If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

Her footsteps pause abruptly, forcing yours to do the same. And when you slowly turn to sneak a glance at her, she’s glaring at you through squinted eyes. 

“Would it hurt you to lie to me, just once in your life?” 

You snort, reaching to loop your arm around hers and effectively drag her across the concrete playground of the girls preschool. 

“Yes, actually, it would. Because I love you and I want only what’s best for you. And unfortunately, you do not share the same sentiment about yourself. 

Bella leans her arm over to pinch your bicep. “I do want what’s best for me.”

“Then maybe you should stop settling.” You muse. 

She rolls her eyes, throwing her head back and the jewellery that decorates her wrists jingles when she throws an arm in the air, the other still hooked around yours. 

“It’s not my fault I seem to only attract douchebags.” Her argument is half fair. She does seem to attract the incompetent men who ask her on a date but can’t afford to pay. Or the ones that still live with their mom at thirty and can’t hold down a job for longer than six weeks. 

But, Bella also entertains those types of men. Gives them the time of day even after they let her down. Not to psychoanalyze your best friend, but you’re almost certain it stems from her father leaving when she was a child. 

The thought has an idea occurring. 

“What about dating someone…older?”

She turns her head to lazily grin at you as you both stop just a few feet outside the doors to the girls classroom. 

“Older like Jack?” She lowers her voice as other parents begin to drift across the playground, searching for their children’s respective classes. “What, you looking for a third?”

You slap her shoulder at the tease, gnaw down on your bottom lip to hide the inappropriate amusement. Her head rolls back in a laugh, hooks her arm around yours tighter. 

“I’m not opposed to someone older. But I haven’t been lucky enough to stumble across someone hot and old like you have.”

You don’t bother hiding your grin this time, or the flush in your cheeks. “He is pretty hot, isn’t he.” 

She rolls her eyes fondly. “He’s obviously doing something right. I’ve never seen you this…glowy over a guy before.”

You shrug, bashfulness overtaking you just briefly. Because Jack is doing more than just something right. He’s considerate, compassionate, patient and kind. He’s funny—so fucking funny—and flirty and cheeky and intelligent in the sexiest way you’ve ever seen. 

More than that, he’s competent, capable. And he listens to learn, not to reply. He problem solves instead of festering in a negative situation. He’s masculine in every healthy way; like your personal repair man who comes over to fix leaky faucets and helps paint new furniture on your balcony that you’ve haggled from Marketplace. 

And the sex…Jesus fucking Christ. 

It’s always so intimate and sensual. Never rushed, no. It’s explorative and exciting. He takes his time to learn your body, notices what you like and what you love. 

And he’s vocal. Talks you through it with praise and encouragement, something you’ve never experienced before him. 

“I’m not glowy.”

Bella scoffs. “Yes, you are. I mean you’ve always been carefree but since meeting him—what, four months ago?—you’re…I don’t know, it’s like your soul has been let free or something.”

A laugh tumbles out of you. “Okay, Shakespeare.”

The doors to the girls’ class swing open before Bella can offer a defensive retort, and Phoebe and Florence come bolting toward you in quick skips and fits of giggles. 

You try not to focus on Bella’s words and observation; try not to admit that she’s right. Because in the four months of dating Jack, you’ve never felt so alive. Not when you were a teenager and sneaking out to smoke joints in the field with your friends, not when you finally left Tom.

You felt alive when you gave birth to Phoebe, when you heard her cries for the first time and felt her body against yours. But it’s a different feeling of liveliness. It’s when a new part of you awakens, when your life shifts from living for yourself to living for another. 

But, Jack…yeah, he makes you feel alive. Not just in the dates he takes you on, or the ones he works harder to plan so Phoebe can join, but in the way that he’s never once tried to snuff out your light, never once complained or grimaced at your weird and wacky personality. 

Maybe Bella is right. He does make your soul feel free. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Mom, Jack’s eating the cheese again!”

Your head whips round to the island where both Jack and Phoebe huddle close together, decorating their pizzas to their liking. The former holds an expression of dramatic betrayal while the latter bursts into the dirtiest laugh you think you’ve ever heard from her. 

“You ate some first!” Jack argues, feigning offence and crossing broad, freckled arms across his toned chest. 

Phoebe’s head rolls back in laughter and you watch when Jack quickly untangles his arms to place a hand at her back, steadying her from falling off the stool with the force of her giggles. 

You watch the scene in amusement, a warmth in your chest that you’re finally starting to grow accustomed to when it comes to the devilish duo. 

“Yeah, but I’m just a kid, so I’m allowed.”

Jack turns to you with raised brows, struggling to hide his amusement when he jabs a thumb in Pheebs’ direction as if to say get a load of this.

It was, of course, Jack’s idea to have pizza night. You didn’t put up much of a fight when he suggested it to you after a rough week of drafting, planning and heavy deadlines. 

And when you then proposed it to Phoebe, she had agreed the second you’d mentioned Jack's name; before you even had the chance to tell her what the plans were. 

From the moment Jack walked in an hour ago, she hasn't left his side. Encouraged him to take off his prosthetic by shoving the crutches against his good leg, tucked it away neatly beside the couch when he did as she requested. 

Then she dragged him to the kitchen island where they’ve been for the last forty-five minutes; kneading dough and cutting pieces of meat and vegetables for their pizzas. 

And you’ve watched from across the island, with something both heavy and freeing in your chest. Felt your eyes prickle with tears at every synchronized laugh that fell out of them. 

Phoebe forces Jack to cut peppers into shapes of flower stems and petals, uses little pieces of corn to centre them and cheese scattered only on the bottom half, because according to Phoebe, grass doesn’t have to just be green. 

You decorate your pizza in a similar fashion, using meat as the petals and veggies for the stems and leaves, while Jack creates a bullseye effect with rings of each topping—much to Pheebs’ disgust. 

“Mommy, can we play SingStar while the pizza’s cooking?” She asks, tone sickly sweet as she dries her hands and Jack cleans down the surfaces. 

Like usual, she seems to get what she wants. 

At first, Jack manages to escape the song delegations, entirely evading his turn to duet or sing at all by finding anything else that momentarily needs his attention. 

“I need to check on the pizzas.”

“I’m just going to grab us all a drink.”

“But it’s so much fun listening to you and Mommy!” 

Until you’ve finally had enough. 

“Jack, it’s your turn to sing with Pheebs. I need to finish dinner.” 

Before he can offer to do it instead, you’re shoving the wired microphone into his chest with a feline grin as he glares playfully down at you. 

“Give it your all or she’ll be pissed. Phoebe doesn’t do half-hearted things. It’s a full performance or your head on a stick.” 

Jack's already well aware of the fact. He’s watched you both prance around the living room for the past fifteen minutes, screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs while completing a fully-fledged dance choreography. 

He’s tried his best to put it off—not because he doesn’t want to join in, but because watching his two girls laugh and dance and sing and scream… he doesn’t want to intrude on something that is yours. 

But Phoebe screeches excitedly when she reaches for Jack’s hand and drags him into the middle of the rug as soon as his prosthetic is clipped back on, the coffee table shoved across the room to make space. 

If he’s going to do karaoke, he’s going to do it properly. Phoebe has standards, and Jack’s not the type of man to disappoint. 

The TV screen blinks briefly as Phoebe presses play and a rhythm of drums and something higher begins to sound through the speakers, the words “Ain’t It Fun by Paramore” flashing across the screen. 

While Jack misses the first verse, sings too fast or too slow, unable to catch the tempo and rhythm of lyrics he’s never heard before, Phoebe kills it. Hips jutting with enough sass of a sixteen-year-old, not missing a single word or beat. 

You can’t help but watch through tears of laughter, a sharp ache forming in your sides from the force of it. And by the time it gets to the final round of the chorus, Jack finds himself jumping around the living room with Pheebs—still singing off key and out of tempo, but he copies her dancing the best way he can.

Her infectious laughter bounces off the walls, and when Jack imitates Phoebe by wiggling his hips, the sound of yours is joining hers. He catches your gaze through a wide grin and sparkling eyes, shoots you a wink that does something to your insides. 

The whole thing feels normal, right. Like the sound of Jack’s laughter and the stability of his presence is exactly what’s been missing in your home and hearts. 

He’s tapping out at the end of the duet, saved by you declaring dinner is ready when Pheebs tries to pester him for just one more song. 

Dinner goes down a similar way; giggles and jokes, talking about Phoebe’s week at school and some crazy (but child friendly) stories from Jack’s shifts recently. Your apartment has never felt so full of life and love. 

You’re briefly taken back to when you were a teenager. Riddled with anger and upset and resentment for the world, but sitting at the table and eating with your mom and dad… talking about your day, laughing at stupid things. 

They always had a way of taking that pain away, even if just for a few moments. Because they made you feel loved, feel wanted. 

This feels a bit like that. Family time. Something Phoebe has only ever experienced with you and her grandparents at their house. 

By the time you’ve finished your pizzas, Jack insists on cleaning up while you bathe Phoebe. She splashes and plays for twenty minutes, uses her bath crayons to draw pictures on the porcelain tub before scrubbing them away and getting into some pyjamas. 

When you return to the living room, the lights are off and the sun is setting from outside the balcony windows. The kitchen is spotless where Jack stands, opening a box of microwave popcorn and The Little Vampire already ready on the TV.

Two steaming mugs of tea sit on the coffee table alongside a smaller mug filled with warm milk and a little plate of cookies. You’re too busy smiling to yourself at the little set up that you almost miss Phoebe scolding and judging Jack. 

“That’s not how my grandpa makes it. His popcorn is crazy.” 

You blink over to the kitchen as you sit on the couch, watching Jack’s brows raise as he slides the popcorn into the microwave. He doesn’t question it, he’s learnt not to question some of the things that Phoebe says. 

But despite her disapproval, she watches through the glass as the paper bag expands and rotates, giggles when she’s startled by the popping until Jack’s pinching the pouch with two fingers and pouring the snack into a bowl. 

Phoebe nestles herself between you and Jack when they join you on the couch, squished between your right thigh and Jack’s left; a thin blanket draped over the three of you while the bowl of popcorn rests in her lap. 

Her eyes dart to the balcony doors and back to the television, like she’s noticing something but too worried to speak up. It causes a frown to pull between your brows as you follow her line of sight. 

But there’s nothing but darkness out on the balcony; the golden light of the lamp and flickers of the TV reflecting on the glass. 

“You okay, Diva? You keep looking outside.” You probe softly. 

You feel her stiffen, just enough for it to feed the concern rushing through you and to grab Jack’s attention. He looks down at her, then at you, his own brows furrowing at her change in body language. 

“It’s night time.” She mutters, but there’s a disappointed lull in her voice. 

You blink, that concern morphing into gentle amusement and lean down at your side to kiss the top of her head. “That’s okay, baby. It’s movie night, you can stay up later.” 

Your confirmation doesn’t do much to shake her tenseness. “But night time means Jack has to go home soon.”

Jack’s eyes snap to meet yours, his lips parted and a softness overtakes him at the realization. She’s sad because she doesn’t want him to go. He leans a hand down to playfully pinch at her purple painted toenails that peek out from the blanket.

“S’okay. I’ll stay for the movie.” Jack coos her, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough.

Even ten minutes later, when The Little Vampire plays on the screen, she’s still tense. 

“Mommy?”

You hum, eyes falling from the TV back to the side of her face. 

“Can Jack have a sleepover tonight?” 

Her request makes you pause, has Jack slowly turning his head to look at you with apprehension. Of all the things Phoebe could have asked, this is not one you could have anticipated. 

Jack…a sleepover. 

Your lips part as you stare at him, trying to silently read what he thinks of it. But before you can consider the question—consider what it would mean for Jack to spend the night while Phoebe is here, he’s talking. 

“But Sally would be all on her own.” He tries gently, looking back down at your daughter as he speaks in a gentle tone. 

His quick answer shouldn’t disappoint you, but it does. Because you’re not sure if you really have an issue with him spending the night; with Phoebe waking up to him in the apartment. 

You’ve slowly been allowing them to spend more time together over the last month, their bond only blossoming into something unbreakable. 

And it’s not like Jack doesn’t already have spare clothes here. On the odd nights that Phoebe is at your moms or at Tom’s and it’s Jack’s night off, he’ll stay here or you’ll stay at his. 

Worry begins to worm its way into your mind. Is that why he doesn’t want to this time? Because it’s not just you he’ll be waking up to, but Phoebe as well?

Jack's been nothing but reassuring, allowing you to run this relationship at your pace… is this where it becomes too much for him? 

“But Sally is all alone when you work at night time.” Phoebe’s counter is one that Jack absolutely cannot argue. 

You have to purse your lips to stifle a laugh when Jack peeks at you. “Alright, that’s fair. But it’s up to Mommy.”

There’s that silent question in his eye when you meet his gaze. Asking if you’re okay with him staying, promising that he understands if you’re not. It’s absolutely ridiculous how quickly you can worry and then become so reassured with him. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and move your head just a fraction—but it’s enough for Jack to see that as permission. Not exactly hesitant, but slow and subtle enough for him to understand the weight of the decision.

As if he didn’t already. 

“Guess I’m having a sleepover then, kid.” 

Probably not the best thing to tell a four-year-old when it’s already well past her bedtime, but the joy on her face… it’s worth it. Jack seems to think so, too. Lets her lay across his lap with her head on his thighs and her calves dangling off yours. 

In Phoebe’s defense, she spends the rest of the movie relatively silent. She stopped reaching for the popcorn about thirty minutes ago, around the time when you relented to the anxious thoughts in your head and curled into Jack's side with your head resting on his shoulder. 

The whole evening feels far too domestic. Too natural, too comfortable. With Jack’s fingers sunken into Phoebe’s hair, scratching gently and soothingly at her scalp. 

You’re only briefly disturbed from your thoughts when Jack shifts subtly, when a soft huff of quiet laughter falls from him. 

“Baby,” he whispers, and you hum, shifting your head enough to look up at him. 

“She’s asleep. Can you get me my leg?” 

It takes you a moment before you move, to comprehend that the reason he’s asking for his leg is because he wants to put her to bed. You nod, humming again, heart warm and fuzzy. You reach for Jack’s leg down the side of the couch, slip from your seat as slowly as you can to not startle Pheebs. 

And Jack stares at you with both shock and reverence when you sit on your heels on the carpet before him, and slowly ease the blanket up to expose his thigh and attach his prosthetic. Something he has never considered or allowed anyone else to do before.

But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t stop you. He finds himself basking in your soft and caring touch, allowing himself to be vulnerable in this moment with you, with Phoebe. With the girls that feel far too much like family these days. 

He shoves down the overwhelming adoration and very meticulously scoops Phoebe into his arms, coddling her head into her chest as she continues to snore quietly. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to be able to stand without aid of his hands, and though you can see that brief struggle, you don’t offer to help. 

You won’t offend him like that. 

Instead, you gently reach out to brush the hair from Phoebe’s face and bend just enough to plant a tender kiss to her cheek. 

“Night, Diva. I love you,” you whisper. 

When you straighten, Jack beams at you, leaning his head slightly over Phoebe’s frame to meet your lips in a ghost of a kiss. You watch him carry Phoebe down the hall after he pulls away until he disappears into her bedroom.

Jack can’t help but feel a bit shaky as he lowers Phoebe into her bed, as he tugs the duvet over her little frame, as she reaches instinctively for his arm when he tries to pull away. 

Because to be trusted so wholly by you both, to be so accepted and wanted and cherished… Jack never thought this life would ever be possible for him. And yet, here he is, falling for a family that already has each other, and being treated as if he always belonged with them. 

“Jack?” Phoebe’s sleep-laced voice rasps for him. 

He lowers with a quiet grunt to sit on the edge of her little bed, reaches for her even smaller hand that she’s reaching to hold. 

“I’m here kid. Go back to sleep.” He coos. 

Phoebe shifts to lay on her side, tugs her stuffed crocodile to her chest. “Can you sing to me?”

His brow quirks in the darkness of her room, only the faint golden glow of her space-themed night-light illuminating the space. 

“Sure. What do you want me to sing?” He whispers. 

“The Smiths.” She whispers back. 

Jack smiles, hums. “Any specific request?” 

Phoebe doesn’t even think about it, like she knew the song she wanted before she even awoke. “Please, Please, Please song.”

“Let Me Get What I Want?” Jack finishes for her and even in sleep, she manages to beam at him. 

“Yeah, it’s Mommy’s favorite.” 

Jack’s heart thunders in his chest at the thought of it, of how soul-crushing the song is if you really listen. So he doesn’t argue, doesn’t offer something else. 

Jack softly begins to sing, reaches out to brush the hair from her face. She watches him with sleep-ridden eyes as he softly sings to her; verse after verse. 

And when her eyes start to flutter, Jack’s thumb reaches to slowly trace the path from between her brows down the slope of her nose—over and over until her breathing evens out and her body relaxes. 

“So for once in my life, let me get what I want… Lord knows it would be the first time.” His low voice whispers, gently guiding her down a path of gentle dreams and peaceful rest. 

The song, the words… the fact that she wanted him to sing that one only… 

Jack can feel himself choking up at the weight of it. At how heavy and vulnerable it feels for him. Because it doesn’t feel like singing a lullaby. It feels like a loud admittance whispered into a safe and treasured moment. 

He schools himself before his emotions can get the better of him, and gently brushes the last bits of hair from Phoebe’s face before standing with a groan concealed behind gritted teeth. 

Before he can get two steps away from the bed, he’s met the onslaught of toys that are scattered across her bedroom floor. Something he missed when he carried her to bed initially. 

It’s with quiet and somewhat practised ease that Jack very silently begins to tidy up so she doesn’t trip in the night if she awakes. Books are slid back on the case, clothes are thrown into the hamper, Lego blocks are placed beside the tub that usually carries them.

And the action figures, he begins to line them up back beside her dresser when he notices. Not just one doll that’s not quite right, but three. His hands are trembling when he picks them up, when he clutches them in an unsteady hold. 

It’s with blurry vision when he carries them with him out into the hall, toward where you’re folding the blankets on the couch, refluffing the cushions. 

You hear the soft pads of his footsteps approach and freeze when you see the disbelieving, broken look on his face. You don’t even notice what he’s carrying in his hands when you move quickly to reach for him; your worry begins to spiral. 

He speaks before you can. 

“Did you know she’s been amputating her dolls?”

Jack’s voice is thick with emotion, breaking slightly when he utters a truth you’re only just learning for yourself.

“What?” Your voice comes out as a whisper when you finally look down to Jack’s hands. 

Three dolls—Superman, Spiderman, and The Hulk—all missing a leg from the knee down. Just like Jack. 

It feels like you’ve been punched in your chest, like you can’t quite swallow a breath big enough to fill your lungs. Your eyes burn, vision begins to distort as you blink at the dolls and then back at Jack. 

It’s all over his face when he looks at you; the longing, the vulnerability, the thought that he is not deserving of this. Of her. 

“She really does love you, you know.”

He nods, sniffling until a smile begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “I know,” he rasps. “I love her, too.”

The heaviness of the fact sits thick between you. The truth hidden between the lines—what he’s saying includes what he isn’t. 

But he doesn’t have to, you don’t have to. 

It makes your heart swell and ache, nonetheless. Makes Jack’s try to burst against his ribcage. He doesn’t show it, tries not to, anyway. He gently drops the action figures onto the coffee table and uses his empty hands to reach for your waist. 

You step closer, your palms resting on the hardness of his chest beneath the cotton t-shirt. He leans in close enough to kiss you, but lets the tip of his nose brush yours instead, allowing himself this moment to recenter. 

You give it to him, don’t ask for more, don’t push him away. 

“I’m gonna run back to the apartment quickly to check on Sally. Why don’t you have a bubble bath, hm?”

You know he’s changing the subject, that whatever just happened with him and Phoebe hit too close for him to be comfortable to talk about it right now. 

So you hum, reach up to press a kiss to his mouth—his short stubble scratching at your soft skin. 

“M’kay. Take my key.”

It’s twenty minutes later when you hear him returning. Soft footsteps padding down the hall—stopping briefly outside Phoebe’s door before continuing into your bedroom. 

You’re lounging in a hot bubble bath when he slowly eases into the bathroom, leaning against the doorway. His hair is damp, clothes changed into checkered pyjama pants and a gray t-shirt. Arms fold across a broad chest and he grins at the sight of you soaped up. 

You quirk a brow at him, ignore the flame that burns beneath the skin of your cheeks. 

“You showered when you checked on Sally?”

He hums, moving closer to sit on the lid of the toilet. 

“Yeah, you don’t have a chair.” He explains in a low voice, hand reaching down to dip his fingers into the hot water, finding your knee and gently tracing patterns on the warm skin. 

You don’t comment on the lack of a shower-chair in your apartment, but you do make a mental note to get one ordered in the morning. 

“You know, you can always bring her here, and I’m more than happy to Sally-sit when you’re working.” It’s not the first time you’ve offered and you doubt it’ll be the last. But Jack always argues the same thing—

“I don’t think you or Pheebs would appreciate her pissing everywhere to mark her territory.” 

And as always, it gets a bark of laughter from you. 

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, there was once a time when Phoebe pissed everywhere.” 

Jack grins, leans down to press a kiss to your mouth. “But Diva is infinitely cuter than Sally.” 

You roll yourself with fond adoration and reach up to press another kiss to him. The angle causes the water to slosh in the tub and the bubbles to disperse—momentarily exposing your chest to the cool air of the bathroom.

The change in temperature causes your nipples to pebble at the same time Jack pulls back to look at you. His expression shifts, something darker passing across his eyes as the corner of his mouth curls in the form of a smirk. 

You flush under his gaze, despite how often he’s seen you bare in the past month. It doesn’t matter that his hands have touched your skin more times than you can count now, that he’s already mapped out your body with his hands and mouth—that he’s committed it to memory, along with what makes you squirm and writhe and moan.

“Are you getting out or staying in?” Jack’s voice is low and deep when he speaks, a tone that sends shivers down your spine despite the heat of the water. 

Because you’ve grown to learn what that tone usually means. 

“I’m getting out,” you reply a bit too breathlessly than you mean to. 

With his eyes still on yours, Jack’s hand skims from your knee and down your shin, skipping your foot to reach for the plug where he pushes it down and it pops back up. 

Water swirls at the base of the drain, the tub slowly emptying. Jack reaches to his right for a fluffy cotton towel that hangs on the rail, unfolds it with skilled hands and holds it open wide—a silent invitation for you to step out of the porcelain and into his arms. 

Water sloshes when you stand, drips down the expanse of your body and suds of soap still cling to your skin. He wraps the cotton around you the moment you step out, tucks it over your chest, and guides you through the threshold of your en-suite and into your bedroom. 

The lights are dim, only the small lamp on your nightstand barely able to illuminate the space. It sets a golden hue over your skin and his, blankets the room in familiar intimacy.

“Do you want pyjamas?”

You shake your head, eyes remaining on him through it all. The towel was pointless, really, because the moment Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, you’re unravelling it from your body and letting it drop to the ground with a quiet thud. 

Jack’s gaze roves over your body in hungry appreciation, his muscles tensing as he shifts and admires you silently. And you let him. The nerves of allowing him to see you so bare dwindled away some time three weeks ago, after he’d spent hours and hours cherishing you, admiring you, reassuring you and proving to you how utterly, devastatingly beautiful you are.

You don’t cower, don’t curl your body into itself. You don’t try to hide your cesarean scar, nor the stretchmarks that adore the podgier skin of your lower stomach. You don’t shy away when his gaze slides over the dips in your hips, the slightly uneven swell of your breasts where the left is just a pinch bigger than the right. 

You let Jack admire, because you’ve never felt safer or more adored than when you’re under his gaze like this. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His words are whispered to you like a prayer. 

Maybe that’s what gives you the confidence to move a step closer between his thighs, to slowly sink down to your knees. Jack exhales shakily when you do, when your palms slide up his clothed thighs.

It’s silent when he relents and lifts his hips to lower his pyjama pants down to his thighs, silent when you hook your fingers into the waistband to pull them off his legs completely. 

For a moment, you don’t allow yourself to look at him, keep your gaze focused on his prosthetic. You press a gentle kiss just above his knee when your fingers reach the clips to unfasten the metal. Another shaky exhale falls from him when you remove it, gently placing it against the foot of the bed. 

Only then, when you know he’s comfortable, do you return your attention to where it’s needed. 

Long and hard, thick and eager. Jack’s cock stands excitedly as he leans back on his hands to watch, already fisting the sheets in anticipation. 

It’s not like you haven’t done this for him before, because you have; a few times. But Jack usually argues that he needs to get you off first, that your pleasure is more important than his. You’re overwhelmingly pleased that he’s not arguing with you on it tonight. 

But overall, tonight is different. He can’t coax orgasm after orgasm from you when Phoebe is only down the hall. He can’t make you cry and moan as loudly as he likes. So he settles for this—clenching his jaw and fisting the sheets. 

You wrap your hand around him slowly, the movement almost making him jolt. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you slowly begin to pump him in your palm, leaning close enough to press hot open-mouthed kisses to his ruddy tip. 

“Fuck, baby,” Jack whimpers breathlessly. 

His eyes are on you when you look up at him through your lashes, dark and blown with lust and arousal. You hum, swirling your tongue around his head before suckling him into your mouth. 

Your lips stretch around him as he fills you, only able to take barely half of his length as you fist the rest of him. Your cheeks hollow and you can feel your cunt fluttering at the taste of him. 

With your eyes still on him, you sneak your spare hand between your thighs—a motion that Jack clocks immediately—and begin to glide your middle finger through your soaked slit. 

“Jesus Christ… you’re so fucking sexy.” The praise has you oozing onto your finger, has you whimpering around his cock. It sends shocks of vibrations through his body, forcing him to fist the sheets harder when you take him deeper. 

Jack watches with hooded eyes as you begin to bob your head on his cock, as he feels his tip prod at the back of your tight throat. Your eyes sting with tears at the intrusion but you don’t stop, keep your gaze locked on him even as your brows begin to furrow. 

“Good girl, baby. Doing so good.” 

The praise makes you work faster, has you rubbing tight motions on your clit as you choke on his cock. Jack’s guttural groan and breathless whimper has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, salty drops of pre-cum coating your tongue. 

His hips begin to move, respectful of what you can handle but enough to encourage you to take more. His chest is heaving with every breath, knuckles white around the handfuls of your sheets. 

And when your hand abandons his cock to tenderly massage his balls, when your mouth opens around him and your tongue strokes the underside of his length as he hits the back of your throat, Jack loses it. 

“Fuck. Ah, shit…so good, baby. Oh, fuck me…yeah, just like that.” His voice is wrecked, whimpering in that higher octave that you’ve associated with a brewing release. 

The sound of it spurs you on as you slip two fingers into your dripping cunt, curling as quick as Jack’s usually do in an attempt to get you to his level. You choke around the thickness of him, moans and whimpers suffocated by his cock.

It’s enough to spur him over the edge, to have him spluttering out, “I can’t—honey, I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” and with a choked cry of your own, you’re suctioning your lips again—just around his head—and he’s spilling onto your tongue. 

Your own orgasm crashes into you at the same time, cunt convulsing around your fingers and body shuddering in the same way Jack’s does. His hands give out from holding him up, his back crashing into the mattress as you slowly slide him out of your mouth and swallow down his release. 

Jack can’t catch his breath. With an arm thrown over his eyes and his hard cock glistening and resting against his thigh, you finally manage to heave a breath of your own. 

Tears stain your cheeks as you stand, as you crawl beside him on the bed. Before you can say a word, Jack’s blindly reaching for you. A strong hand wrapping around your arm and dragging you over to straddle his chest.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Jack moves his arm from his face to hold your hips, when he looks at you like he’s only just getting started. 

He squeezes your hips once, dragging you up his chest until your sopping cunt hovers over his face. “C’mon, baby. Let me clean you up.” 

Neither of you question how natural it is. To have fooled around like usual, with Pheebs sleeping down the hall. Because it feels too normal. Like you’re two parents stealing moments of intimacy when you can. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Laughter is the first thing you hear when you stir from your slumber. 

Two sets of it. One young and high pitched, the other older and deeper. Your arm reaches across the bed in search of Jack who’s no longer there. His side of the bed is cold, sheets still rumpled. 

You blink at the light that filters in through the curtains in your bedroom, eyes catching the alarm clock on your nightstand. 

10 a.m.

Music greets your ears next as you slowly sit up, Michael Jackson blaring from the kitchen. A grin stretches across your sleepy face and you stretch beneath the sheets—still bare, but your body feels lighter after two orgasms and a good night's sleep. 

Dressing in the first pair of pyjamas in the drawer, you follow the sound of happiness down the hall and find the source of the noise in the kitchen, where you’re momentarily stunned.

Phoebe sits on the island, a bowl between her legs as she mixes pancake batter within an inch of her life. Jack stands in front of her, gently easing flour into the mix and playfully flicking some at Phoebe’s face just to hear her laugh again. 

You can’t hide your grin and clear your throat to make your presence known. They both turn to you, rosy cheeked and still slightly sleep ridden. 

“Morning, Mommy.” Their greeting is synchronized, like this is a normal, every day occurrence. 

The kitchen is a mess, the music is too loud, there’s flour and batter in Phoebe’s hair but you can’t bring yourself to care when Jack approaches you with a steaming mug of coffee. 

You take it from him with a bashful grin, and he almost closes the distance between you when he catches himself, realizes that he’s in front of Phoebe and unsure of the boundaries in place when it comes to this—the morning after. 

But you soothe that concern when you reach across the coffee to gently press your lips against his, eyes fluttering closed as he reaches an arm around your waist. 

“Morning,” he whispers against your lips as you whisper it back, pulling away to return to Phoebe and the pancake batter. 

Your eyes skim over the island; pencils and paper litter half of the counter, drawings and practised writing. 

Phoebe leans over to kiss your cheek and reaches for a piece of paper she’s particularly proud of and shoves it in your face. 

“Look! Jack was helping me practice writing.” She beams at you in excitement and pride and when you look down at the paper, your eyes sting with tears. 

M O M in big bulky letters, uneven where jack has dotted the outline for the letters and Pheebs has joined them with shaky lines. You’re too busy staring at the masterpiece that is definitely going to be framed to notice Jack watching you with a fervent softness. 

“This is beautiful, Diva. You are so clever.” 

She ignores the praise when she turns back to Jack, noticing the way he’s watching you. 

“Did you sleep in my mom’s bed last night?”

The question has you choking on your coffee and Jack almost dropping the bowl of pancake batter. You splutter out a string of coughs, steadying the mug on the counter for a moment so you can smack at your chest for come relief. 

“Um, yeah. Jack did.” You answer through another cough, casting a cautious glance over her head at him. 

The confirmation has the girl grinning something dangerous when she looks from you to Jack again. Like she’s purposely posing the questions to him instead of you. 

“So you really are boyfriend and girlfriend.” It’s not a question, she words it like a statement. As if she’s been working hard to get you both to this point. 

You suppose she has, really. If it wasn’t for your meddling child, you’re unsure if you and Jack would be here now. 

“Yeah, Diva,” Jack laughs. “You okay with that?” 

She seems to appreciate the thought of him checking, but doesn’t need to consider it before she nods with resoluteness and sprinkles chocolate chips into the mix in Jack’s hand. 

“Jack is nice and funny,” she says out loud. It causes him to grin wide, to meet your gaze briefly again over the top of her head. 

“Thanks, kid. You’re nice and funny, too.”

She hums. “But Tom is an ass.” 

The room falls silent as the music continues to play. You and Jack still, eyes wide and staring at each other. He has to look away, to turn his back to you both and busy himself at the sink to hide both his shock and amusement. 

You blink at your daughter, moving around the island to face her. “Pheebs—what? One, ass is a bad word, we don’t say that. And two…Tom? You don’t call him that, he’s your dad.”

Phoebe huffs, her shoulders dropping at the scolding and she places the half empty bag of chocolate chips back on the counter.

“I don’t want to call him Dad,” she mutters, keeping her gaze down at her fingers. “I like Jack better. Jack’s nice, and he plays with me. And he makes you happy. Tom is mean to you. He says mean things about Jack, Mommy. It makes me sad and angry.”

Jack feels his heart ache and crack at the watery tone of Phoebe’s voice, of the truth she’s admitting that should never have reached her ears. He can feel bile rise up his throat, his hands scrubbing the dishes a bit too forcefully. 

All you can do is stare at Phoebe in shock, feel your heart ache at how brazen Tom has been to belittle you and Jack in front of her. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat and reach for her hand. “Well, I will talk to your dad about that, okay?” You try to keep your voice calm and smooth, but you’re bubbling with anger beneath the skin. 

“Tom.” Phoebe corrects you, and it’s clear that she’s not going to drop this. 

You purse your lips, heart twisting and breaking at the thought of what’s unfolding in her clever little mind. 

“Tom.” You agree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

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!

ahhh ok so what did we think of jack's cheeky blowjob and the fact that phoebe is now calling her dad TOM :((( there is a lot to happen in the next two chapters so buckle tf up!! again, thank you SO much for your guys' continuous and unwavering support on this series, sending you all big fat smooches!!

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 

The reality of the circumstances hit you around 4:00 AM. You were marrying your boss. It was a charade—a phony strategy and, most dangerously, illegal.

You hurried toward him, keeping your voice low. “Uhh, Doctor Abbott?”

He didn’t look up from his iPad, simply nodding for you to continue. He did that often, he’d chose non-verbal communication, rationing his words like they were counted. 

“I wanted to ask you to breakfast? So we can talk about… you know.”

His gaze caught yours, a glint of amusement in his hazel eyes. He gave a sharp nod, then returned his attention to the screen. You turned on your heel with a tight-lipped smile, only to hear him murmur something behind you.

“Uh?” You pivoted back.

“Said I’m not going to a hipster place.”

You offered an amused smile. "Understood."

You settled for a classic diner where Jack greeted every member of the staff by name. He chose a corner booth, sitting with his back to the wall—a habit from his military days, you figured, needing a clear line of sight on the terrain.

“What’s good here?” you asked, scanning the laminated menu.

“Stick to the breakfasts. Don’t get fancy.”

You smiled. “An American breakfast sounds about adequate.”

“Good choice.” He mirrored your smirk.

An elderly lady with dyed red hair approached with a pot of coffee. “Morning, handsome,” she chirped, beaming at Jack.

“Morning, Marge.”

“How was your shift?” she asked, her Southern accent thick and honeyed.

Jack gave her a cheeky wink. “A walk in the park. Like always.”

“Of course it was.” She turned her attention to you, eyes twinkling. “Coffee, doll?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

She poured your cup, her expression turning conspiratorial. “You work at the hospital too, darling?”

“I do,” you said.

“And how did this menace behave tonight?”

You laughed. “He’s my boss, so I’m going to say he’s always on his best behavior.”

Marge quirked an eyebrow. “Is that what he is to you? Just your boss?”

Jack leaned back, resting an arm on the booth. “She’s also my secret girlfriend, but don’t tell anyone.”

Marge looked at him like a teenager who’d just been handed a piece of premium gossip. “It was about damn time!” she crowed. “What can I get you lovebirds?”

“Two Americans, please,” Jack said, handing her the menus.

“Two Americans on the way.” She scribbled on her pad and bustled off, clearly eager to deliver the news to the rest of the staff.

“You’re popular,” you teased.

He shrugged. “Uniform perks, I guess.”

“So, am I your girlfriend already?” you asked, taking a shy sip of your coffee.

“Well, I figured you should be, given you proposed marriage ten hours ago...” He took a sip from his cup, "doll."

You laughed, though it was breathy. “Yeah, I did. But I think we need to talk about the logistics.”

“Sure.”

It was uncanny how calm he was. This was a man who rarely lost his footing; you supposed a resident proposing a scamm marriage wasn't enough to unsettle him.

“I don’t think you realize the depth of what I’m asking of you,” you said.

“Well,” he started, sitting up straighter, “I have been married before, so I think I have a decent grasp of the concept.”

You winced. “I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot. I didn’t mean—”

“For instance, I know my wife shouldn’t call me Dr. Abbot.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Tell me your concerns, kid.”

You swallowed hard. “I am asking a lot of you. I’m asking you to commit a crime.”

The corners of his mouth twitched.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He raised both palms in mock surrender. “I just find it funny, that’s all.”

“You think a felony is funny?”

His lips twitched again. “A felony.” He scoffed. “Sorry.”

“Lying to a federal agent is a felony.”

“Right.”

“What?”

“That’s not a real crime.”

“But it is.”

His head shook softly. “There are real crimes and there are petty crimes the State came up with to control our behavior.” 

You looked at him puzzled.

“Like jaywalking” he continued, “like dancing in the subway." 

Your brows furrowed. You felt a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips, despite your nerves. “What are you even talking about?"

“I’m talking about free labor,” he corrected. “Jail labor pays pennies an hour. That’s why everything’s a felony. Bet your ‘Study Abroad’ brochure didn’t mention that.”

You blinked, leaning back against the vinyl booth. A part of you wondered if he was a conspiracy theorist, but the intelligence in his eyes had convinced you, years ago, that whatever this man said was true and you were to believe him. You shook your head. “Still, you in jail and me deported isn’t really an attractive scenario.”

“Don’t worry about it” He shrugged, his voice pitching slightly acute. “All they’ll see is my badge. I could tell them I fought the Nazis and they’d believe me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Wait… didn’t you?”

He looked at you, puzzled and slightly offended. “How old do you think I am?”

You shrugged, a smirk betraying you. “I don’t know, ninety-five?”

“I’m fifty.” 

“I thought I was pulling an Anna Nicole Smith here.”

He cackled—a sound that was unguarded and free, the likes of which you’d never heard before.

Marge returned with your breakfast, beaming. “First time I’ve heard him laugh like that, sweetie.” She sent you a wink that had your cheeks burning.

It was just a coincidence, surely.

As Marge bustled away, you looked down at your coffee, noticing for the first time that your hand was resting just inches from his on the tabletop.

Jack didn't pull back. Instead, he reached out and nudged his coffee cup against yours. A camaraderie wink. A secret code that your charade had began and would go on, as long as you allowed it.

"Eat," he commanded with a soft, warm voice. "If you're going to commit a felony with me, you’ll need the strength."

“Alright, Clyde,” you smirked, despite yourself. “But this is serious.”

“I’m aware.”

“We need to move in together.”

“Alright.”

“We need to tell people.”

“I just did.” He gestured toward the kitchen, where Marge had disappeared.

“I mean the hospital. Family. Friends. And we can’t tell them this is for my green card. We have to pretend for them, too.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Dr. Abb—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chastised.

You took a deep breath. “Jack.” The name felt foreign on your lips. “Are you sure about this?”

“I gave you my word.” He offered a simple, confident nod.

“Marriage is so much more than an honorary word.”

His eyes lit up with amusement. “Is it? Because marriage is nothing but vows, and vows are one’s word.”

“Marriage is just a system the State came up with to control the ownership of women,” you muttered.

His brows lifted slightly.

“Sorry.” You shook your head, flustered. This was the first time in three years you had exchanged more than 20 words in a row with him and both of you had decided to use them to criticise intitutions. Romantic.

“No, please. I’d like to know how my future wife feels about marriage.”

“I’m sorry,” you sighed. You extended your hand across the table, but retreated before making contact. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

He planted both elbows on the table, his posture shifting. You realized the playful phase of the conversation was over. “I’m not expecting a payment, and this isn’t going to work if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, your brows jumping higher.

“Like you’re afraid of me.” His voice was lower, warmer somehow.

Suddenly, you felt an ache behind your eyes. The liquified version of you the reality demanded. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. Your expression softened, wary but honest.

“I am afraid,” you confessed in a whisper.

His hand found yours on the tabletop, his large palm completely engulfing your own.

“Nothing to be afraid of, kid,” he said, his grip firm and grounding. “I’m right here.”