hips writhing against your jaw. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her waist, pulling her impossibly closer as your tongue works inside her.

You free a hand to slip under the thin material of her singlet to grope her breast. "Ey Khodā" she groans, hand abandoning the bed sheet to reach up and cover your hand with her own. Baran glances down at you, the sight pushing her closer to her climax. Your head buried between her thighs, eyes shut and completely focused on her.

Baran can feel her body humming with pleasure as she throws her head back, soft breaths falling from her lips. You pull a gasp from her when your fingers comes in contact with her sensitive clit, rubbing in firm circles.

"So good baby, 'm so close" she stammers.

She comes quick, likely from all the pent up frustration of the day. Her back arches off the bed while her legs convulse around your head and her hand pulls at your hair. Your mouth stays on her, eagerly receiving her pleasure as her vision goes static momentarily.

After cleaning her up with your mouth you trail your lips up her body before finding her lips in a sweet kiss. Baran pushes you back, dark eyes fixated on her slick that still coats your mouth. Her tongue darts out to lick it away and your fingers brush her midsection.

"That was—".

She gasps when you push three fingers into her, her walls clenching around the sudden intrusion. She grips your shoulders, breath hot against your swollen mouth as you lean down to kiss her. Your tongue swipes her bottom lip and she's quick to open her mouth, allowing your tongue free range to tangle with hers.

"Is this okay?" you ask softly after leaning back. Baran nods and you kiss her cheek. "I want to hear you say it" you mumble against her skin. "This is okay—" she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. "Fuck it's okay". Her voice is hoarse and it makes your stomach flip as you start moving your fingers slowly.

She's warm against your fingers. The wetness from moments ago allowing her to take your digits easier. "You’re so perfect" you murmur before kissing her cheek and burying your face in her neck, tasting the skin there.

She arches into you, eyes squeezed shut. "Shit" she breathes out.

Her arms slide down from your shoulders to your neck and bicep. Baran guides your head out of her neck to kiss you. It's messy when your lips meet, a mixture of saliva and cum. It makes you shiver.

You know she's close when she starts huffing against your lips, almost whining when you quicken your ministrations. Soon enough you're pulling another orgasm from her. Baran's body twitches beneath you as you slow your movements. You proceed to do this two more times, alternating between using your mouth and fingers until Baran is a whining mess.

Baran's eyes flutter closed and her chest is rising and falling rather quickly as you retreat from the bed. She barely registers the sound of you shuffling around the room while grabbing your harness and a rather modest strap for your wife. You carefully step into the harness and adjust the strap before approaching her, kneeling at the end of the bed.

You slowly position yourself so the dildo is lined up with her entrance and you watch as her eyes shoot open once she feels it brush against her. Her eyes land on it between her legs before she looks to your face.

"Azizam I don't think I can" she practically whispers, her voice completely spent. You bring a hand up to caress her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I think you've got one more in you, don't you?" You watch her eyes, clearly mulling over the decision before nodding.

You press a soft kiss to her jaw, hand absentmindedly stroking her side as you push in slowly, allowing her to get used to the toy. Baran moans low against your ear as you bottom out inside her. You wait for a second, eyes watching her face closely. Tears gather in her eyes and a pang of guilt shoots through your chest. You lift up your hand to brush an escaped tear with the pad of your thumb.

"Are you okay?" "Yes" she breathes out quietly with a barely noticable nod.

You begin to move after a moment and she whines beneath you, fingers digging into the skin on your shoulder.

"Tell me if you want me to stop". She shakes her head.

"Don't stop" she husks.

That spurs you on as you begin to find a steady rhythm and stick to it, the sound of Baran's wet cunt as you thrust in and out of her filling the room. Each sweet noise that leaves Baran's mouth gives you more motivation to make her feel good.

"Harder" she groans as you hit a certain spot inside her.

You obey and allow your movements to match the intensity of earlier, her body jolting as you pound into her.

"Is that good my love?"

"Yes— so good. You feel so good in me azizam" Baran chokes out and you smirk, head dipping down to suck at the soft skin of her neck. She's too distracted by the overwhelming feeling inside her to tell you not to leave any marks. Oh well.

You're sure she's broken the skin on your shoulders as her head falls back to let out a moan. You drag your tongue over the darkened marks on her neck, feeling Baran shudder beneath you. You look down at where the silicone is sliding in and out of her cunt with ease and a throaty sound leaves you.

"Taking it so well baby, my beautiful girl" you utter against her neck.

Your words seem to push her over the edge as a spasm wracks its way through her body, toes curling as it dies down.

You drop down next to her, dildo still buried inside her as your hand finds her waist where her singlet has ridden up. You run your fingers up and down her side, waiting for her breathing to slow as you place gentle kisses to her jaw.

"Water?"

"No... just stay" she mutters and you nod. Your hand finds its way under her singlet, splaying out against her warm skin and Baran holds onto your forearm. You utter quiet affirmations against her skin, Baran sighing contentedly.

After a moment Baran shifts and whimpers at the feeling of you still inside of her. You adjust yourself and slowly pull out, Baran's mewls tugging at your heartstrings. You remove yourself from her embrace, pushing her whimpers to the side.

"I'm sorry baby, I'll be right back" you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. You rush into the bathroom, chucking the used dildo to the side to clean later before grabbing a cloth and wetting it with warm water.

You walk back into the bedroom, hand landing on Baran's leg to let her know you're there. "This might be uncomfortable" you say softly as you nudge her legs open and gently clean up the mess. Baran's breathing changes momentarily at the sensation around her sensitive core.

You leave once more to the bathroom to put the cloth into a hamper before returning to your wife, kneeling next to her.

"What can I do?"

"I just want to feel you".

You nod at her words, already pulling your top off and aiding her in slipping out of her singlet. You lay back against the pillows and allow Baran to nestle into your side, welcoming the feeling of your skin on her own. Her hand lands on your chest, firm and grounding and your fingers move lazily up and down her back. Your legs tangle with hers instinctually like they've done a million times before. Her forehead is rested against your chin and you tilt your head to leave a quick kiss there.

"You okay?" "More than" she confirms.

A moment of comfortable silence passes before Baran takes a deep breath. "Don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow though" she mumbles which earns a laugh from you, Baran chuckling along with you.

"I promised I'd make it up to you didn't I?"

"Hm, that's true. You'll have to do that again sometime".

You raise an eyebrow. "Will do".

For the past three weeks, you’ve hardly had time to see them. Motivation for your final installment finally hit about two weeks ago. And between that, Phoebe, and seeing Jack at any off-chance you can, your schedule hasn’t lined up with your friends until now. 

That’s not to say you haven’t been in contact. The group chat seems to blow up every time you let them know you have plans with Jack, which, in all honesty, has been quite often. 

Over the past three weeks, you don’t think you can actually count how many little dates he’s taken you on. Dinner, lunch, early morning coffees after you drop Phoebe to school and he finishes a night shift. 

Any free moment you both get that coincides with the other, you make the most of it. Whether it’s for twenty minutes to grab some breakfast after shift and drop off, or two hours in the afternoon or evening when Pheeb’s is asleep for dinner and a very sneaky but hot make-out session. 

And of course, Bella is the one that insists on photos of said dates. Sometimes you just send a photo of your food and drinks, Jack’s hand around the mug or his chest at the back of the frame. More recently, however, like the last few dates, you’ve sent them selfies. 

Goofy ones, where Jack is feeding you a forkful of pasta in your kitchen. Candid ones, where he’s walking ahead slightly but his arm is stretched behind him, his fingers intertwined with yours. And sometimes, photos together; both grinning or pulling a face into the camera—cheeks pressed against one another and eyes sparkling with someone you don’t want to acknowledge just yet. 

You’ll never admit just how often you find yourself looking through your camera roll for them, how long you spend admiring them, how warm your cheeks grow and how wide your grin stretches. 

But your friends, they know. Of course, they know. Bunch of fucking busybodies. 

“When are you gonna bring Jack to brunch, then?” Chloe asks over the rim of her water. “He could’ve tagged along today.”

You scoff a laugh out at that, shaking your head and pinching up a piece of lettuce that slipped from your sandwich. 

“You want me to bring the guy I’m dating to girls brunch?” You ask. “When have any of us either done that? It’s a silent rule that men are forbidden from our brunches.” 

Bella shrugs with a smirk, leaning over to steal a french fry from your plate. “A one-off wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

You roll your eyes with fondness. You know what she’s doing. That she wants to see you and Jack in each other's space for herself. Wants to watch the way he interacts with you, wants to know exactly what he does to make you the way you are. 

Happy. Relaxed. 

“He’s busy today.”

“Overtime?” Leone speaks around a mouthful of food. 

You heave a breath, gently placing your chicken sandwich back on the plate. The girls know that movement. It’s a tell you have when you’re about to drop a piece of information that may either excite them or anger them.

“He has a SWAT shift.” 

You expected the silence, the wide eyes, the blinking. You knew they would smirk, shrill, smack you for keeping something so interesting to yourself. 

But you didn’t expect all of them to start fucking swooning. Chloe and Leone are fucking lesbians, for fucks sake. 

Karis leans closer with wide eyes. This is probably the most interest she’s shown in your involvement with Jack that isn’t just a soft smile or engaging eye contact. “SWAT? As in…”

“He’s a medic. Goes in with the team in case any one gets hurt.” 

Bella blinks at you, slight hurt in her eyes that you didn’t tell her but the shock and excitement is much more prominent. Her expression morphs into something feline and a smirk curls at the corners of her mouth. 

“He must be dicking you down so good.” She laughs, eyes flickering around the group. “You just know he talks her through it.” 

You can’t hide the heat that rises to the apples of your cheeks. She whirls to look at you again. 

“A man in two uniforms… you lucky bitch.” 

Karis splutters into her water, Chloe quickly reaches an arm around her to pat her back but Leone is staring at you and your warm face with squinted eyes. 

“No…” she says slowly, like she can sense what you’re not admitting just by the look on your face. 

You turn to her, subtly shaking your head with a hard look in your eyes to shut the fuck up. But Bella catches it, lets her eyes dart between you both as the smirk turns to confusion. 

“What?” she asks, voice a bit shrill. 

Leone keeps her accusing gaze on you when she speaks again. “You haven’t slept with him yet?” 

The table stills, so does Karis’ coughing fit. All eyes turn to you. Not just shock or bewilderment this time, but… disgust? Pinching brows and grimacing lips. They look at you like you’ve got three fucking heads. 

Your hands drag down your face as you sink back into your chair. You didn't want to have this conversation with them. Not out of embarrassment or hesitation, but because they’re nosy and know how out of character it is for you to be seeing someone for a month and not have some form of sex with them.

Karis leans closer to the table, napkin clutched in her dainty fingers. 

“Is it… is it because he can't?” She’s polite enough to almost whisper the question, to look sheepish and afraid of offending. 

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is completely involuntary. Because you’re hit with an onslaught of mini-memories. Remembering all the dry-humping and the fact that you’ve definitely felt just how hard he does get. 

“He’s forty-four. Believe me, he can get it up.” 

Chloe shakes her head at you, like your answer isn’t good enough. “Then, why…”

You shrug. “We’re just… taking our time. We really like each other and I—I have Phoebe to consider, you know? We get along great without the sex, and I just…”

You can’t explain it to them. Not really. It’s odd, wanting to keep it a secret, the fact that both you and Jack agreed you didn’t want to rush this. That you both wanted to take your time. It doesn’t help that you don’t know what the fuck you are, but not having sex yet… It feels like the right call to make. 

You don’t think they’ll understand that, and that’s okay. 

Karis is tied down and expecting. Chloe and Leone have been together since high-school and sometimes they invite a third. And Bella… Well sex is very important to Bella. 

You don’t want teasing, don’t want judgement. You like whatever the fuck is going on with Jack. You love your friends, but you don’t want their opinions on the matter. Don’t want them interfering with what you have. 

You find yourself overcompensating for it and speaking again. 

“We’re keeping it platonic around Phoebe. She loves him, it’s not a secret, but I’m kinda trying to limit how often they see each other. I don’t want her getting confused.”

The truth of it seems to soften their judgement and confusion. Bella moreso. Because she does the same. No man she dates ever meets Florence unless she’s absolutely certain they will be a stable figure in their lives. It doesn’t affect her from dating shamelessly and fucking anything she find a attractive, but she doesn’t allow that to touch her daughters life. 

The realization of just how much you like Jack is quite clarifying for her. 

“But, isn’t he okay about Phoebe? He was great with her at the birthday party.” She probes softly and you find yourself mirroring her expression, warmth filling you.

“He’s so natural with her. They’ve got such an intense bond, it’s odd. They just get each other, I don’t know. And he always asks about her. If we go on a date or he comes over when she’s sleeping, he’ll always bring something for her. A toy, or a treat.” 

And it’s true. 

Jack understands that you’re a mother before anything else. That Phoebe comes before anything else. He respects it, understands it. Adopts it, even. If you’ve had to cancel a date, he’s more than happy to rearrange. He lets you choose what will work best for you and her. Shows interest in her little life and the things she likes. 

And it’s fucking terrifying.

Because you’ve never dated someone that cares enough about you to care about her, too. Never met a man who isn’t bothered by you having a child, who accepts it and embraces it, who understands and considers it with everything he does that regards you. 

It makes you realize just how phenomenal Jack is. And how desperately you want whatever you have with him to keep growing. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

If there’s one thing you hate about dates, it’s the fancy dinners in expensive restaurants and the overwhelming expectations that comes with them. 

In the past three months of dating Jack, you’ve only been on two of those said dates. The first one was fine, wonderful, even. The food was gorgeous, even if the portions were slightly too-small and the cost was incredibly over-priced. The atmosphere was gentle and intimate and it felt good to dress up more than you usually did. 

But you felt out of place. Your personality felt squished into a suffocating bubble. Too aware of how loud your laugh was. You felt like you were performing, something you’ve never done before and it left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

The second one, though, was awful. The moment you sat down, next to a group of women that were Jack’s age, you felt an uncomfortable gaze on the side of your face. At first, you assumed it was judgement. That you were younger than him by a fair few years. 

But when a woman approached and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder like she was familiar with him, you quickly understood. She introduced herself as an old friend of Jack’s from fucking highschool, though the slightly familair sparkle in her eye suggested it was a little more than that. 

Demi, her name was. Out for drinks with her friends. Devastatingly beautiful, long legs peeking through a black cocktail dress and silky hair that curled around her shoulders. She was the complete opposite of you in every sense imaginable. A successful lawyer, naturally stunning beyond belief. She was graceful in how she spoke and held herself; glowing skin and perfect posture. 

Angelic, if you were being honest. And not to mention, Jack’s age. There was that familiar tilt of an aching pain when you watched her talk with him, when you observed just how perfect they actually looked together. 

But despite her silky voice and perfectly manicured fingers, her captivating face and entrancing eyes, Jack did not encourage it, did not allow the encounter to move past pleasantries. Because Demi hadn’t paid no mind to you; had been rude enough to ignore your presence, to impose on what was very clearly a date. 

Jack was respectful when he cut her off, when he introduced you. When he said it was nice to see her again before angling his chair closer to you and refusing to offer her even another glance. Demi, to her credit, got the hint and left. 

But it had put a sour on your mood and Jack could sense it. You’d tried to continue through the date, to not allow doubt to wedge its way into your mind. But like last time, you felt out of place. The feeling had grown tenfold and it was Jack’s decision to throw cash on the table and guide you out of the restaurant with his fingers curled around yours. 

“That place was a drag.” He’d grinned at you, and twenty minutes later, you both found yourselves singing karaoke in a dive bar. 

It was a silent understanding then, that the both of you preferred dates that had a bit of personality to them. 

After that night, unless it was an impromptu coffee catch-up or takeout at your apartment, dates consisted of watching weird movies at the theater, bowling, arcades, crazy golf, karaoke or, like two days ago, a fucking panic room.

Tonight is supposed to be no different. Burgers and drinks and a comedy show. Somewhere along the past three months, these get-togethers have been feeling less like dates and more like hanging out with your best friend. 

And not in an awkward shift of feelings type of way. No. It’s in a way that makes you feel like you’ve known Jack for years, that he’s always been a figure in your life. His presence is now familiar, like he’s slotted perfectly into your life like a missing piece. 

Despite minimizing how often he and Phoebe see one another, he asks about her constantly. Before every date—if he comes to yours or picks you up—Jack will bring a little bouquet of flowers for her. Or a bracelet making kit, or an action figure she’s fixated on, or a CD for her little stereo in her room. 

Phoebe draws him pictures a lot, asks far too often when she’ll get to see him next. And on the very odd occasion when you invite Jack to the park with you both, or he stops in for a coffee or to help fix something broken, they’re like two best friends finally reunited. 

It both warms and breaks your heart at the same time. You’ve done everything you can to not allow them to form too deep of a connection, and yet it’s happened anyway. 

And Jack, he understands. He’s respected your decision since day one, when you made it clear that Phoebe comes first. He’s agreed, never once grown frustrated when you’ve had to cancel a date because she’s unwell or just wants you. 

You can’t help but feel guilty when you do cancel. Can’t help but feel like Jack deserves someone who does have the time for him that’s undisturbed. That he should pursue someone that doesn’t have the added responsibility of a child like you do. 

Maybe that’s why your stomach feels like it’s in knots when Tom calls to tell you that he’s bringing Phoebe home now, at 4 p.m. instead of tomorrow morning. You feel like nothing short of a let down as you type yet another apology text to Jack for the sixth time this month alone. 

You: are those tickets for the show tonight refundable? 

Jack: No, but they were only twenty dollars each. Do we need to cancel?

You: pheebs is coming home now

Jack: Is she okay?

You: yeah, he said she’s upset and wants to come home… think she just wants to be with me. I’m sorry jack 

Jack: Don’t ever be sorry, honey. Diva comes first always

Your heart feels heavy when you read over his final text again and again. You don’t get any time to write a reply because there’s a knocking on your front door the moment your fingers hover over the keyboard, about to tell him that maybe he should go with someone else instead. 

Phoebe all but barrels into the apartment when you open the front door. You watch the blur of her form race down the short hall and into her bedroom, slamming the door with more force that a four-year-old should have. 

You turn slowly back to Tom who stands at the threshold, your brows raised as you blink. 

“What’s the deal with her?”

There's a bitter look on Tom’s face—his screwed together and lips curling in a grimace. You know this look far too intimately. He’s angry. He doesn’t even pass you Phoebe’s weekend bag, just swings it into the corner of your entrance hall.

“We need to have a little conversation.” His tone is cruel, belittling. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and you instinctively reach for the front door, almost preparing yourself to slam it in his face if necessary. 

“I’d prefer to know why Phoebe is upset first.” 

Tom scoffs at that, at your strict yet unbothered tone. “And that’s why we need to have a talk. She’s been nothing but rude to Kirsty all weekend. Refused to talk to her since she woke up this morning and now has a problem with me, because I scolded her for it.”

Your own face screws up at his word, almost mirroring his own expression. 

“I’m sorry, who the fuck is Kirsty?” 

“My girlfriend.”

Your eyes are blinking far too quickly, lips parting and your head begins to shake as you try to remember him ever mentioning the fact that he was seeing someone or that he was considering allowing them to meet your fucking daughter.

“Girlfriend?” It almost comes out as a shriek. “Since when? And why the hell is she around Phoebe before I’ve even met her?”

You don’t think it’s an unfair thing to get upset over. Tom is known for his lengthy track record in flings and short-lived relationships. When he decided to be more involved in Phoebe’s life, you had made it clear that he wasn't to subject Phoebe to any of his flings or so called relationships unless he spoke about it with you first. Unless you met them first or that he had at least been with them for longer than a fucking month. 

You never wanted that around Phoebe, for her father to parade a new woman every three weeks and it confuse her, for her to think it’s fucking normal. 

But the look of Tom’s face turns from disgust to outright anger. 

“Who’s Jack?” 

That causes you to pause. To blink. To consider how the fuck he knows who Jack is. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Who’s Jack, Y/N?” His voice is growing louder, his tone turning darker. “Because I’ve had the pleasure of hearing that name for the past three weeks. Non-stop.”

Now it’s your turn to get a bit angry. A scoff escapes you before you can stop it, your hip cocking to one side as you rest a hand on it. “Okay first of all this is the third time you’ve seen Phoebe in the past three weeks. And second, Jack is my neighbour.”

Tom’s arms cross over his chest, fury burning in his gaze. “Phoebe said he’s your boyfriend.” 

You’re left stunned, yet again. 

Jesus Christ, Pheebs.

You’ve tried so hard to remain platonic in front of her, not wanting to confuse your little girl when neither you or Jack really know what is going on between you. You’ve been mindful of him not being around her too much, of not blurring any lines in front of her. 

“We’ve been on a couple of dates. It’s completely platonic in front of Phoebe. Not that I have to explain myself to you.” Your own tone is growing bitter, annoyance bleeding through every word. 

Tom takes a step closer, imposing in your personal space. “You want to meet Kirsty? That’s fine. But I want to meet Jack.” 

You scoff, about to burst into argument when Tom cuts you off. 

“You don’t get to be in control all the time. You might be her mother but I am her father.” 

The rage begins to bubble over and you step toward him, closing the distance with nothing but resentment in your eyes. The thought of breaking his fucking nose is all you can think right now. 

“Actually, Tom, I do. Because I am her mother always. Day and night, rain or shine, I show up for her. You pick and choose when you want to be her fucking dad.”

His jaw ticks, you can see how he clenches his teeth. Those nostrils flare the same way they used to when he’s trying to control his anger. Just as quickly as you think he’ll snap, he steps away. 

“I’m not budging on this. Get your mom to have Phoebe on Friday night. Preston’s at 8. You bring Jack and I will bring Kirsty.” 

Your instant reaction is to shut him down. To tell him to fuck off and slam the door on his face. But Phoebe is your main concern above all. The last thing you want is for him to take this out on her, to stop seeing her just to spite you. 

So you stare at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of you giving in. But your duty as a mother is much stronger than your pride. 

“Fine.” 

You don’t wait for another word to leave him. You keep your eyes on him as you shut the door on his face and then you’re leaning against it, loosing a frustrated breath before your ears perk up at the sound of One Direction blaring from Phoebe’s room. 

You knock on her bedroom door as you open it, halting at the doorway. She lays on her tummy on her bedroom floor, feet kicked up in the air as she colors in a page of her Spider-Man book. Her little stereo still sits on her dresser and you slowly approach to turn it down a few buttons. 

You join her on the floor, mirroring her position and picking up a blue crayon to color in a car stuck in Spider-Man’s web. 

“So, you’re back early.” You comment casually.

She doesn’t answer. 

“I was thinking we could have a pizza night?” You try again. 

“Sure.” The words are small when they come out of her and you frown. 

“Do you want to talk about what’s upsetting you?” 

It’s a very subtle movement when she shakes her head and your heart feels heavy. You’ve decided you already fucking hate this Kirsty for whatever she’s done to upset your daughter. But you won’t push her to talk. 

The whole situation is a bit sobering, if you’re being honest. Like it’s an insight to how Phoebe will be when she’s a teenager riddled with confusing feelings and hormones. You won’t force her, won’t push her. 

“Okay, well… if you want to talk, you know Mommy will always listen, right?” 

You spend the next twenty minutes with her, coloring in silence. You sing along softly under your breath to the songs that play on her stereo, and after a little while, when you purposely start to sing the words wrong, you get a laugh out of her. 

Another ten minutes, and she agrees to leave her room. She lets you turn off the music and sits at the kitchen island while you unpack her box of Play-Doh and tip out all of her cutters. 

You’re about to reach for your phone to order in some pizza when there’s a knock at your front door and your entire body stills. The last thing you need right now is Tom showing back up to throw another fit and for Phoebe to be a witness to it. 

So it’s quite carefully that you approach the door, only now in this moment hating the fact that you don’t have a little peephole. But the anxiety is quickly diminished the second you wrap a hand around the handle and a familiar voice calls from the hall. 

“Pizza and ice cream delivery for two beautiful girls in apartment seventeen.” 

You swing the door open with a grin, eyes drinking over his attire; khaki trousers, a black t-shirt…simple and yet you think he looks better and better every time you see him. 

He grins a bit boyishly when you beam at him, his previous worry of you scolding him for showing up when Phoebe is with you unannounced quickly fading. 

She hears him before you can speak, jumps off the stool at the kitchen counter to race for him, his name screeching out of her as she barrels into his good knee. 

Jack somehow manages to balance the two boxes of pizza and tub of ice cream on one hand while the other reaches down to cradle the back of Phoebe’s head. He smiles softly down at her, lets his fingers scratch soothingly at her scalp before looking back up to meet your eyes. 

The hesitancy in them is clear to you, it's the same thing that shines on your face. The desire to reach across for a kiss, a hug. But he stretches out the hand holding the food toward you instead. 

“Just dropping these off.” He explains, voice rugged and it comforts the tense corners of your body and mind. 

Your gaze softens as Phoebe unwraps herself from Jack’s leg and reaches for his spare hand to drag him into the apartment. “Mom just set up my Play-Doh!”

You stop her with the gentle call of her name and she frowns at you for the interruption. “Go wash your hands, Diva. Pizza then Play-Doh.”

She huffs but releases Jack’s hand and drags her feet down the hall to the bathroom. Jack stifles a laugh as he watches, walks toward the counter to place the boxes down and quickly scoops you into his arms when he hears the water running. 

Your arms snake around his waist, nuzzling your face into his cotton shirt and savoring the scent of him and his cologne. Jack kisses the top of your head, a soothing hand stroking up and down your back. 

“I’m sorry for just showing up without asking first. Just wanted to do something for you both.” 

You shake your head against him, against his apology. Craning your neck up enough to look at his face, your lips pucker in a silent request for a kiss. Jack obliges with a lopsided grin, gently pressing his mouth to yours and humming at the familiar taste of you. 

It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do. The water turns off and you gently untangle yourself from Jack’s hold, feeling the tenseness of Tom’s visit return the moment that you do. 

“No, she needed it. I needed it. You’ll stay?” 

Jack’s shoulders drop in something that looks like relief. He nods, fights off a grin that’s forming, but you catch it anyway. Don’t mean for the look to set your stomach ablaze and into a fit of stompeding elephants, but you’ve quickly come to terms with the fact that you have little control over how your body and mind reacts when it comes to Jack. 

Phoebe doesn’t leave Jack alone when you eat together. She sits with her stool pressed closely against his, clinks her bottle of water against his glass every time he or she takes a sip. 

She catches him up about the things she’s been doing since she saw him last two weeks ago. And Jack listens, pretends you haven’t already told him. 

After dinner, she forces him to sit on the living room rug with her, superhero figures scattered across the ground and Lego blocks thrown everywhere from Hulk smashing buildings apart. 

It’s terrifying how natural and domestic it all feels. You and Jack are on the floor with her, playing and laughing. He fits in too easily. Like he was supposed to have been here a long time ago. You know he can sense how tense you are, that there’s more to it than having to pretend you’re just friends for Phoebe’s sake. 

After an hour playing on the ground, you take note of the small grimace Jack tries to conceal, the awkward way he stretches out his leg. You disappear with the excuse of grabbing a drink but you return with a pair of crutches in your hand. 

Jack blubbers out a laugh at the sight and frowns when you give them to him. 

“Take it off, know it’s bothering you. She won’t care.” 

He blinks at you, back at the crutches while Phoebe talks in a deep voice with the dolls. 

“What the f—” he catches himself before the curse can slip out. “Where did you get these? Why do you have these?” 

You shrug, returning to the floor with your legs folded beneath you. “They were left in the laundry room when we moved in. Kept them in case they were needed one day.”

Phoebe watches Jack’s movements closely from the corner of her eye as he stands with a grunt and sits on the couch. She keeps her dolls moving but her focus is entirely on him, when he rolls his pant leg up to reveal metal, when the click sounds through the room and a sigh slips from his mouth. 

She hides her shock well for a four-year-old when Jack removes the metal completely. Like she’s now only just realizing that the prosthetic means he only actually has one real leg. It causes a pinch to form between her brows, her gaze to flicker over to her dolls that have two legs. Plastic, yes, but two legs that are the same. 

She turns back to look at him fully this time, her dolls long forgotten. “Jack?”

He peeks up at her, still leaning over himself slightly to massage the tender part below his knee. “What’s up, kid?” 

Pheebs ponders for a moment, chewing on her inner cheek. “What happened to your leg?” 

It’s a loaded question, one you both knew she would ask eventually. But you still catch the way Jack stiffens slightly; your own body locking up a bit at the sight. You don’t intervene, even if a suitable answer is on the tip of your tongue. 

It’s Jack’s story, not yours. And if he needs an out, he’ll look to you for it.

But he doesn’t. He keeps his tender gaze on Phoebe and leans forward to rest his elbows on his lap. “It got hurt a long time ago. So, the doctors had to give me a new leg.” 

She frowns harder. “But you’re a doctor.” 

Jack smiles at that, at how her mind is trying to understand. “Yeah. But, you know…some things can’t be fixed no matter how hard you try.” 

You watch Pheebs as she tries to absorb the truth of Jack’s words. Can see her brain filtering every syllable, like she’s storing the information away for later use. You don’t chime in, don’t try to overwhelm her with an explanation or an example. 

Eventually, she shrugs. “I don’t care if you have an old leg or a new one. Or even just no leg.” She giggles at that last part. 

Jack’s eyes soften impossibly at her bluntness, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he regards the kid with more tenderness than you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” 

She nods. “I still wanna be like you when I’m big.”

It’s such a simple statement to her, but one that cleaves your heart in two and almost shatters Jack completely. The only man to have ever made such a positive impact on Phoebe’s life is your father. 

Tom has never had the connection that Jack has bloomed with her. She has never trusted anyone so easily and so lovingly as she does Jack. 

Perhaps it’s his kind and calming nature, his softness and security that bleeds from him whenever he’s in your presence. Or perhaps, Phoebe just senses things. Perhaps she knows Tom will never truly be something stable in her life, but Jack…she looks at him like he’s such a wonder to this world.

Like he’s something so incredibly stabilizing to her. 

It reinforces that anxiety; of being a single mom and finding love again. Of trusting someone enough to let them in, to believe they won’t walk away when the going gets tough. Your mind feels like a broken record. The doubts of you and Phoebe being too much, both of your needs and requirements being more than someone initially signed up for. 

But Jack stares at your daughter like she’s a gift he’s always wanted but never allowed himself to have. Like she’s breathed a new lease of life into him. Like he’ll love and protect and guard her with his life until his final breath. 

He looks at her like a father should look at a daughter. And that scares the living shit out of you. 

Because it’s been three months. Three months of dates and kisses and falling for a man so much older than you. Three months of trying to keep him and Phoebe separated so as to not confuse her. Three months of trying to juggle parenthood and a career and a love life and not allow yourself to get too swept up or lost in the moments. 

Three months and everything you’ve tried to prevent is happening anyway. 

You’ve been foolish to keep them apart, maybe. To put a wedge between their bond. But you couldn’t have either of them growing attached to the other only for it to go to shit in two months time. You’d handle the fall out like you have done with everything else in the past. 

But not them. You could never put either of them through that. 

Anxiety lodges deep within you at the realization of it. Fear cripples you from the inside out; wrapping around your bones before seeping into your organs. It’s like you’re struggling to breathe, the beginnings of a panic attack right on the precipice of dragging you under. 

You force yourself to break their gentle moment, to shatter the internal peace and acceptance that Jack has found with how easily Phoebe saw past his disability.

You feel sick to your stomach for doing it. 

“Okay, Diva. Bath time.” 

When you look over to Jack, he’s already gazing at you. There’s a longing look in his eyes and a deep rooted wave of peace and fear and conflict passes over him. He offers a tearful, thin-lipped smile and your shoulders sag as Phoebe rushes off to her bedroom in search of pyjamas. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice is soft when you ask him, gentle. 

Jack holds out a hand to reach for you and you slowly move closer to him, standing between his parted knees. His hands settle on the outsides of your thighs, his touch tender and careful. Your fingers find his peppered curls, nails gently scratching at his scalp in soothing movements. 

He leans his head against your lower tummy, thumbs tracing patterns over your jeans. 

“I don’t have words to describe how beautiful that kid’s soul is.”

Tears well in your eyes at his broken words, the sound of his voice so vulnerable and so proud. You can’t help the sniffle that escapes you, the pride that swells within you and the adoration that your heart bursts with. 

Not just for Phoebe, but for him. 

“You are an incredible mother, baby.” 

You laugh through a soft cry because you’ve lost count of how many times he’s told you this; how wonderful you are with Phoebe, what a fantastic parent you are. You’ve always known you’ve tried your best, always believed yourself to be a good Mom.

But Jack, he makes you know it. 

You slowly sink down to your knees in front of him, hands moving to cup his face as his reaches up to hold gently at your elbows. His eyes are wet when he looks at you, face pink like he’s trying to keep in his tears. 

It only makes yours fall more. 

Your thumbs brush soothingly over his high cheekbones, a smile pulling on the corners of your mouth before you lean in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

He lets you walk away, watches your every step through distorted vision until he hears the melodic laugh of yours and Phoebe’s in the bathroom when the water begins to run. 

Jack doesn’t move at first. He lets himself bask in the sound of your happiness, lets it fester in that crevice of his heart—no, not fester—grow. It spreads gently, warm and certain, nestles so deep into him that he can physically feel weight lift off his mind and soul. 

For a moment, Jack lets himself believe. 

He lets himself ignore those worrying thoughts; not good enough, too old, not whole. He allows himself to accept Phoebe’s words, the weight of them, the truth in them. Lets himself believe your eyes when you look at him, the relief in your body when he’s close, the lightness in your presence in his company. 

He’s noticed how he seems to take your worry away a lot of the time, just from being near you. How your stress fizzles into something you allow yourself to think about later. Like he’s more important than it. 

More than that, he notices your hesitancy when it comes to Phoebe. It’s something he understands, undoubtedly. Something he respects and refuses to ever push or question you on. Because there’s no label on what you are, nothing to reassure you he won’t just stop texting or calling or showing up one day. 

It puts a bitter taste in his mouth, makes shame swell along with that dangerous feeling he gets around you or when he thinks about you. 

Makes him realize that Jack really is a mess of mixed emotions. Full of desire and want and adoration, and yet too careful because he doesn’t want to push; reserving himself and his actions because he doesn’t want to be too much, to overstep. 

The only thing he can do to stop himself from spiraling, is clean. 

He tidies away Phoebe’s toys, refluffs the cushions on the couch and turns on the lamps in the living area. He clears the kitchen; loading the dishwasher and breaking down pizza boxes to fit in your little recycling bin under the sink. 

It’s when he’s wiping down the sides that he hears your footsteps and Phoebe’s quicker ones following. Hears your gentle voice telling Phoebe to say goodnight. 

He turns with a smile, still leaning against the sink with the crutches propped up by the fridge. An act that he usually wouldn’t be so open to commit in front of someone new. To be vulnerable enough to hobble on crutches with his leg off. “Look at this Diva, all fresh and in the pyjamas I got you!”

She beams at him, offering a twirl. “Jack, can you take me to bed?” 

His eyes snap to yours, brows raised at her proposal. You stifle a laugh, relieved to see him a bit more himself and despite your previous need to keep them separated, you find yourself shrugging. 

Jack looks back down to Phoebe with a grin. “Sure, kid. Say night to Mommy.” 

You try to ignore the way that makes you feel when it rolls off his tongue. How natural for him to say Mommy and not your Mommy like Tom does. Try to ignore how easily and quickly Pheebs listens to him. 

You crouch down to give her a squeeze, peppering playful and exaggerated kisses across her cheeks and under her chin. Her laughter bubbles out of her little body; loud and unapologetic. 

“I love you, Diva. See you in the morning.” 

“Love you, bestie.” She gives you one last squeeze before pulling away and leading Jack down to her bedroom. 

He offers you a wink as he passes, heat curling at your insides. And you watch as Phoebe races into her bedroom, and don’t hide the fact that you’re ogling Jack’s ass when he follows on his crutches. 

In the ten minutes it takes for Jack to settle her to bed, you manage to finish the rest of the kitchen and brew two mugs of steaming hot tea and get settled onto the couch, flicking through Netflix to find something for you both to watch. 

When you’re scrolling through the comedy section, Jack returns with a gleam in his eyes that you’ve never once seen before. 

You squint at him. “Did she settle okay?”

He hums, rests the crutches against the wall and settles beside you on the couch. His arm is immediately thrown over the back of it and you’re instinctively reaching to hand him his tea before curling into his side. 

“Yeah, out like a light. Read her that Peter Pan book, sang to her.”

Your head whips up to look at him with wide eyes and a grin tearing your face in half. Jack looks down at you with lopsided amusement. “You sang to her? Can’t believe I missed that.”

His once amused expression morphs into something almost predatory, a taunting glint in his eye and a sinful curve to his mouth. It turns your insides molten. 

“You want me to sing to you, sweetheart?” His voice drops an octave, something you’ve noticed is unintentional and only seems to come out when he flirts intimately. 

You can’t help the giddy smile that worms its way onto your face. His eye contact is still something you’ve not yet grown completely accustomed to. Intense in the way that it feels like he’s looking directly into your soul. 

It makes you forget momentarily about everything around you.

All you can do is close the distance to press your lips against his, grinning against his mouth so wide that he feels it, mirrors it. When he pulls away, Jack brushes the hair from your face and you have to busy yourself with reaching for your tea before you get sucked under his spell. 

“Did she tell you why she was upset?” He asks softly. 

You lean back into him with a sigh, blowing softly at the steam rising from your mug. “No, but it seems like Tom’s had another woman around her and she doesn’t like it.” 

Jack’s brows raise involuntarily and he’s thankful you’ve got your gaze locked on the TV, back to flicking through Netflix. He hums, instead. Keeps his mouth shut tight on what he thinks about that. 

It’s not his place.

“She’s been mentioning you to Tom.” Your voice is quieter when you speak again, but the words ring loud in Jack’s head. 

He’s already staring down at you when you move your head to sneak a glance up at him before returning your attention to the screen across the room.

“Phoebe called you my boyfriend.” 

Jack blinks, momentarily stunned by the information. A mixed array of emotions swirls through him. Relief, uncertainty, hope, excitement. But more than that, understanding. You’ve been tense all evening, unsure in your movements, a little unlike yourself. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat as dread and doubt begins to bubble. Has it made things too real for you? Made you realize that you’re not ready for that? That perhaps entertaining him has been a mistake? 

He clears his throat, still looking down at you despite your attention not being on him. “Is that why you’ve been on edge this evening?” 

You chew on the inside of your lip, considering. “No—yes, no—I don’t—”

Your chest is heaving slightly, words contradicting the other, your thoughts. But Jack lets you do it, lets you try to sort through your jumbled mind and heart. He doesn’t push, he never has. He waits, patiently. Even if his mind is tearing him apart in the process. 

It's that idea that forces you to turn beside him; knees folded and pressing against his hip, his arm still thrown over the back of the couch and his fingers reach to brush tenderly across your shoulder. 

There’s a calmness in his eyes that isn’t in yours, a silent reassurance that whatever you’re feeling—thinking—is okay. That whatever you decide is okay. He’ll respect it. Respect you and Phoebe. 

“What is this, Jack? Us?” Your voice is quiet, tone breaking just slightly when you speak. “Because I can’t—I don’t do casual. Phoebe comes first in everything that I do and this can’t be any different. We’ve been nothing but friendly in front of her and she’s going around telling people that you’re my boyfriend and I—”

“Hey, woah. Okay, breathe.” Jack coos as you begin to spiral, shifting slightly to reach for your hand and chase your frantic gaze. 

“Listen. Us—whatever this is—it’s whatever you want or need it to be. But no one said anything about casual. Nothing about you or Phoebe or us is casual to me.” 

Jack’s tone is resolute, punctuating every word he speaks like he needs you to understand what he’s saying. That every syllable is true and genuine. It’s enough to make you finally meet his gaze.

“So, what is this, then? What are we?” You hate the desperation in your voice; the sheer vulnerability that bleeds from your heart and drips off your tongue. 

Jack’s expression softens impossibly further and he rests his tea on the arm of the couch before reaching to cradle your jaw. He watches you for a moment, admires. His thumb reaches to smooth the elevens creasing between your brows, to trace the slope of your nose.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but…I kind of like the title that Phoebe has given me.” 

The string of anxiety snaps clean, shoulder dropping noticeably in relief. Your lashes flutter at him, heart thumping like the wings of a wild bird. “Yeah?”

Jack hums, a tick of a smile daring to pinch his cheeks. “Yeah.” 

Your tongue licks across your dry bottom lip, pulls it back between your teeth as you regard him. The gentleness he possesses for you, the tenderness in which he holds you. 

“It’s not too soon?” You whisper. 

He frowns at that, rolls his own bottom lip between two rows of teeth. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene, but I don’t think you know just how much you both mean to me.” 

Even with your bottom lip sucked into your mouth, it doesn’t stop the slight trembling of your chin, or the silver that begins to line your eyes. Jack’s head cocks slightly to the side at the sight. 

“Baby, I know you want to protect Phoebe in everything you do. I respect that. I admire it. But, I want to make it clear to you that I understand that you two are a package deal. And my interest and care for you doesn’t end with you. It includes Pheebs.”

It makes you pause, forces tears to spill down your warm cheeks. His care for you. For Phoebe. It’s the most he’s ever verbally clarified about this relationship, about how he feels about you. It doesn’t extend to Phoebe, doesn’t stretch to her. It includes her. Wholly. 

And Jack notices the way you fixate on his words, on his admittance. That it’s not lost on you how vulnerable and open he’s being. But he gives you the time to consider what he’s said. To let you interpret them in whatever way you need to. 

Because he’s not ready to truly admit just how far he’s falling. Not just yet. Jack doesn’t want to scare or overwhelm you. He meant what he said when he told you it’s whatever you want it to be. That you have and always will have control.

With a shaky breath, you nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you back into his side, cradling your body close to his. 

“Don’t ever get lost in that pretty head of yours. Just talk to me, baby.” He kisses the top of your head, reaches a hand to smooth down your flyaways.

The tender touch soothes what’s left of your anxiety and you finally feel yourself begin to relax fully. His scent envelops you in the most gentle of ways; something that has grown to be familiar and comforting. 

Your neck twists so you can look back up at him, lips puckering slightly but it’s enough for Jack to understand what you’re asking for. He gives it to you with a breathy chuckle, capturing your lips in a tender kiss—soft and gentle and intimate and…sure. 

But when you pull away with hesitancy in your eyes, that certainty curdles into worry. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks carefully. 

You smile, but it’s nervous. “You’re not working Friday night, right?”

Jack’s brows raise slightly, comically. Were you nervous about asking him out on a date? He squints at you, pecking your lips again. “No, baby. Night off. You wanna do something?” 

You grin but it's emotionless, fingers tracing the buttons on the TV remote.

“Actually, we have a double date Friday night with Tom and his girlfriend.” 

You peck his lips once more before shifting to look at the screen and press play on the movie. Jack blinks at the side of your face, slightly in confusion, more so in disbelief. He barely watches any of the film, too caught up in his head. 

Too busy figuring out how he’ll sit through dinner with Phoebe’s father without ending the night in a fucking jail cell. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

this chapter is a belated happy birthday to my very loyal reader @cafereads and a belated graduation present to one of my lovely anons!! <3

OKAY, AGAIN I AM SO SORRY FOR IT BEING SUCH A LATE UPDATE BUT I PROMISE WE ARE SOOOO BACK!!! Next chapter is going to EAT i promise you, it's my most anticipated chapter to get to in this series. Also, a lil updated, I have decided that chapter 10 of this series will be the FINAL PART!! i will definitely come back and revisit them for check-ins but as it stands, pt.10 will be the finale of this series and while i will be so sad to see it end, i am also super excited to be able to move onto other fics i have plans for and drafts that are taunting me lol

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

tag list:

@gennywennypenny / @thefemininemystiquee / @mrsjgbuck / @linnyalou / @rathatosy 

@averyhotchner / @blackirisesinthesunlight / @vicky066 / @amacphet / @gaypoetsblog 

@littlewolfbird / @woodxtock / @myescapefromthislife / @freakedtfout4 / @whatyagottado 

@kaitieskidmore97 / @what-the-jams / @ryannnleigh / @freshouttheslammmer / @theaskeeps

@whimsilverhand / @yiiiikesmish / @kacananda / @solastasims / @stardustdd 

@cestmoijola / @xh444 / @venus584 / @celestialceremonials / @jordz34

@milflover-72 / @melissa66orion / @peaches-and-sunshine / @profoundbelieverpeach / @maya-j0y

@unsaidjaelinrose / @deathbyvexs / @4ria790 / @jayjay-218 / @slipfastrry 

@novamiss / @themarvelousbee / @stardustworlds / @magi999 / @sarahhxx03