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

The door closed behind you.

For one second, the click of it sounded louder than the storm.

Then Jack was on you again.

No space.

No hesitation.

His mouth found yours in the dark, hard and hungry, and your back met the door with his hand already behind your shoulder, taking the impact before you could feel it. Your hands went to his chest, then his shoulders, then the back of his neck, pulling him closer like there was any closer left to take.

There wasn’t.

He gave it to you anyway.

Jack crowded you against the door, bare skin hot beneath your palms, his body solid and immediate in a way that made your head spin. The room was dark except for the dull wash of stormlight at the window and the thin line of brightness beneath the door, but you did not need to see him.

You could feel him.

His breath against your mouth.

His hand at your waist.

The hard line of his body pressed into yours.

The carefulness was still there, buried under heat, showing up in the way his palm stayed between your spine and the wood, in the way he shifted before his weight pinned you too heavily, in the way his fingers flexed at your side like he was trying not to take too much too fast.

You wanted too much.

You wanted too fast.

Your fingers dragged down his chest, over warm skin and muscle, and Jack’s mouth broke from yours with a rough breath that never became a word. You chased him anyway, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the side of his throat, and his hand tightened so hard at your waist that your whole body went molten beneath it.

Jack turned his head and caught your mouth again.

The kiss was messy now.

Not pretty.

Not practiced.

Nothing like the controlled version of Jack Abbot you knew how to argue with across a lecture hall or a kitchen table.

This Jack kissed like restraint had been a mistake he was done making.

His hands found the hem of your sweatshirt, and this time, he did not stop at your ribs. He dragged the fabric up your body, slow only because the cotton caught at your elbows, because you would not let go of him long enough to make it easy, because every time his mouth left yours you made a helpless sound that brought him right back.

The sweatshirt hit the floor somewhere near his desk.

Then his hands were on you.

Skin to skin.

Warm palms.

Rough breath.

A low sound in his throat when your back arched into the touch.

You felt it everywhere.

There were no more questions.

Not really.

Not the kind either of you needed to say out loud.

Jack knew when you wanted him closer because your hands dragged over his back and held there. You knew when he wanted you still because his fingers closed around your wrist and guided it above your head against the door.

Not hard.

Not even close.

Just certain.

Your breath caught, and his mouth stilled against yours for one fraction of a second.

Checking.

Always checking.

You answered by lifting into him.

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist.

Then he kissed you harder.

That was the language now.

His hand at your hip.

Your nails against his back.

His mouth at your throat.

Your body arching beneath his.

The sharp breath he pulled in when you said his name.

“Jack,” you breathed against his mouth.

It barely counted as a word.

More like a break in the air.

A slip.

A confession your body made before your pride could stop it.

But it did something to him.

You felt it everywhere.

In the way his fingers flexed against your skin.

In the way his breath caught at your neck.

In the way his body pressed yours deeper against the door, controlled and hot and careful only where careful mattered.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

Then his mouth was on yours again, and you stopped trying to think.

That was the first thing to go.

Thought.

Then dignity.

Then the last pathetic remains of the part of you that cared about the exam.

Jack’s hand slid from your waist to your hip, then lower, catching beneath your thigh and lifting with a confidence that stole the air from your lungs. Your body followed before your mind could object, your leg hooking around him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the angle changed and every place he touched you became unbearable.

This was not the lecture hall.

This was not Singh’s exam.

This was not a half-point lead and a correction scribbled in the margin.

This was his room.

His door.

His hands deciding the pace.

And God help you, you let him.

Jack moved you away from the door, guiding more than walking, kissing you through every step until the backs of his legs hit the bed.

He sat first.

Not because he was stopping.

Because Jack Abbot did not stumble if he could help it.

Because even ruined, even shirtless and breathing hard with your hands all over him, some part of him still knew his body, the room, the distance, the bed behind him.

Then he pulled you with him.

You landed across his lap with a gasp swallowed by his mouth, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands catching his shoulders. The position should have made you pause.

It didn’t.

It made everything worse.

Better.

Both.

Jack’s hands slid up your back, spreading wide, holding you against him while your mouth opened under his. His skin was hot beneath you. His chest moved hard against yours. Every place your body touched his became louder than the storm.

You rocked against him without meaning to.

Jack’s head tipped back, his breath leaving him in a broken, soundless curse.

The sight of it nearly undid you.

His throat exposed.

His jaw tight.

His hands flexing against your back like he was trying to remember every rule and losing them one by one.

You kissed the column of his throat.

His whole body went tight beneath yours.

“Fuck,” Jack said, low and rough.

You felt it more than heard it.

So you stayed there.

Just there.

Your mouth against the side of his neck.

Your hands on his shoulders.

Your body pressed to his while his grip tightened at your waist.

He did not tell you to stop.

He did not pull you away.

His head tipped back another fraction, giving you more room, and the silent permission of it went straight through you.

Your mouth moved over his skin again.

Slower this time.

Less accident.

Jack’s fingers dug into your waist.

The sound he made was almost nothing.

A breath.

A fracture.

A warning neither of you listened to.

You stayed there too long.

Not long enough.

Then Jack’s hand slid to the back of your neck, and your world narrowed to the heat of his palm and the rough drag of his breath.

Your mouth moved higher, over his jaw, the corner of his mouth, anywhere you could reach. His hands tightened at your waist, stopping you from moving again, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Still.

Pinned in place by nothing but his grip and the weight of his attention.

Your breath caught.

Jack felt it.

Of course he did.

His eyes opened, dark and focused, and for once, there was no argument ready on your tongue. No correction. No challenge. No clever answer sharp enough to put distance between you.

You were usually so good at having the answer.

Here, Jack did.

His hand slid up your spine to the back of your neck, and he pulled you down to him with devastating control.

Not rough.

Not gentle either.

Just sure.

Your mouth met his again.

Your hands tried to move.

Jack caught one of them and lowered it to the mattress beside his thigh.

You went still.

His thumb moved once over your wrist.

Then his mouth softened against yours for half a second.

“Good,” Jack said against your mouth.

The word went through you like heat.

You had heard him say it over pathology notes.

Over correct answers.

Over half-won arguments.

Never like this.

Never with his hand around your wrist and his mouth against yours and your body held exactly where he wanted it.

The sound that left you was not dignified.

Jack’s hand tightened around your wrist.

You said his name again before you could stop yourself.

“Jack.”

His eyes closed.

For half a second, that was the only sign that he heard you.

Then his control slipped.

You felt it in the way he dragged you closer, in the way his mouth opened over yours, in the way his hand left your wrist only to grip your thigh and pull you harder against him. Your fingers flew back to his shoulders, and this time he let you touch him.

Let you hold on.

Let you feel the damage your voice had done.

His name in your mouth was not fair.

You knew that now.

You wanted to use it anyway.

“Jack,” you whispered again.

His hand closed around your thigh.

There.

A warning.

A plea.

A fracture.

Then he turned you beneath him.

Fast.

Controlled.

Devastating.

Your back met the mattress, and Jack followed you down, one knee settling between yours, one hand braced beside your head, his mouth already finding yours again before the room could steady around you.

The bed smelled like him.

Laundry detergent.

Rain.

Old coffee.

Warm cotton.

The kind of ordinary intimacy that should have scared you more than his mouth on your neck.

It didn’t.

You pulled him closer.

Jack’s hand moved over your side, your waist, your hip, learning you through touch because words had finally become useless. His mouth followed, leaving heat in every place it found. Your hands could not decide where to stay. His shoulders. His back. His hair. The tense line of his arm beside your head.

Everywhere.

You wanted him everywhere.

Jack lifted his head.

Stormlight moved across his face.

His eyes moved over you, and whatever he saw there pulled the last clean breath from his chest.

“God,” Jack said, voice low and rough.

Your fingers twisted in his sheets.

His jaw shifted.

“You’re perfect,” Jack said.

The words left him like he had tried to stop them and failed.

Your throat tightened around his name.

“Jack,” you breathed.

His eyes closed again.

Like it hurt.

Like he loved it.

Then he kissed you before either of you could say anything else.

Words had become dangerous.

Words gave you time to think.

Jack did not give you time.

His mouth moved over yours, deep and consuming, while his hand slid down your side with the same devastating certainty he brought to everything else. Your body followed him before your mind caught up, arching when his palm found your hip, shifting when his knee pressed between yours, opening when his hand guided your thigh higher around him.

No question.

No answer.

Not one spoken out loud.

He knew.

That was the worst part.

The hottest part.

He knew when your fingers twisted in his sheets because you wanted more. He knew when your breath caught because something was too much. He knew when your body went still beneath his because still did not mean stop.

It meant wait.

It meant there.

It meant again.

Jack read you like he had been studying for this longer than either of you had admitted.

And here, on his bed, in his room, with the storm moving over Pittsburgh and your pathology notes abandoned on the living room floor, he was done pretending he did not know the material.

His mouth left yours and dragged down your neck.

Your head tipped back.

He followed the movement immediately, one hand sliding beneath your shoulder, his mouth finding the place that made your fingers tighten in his hair.

You felt him react.

A rough breath.

A flex of his hand.

A pause that was not hesitation, exactly.

More like control catching on a sharp edge.

Then his mouth moved lower.

Your body stopped being useful.

Your thoughts stopped being yours.

Everything narrowed to his hands, his mouth, the weight of him above you, the impossible heat of his skin against yours. Jack’s fingers found the waistband of your shorts and stopped there for one breath.

Barely a breath.

Still enough for you to know.

You lifted your hips.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

Then the shorts were gone.

His hand moved over your thigh, firm and slow, not because he was hesitant, but because he had decided on the pace and your body had apparently agreed to betray you completely. Your fingers dragged over his shoulders, urging him back up, but Jack did not come where you tried to pull him.

Of course he didn’t.

He kissed your stomach instead.

Your breath caught hard.

His hand spread over your hip, holding you still.

That was new.

That was the part that made your pulse scatter.

Not Jack touching you.

Jack deciding.

You had spent months trying to beat him.

Correct him.

Outwork him.

Make him look at you across lecture halls and admit you were the one he had to catch.

But here, he did not chase.

Here, he took his time.

Here, his hands held you exactly where he wanted you, and for once in your life, you let yourself be led.

His mouth moved lower.

Your hand flew to his hair.

Jack’s arm tightened across your hips before you could move away from the first unbearable touch of his mouth.

Not trapping.

Not forcing.

Holding.

Like he already knew you would try to survive this by moving, and he had decided you did not have to.

A sound broke out of you.

Too loud.

Too honest.

Jack’s fingers flexed against your thigh.

“Yes,” Jack said, low against your skin.

The word barely sounded like praise.

Barely sounded like permission.

It sounded like something he had been trying not to say for weeks.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

His breath caught.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

Then he went back to you.

Less patient than before.

The storm hit the window, rain lashing hard against the glass, but even that seemed far away now. Smaller than his breath against your skin. Smaller than the heat building low in your body. Smaller than the terrible, humiliating knowledge that Jack Abbot was good at this.

Of course he was.

Of course.

You hated him.

You absolutely did not.

Your hand twisted in the sheets.

His mouth moved again, and your whole body arched.

Your hips tried to move away.

Jack’s hand pressed them back down.

Firm.

Certain.

Your breath broke.

You stayed where he put you.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your eyes closed.

God.

That was worse.

That was so much worse.

His hand pressed at your hip, keeping you there, keeping you open to him, and when another broken sound slipped out of you, Jack made one of his own.

Rough.

Low.

Wrecked.

“Beautiful,” Jack said.

It was not sweet.

Not gentle.

Not in the way you would have expected that word to sound.

It was dragged out of him.

Almost angry.

Like the fact of you beneath him had offended his self-control.

Your breath broke again.

His fingers tightened.

“Fuck,” Jack said, rougher this time. “You’re beautiful.”

His name slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Jack.”

His mouth stilled.

Only for a second.

Long enough for you to feel what it did to him.

Then his grip tightened on your thigh.

His breath dragged rough against your skin.

“Again,” Jack said.

The word barely sounded like a command.

Barely sounded like anything.

Still, your whole body reacted to it.

Your eyes closed.

“Jack,” you breathed.

His control slipped.

You felt it in the way his hand tightened, in the way his mouth came back to you with less patience, in the way he held you exactly where he wanted you and gave you nowhere to go except through it.

Your back arched.

Your fingers tightened.

The sound that left you was broken and helpless and too loud for the small, storm-dark room.

“Jack.”

His name tore out of you as you came.

Jack groaned against you.

The sound was rough.

Wrecked.

Like your pleasure had done something to him he had no interest in surviving.

His arm stayed locked across your hips while you shook beneath him, his hand spread wide over your thigh, holding you there through every wave of it. He did not let you move away. He did not let you hide from it. He kept you exactly where he wanted you until your body softened beneath his hands and your fingers loosened in his hair.

Only then did he lift his head.

Slowly.

His mouth found your hip.

Your stomach.

Your ribs.

Your throat.

By the time he came back to your mouth, you were trembling.

Jack kissed you like he knew it.

Like he had caused it.

Like hearing his name like that had ruined whatever was left of his restraint.

You could taste yourself on his mouth, and the intimacy of that should have embarrassed you.

It didn’t.

It made your hands shake when you reached for him.

His body settled over yours, heavier now, closer, his skin damp with heat and storm air. Your thighs shifted around his hips, and Jack’s breath broke against your mouth when you pulled him down.

There.

Hard against you.

Wanting you.

Not theoretical.

Not almost.

Real.

Your hands moved to his waistband.

Jack went still for one breath.

Not stopping.

Not pulling away.

Just feeling it.

Your fingers slipped beneath the edge of his sweats, and his breath dragged rough against your mouth.

He helped you this time.

No pause.

No joke.

No room left for either.

Jack pushed himself up just enough to get them down, his mouth finding yours again before the fabric was even fully gone. You felt the brief shift of his weight, the controlled movement of his body, the way he managed even this like he knew exactly where every part of himself belonged.

Then he was back over you.

Closer.

Hotter.

Nothing left between you but thin fabric and the last useless inch of restraint.

Your nails dragged down his back.

His hips pressed into yours once, rough and restrained, and the sound that left both of you was nearly the same.

His forehead dropped against yours.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack reached toward the nightstand.

The drawer opened with a sharp, clumsy scrape that should have broken the moment.

It didn’t.

Nothing could have.

His mouth stayed on yours as his hand searched blindly. Something knocked against the wood. A book shifted. The drawer hit the frame.

Jack cursed under his breath.

You laughed once, barely more than an exhale.

His mouth curved against yours.

Then foil crinkled in his hand, and the laugh died in your throat.

Jack lifted his head.

Stormlight cut across his face again.

His eyes found yours, dark and focused and undone in a way that made your chest ache.

No words.

He had already asked.

You had already answered.

Still, there it was.

The pause.

The check.

The space he left for you because he would always leave it, even when he was shaking with the effort not to move.

You lifted your hand to his face.

Your thumb brushed over his cheek.

Then you pulled him down and kissed him.

Jack’s breath left him all at once.

The packet tore open between you.

His hand moved.

Your breath caught.

His forehead touched yours for half a second, his eyes closed, his jaw tight like the last inch of restraint had teeth in him.

Then he settled between your thighs.

Slow.

Controlled.

Not because he did not want.

Because he wanted too much.

Because this was his room.

His bed.

His hands.

His pace.

Because if he was going to cross every line left between you, he was going to make sure you felt every second of it.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders.

Jack’s eyes opened.

You looked at him.

Not Abbot.

Not your rival.

Not the man you had spent months trying to beat.

Jack.

His mouth brushed yours.

Barely.

Then he pushed into you slowly.

Your whole body went still beneath him.

The breath left your lungs.

Jack stopped completely.

His hand found your hip, steady and warm, and his eyes searched yours in the dark.

You answered by pulling him closer.

His control broke on a rough exhale.

Then there was no more room between you.

No air.

No argument.

No version of your life where this had not happened.

Jack moved like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Because he did.

Slow at first, almost cruelly controlled, his mouth near yours, his breath dragging rough against your lips every time your body tightened around him. Your hands slipped over his back, over the damp heat of his skin, trying to pull him closer, faster, anything.

Jack caught one of your wrists and pinned it beside your head.

Not hard.

Not punishing.

Just enough to make you still.

Your eyes flew open.

His were already on you.

Dark.

Focused.

Certain.

Your breath caught.

You stayed exactly where he put you.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your wrist.

“Good,” Jack said, low and rough.

The word went through you like heat.

His hips moved again.

Your head tipped back against the pillow.

A sound left you, soft and helpless, and Jack’s mouth found your throat as if he had been waiting for it.

“Yes,” Jack said against your skin.

Your body tightened around him.

His rhythm faltered.

Barely.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

Your fingers curled against the sheets.

He moved again, deeper this time, and whatever sound left you after that was worse.

Better.

Both.

He did not say anything.

He did not need to.

He slowed when your nails dug into his back.

Pressed deeper when your leg tightened around his hip.

Shifted when your breath broke.

Found the rhythm your body asked for before you knew how to ask.

That was the language now.

The storm.

The bed.

His hand at your wrist.

Your mouth at his shoulder.

The hitch in his breath when you said his name against his skin.

“Jack.”

His rhythm faltered.

One sharp, broken second.

Then his hand tightened around yours, fingers threading through your own and pressing your joined hands into the mattress.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“Again,” Jack said.

The word was barely there.

Barely a command.

Still, your whole body reacted to it.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His jaw tightened.

Then he kissed you hard, and the pace changed.

Not gone.

But rougher.

Hotter.

Less patient.

Your body met his with a desperation that felt almost angry, like you were furious at him for making you want this, furious at yourself for wanting it this much, furious at the months you had wasted pretending half-point victories were enough when this had been waiting underneath every argument.

Jack felt that too.

You knew he did because his mouth left yours, and his face pressed briefly into the side of your neck, exactly where your pulse was racing.

His breath came harsh against your skin.

His hips drove yours deeper into the mattress.

Your free hand found his back.

Then his hair.

Then his shoulder again because you needed somewhere to hold on and there was too much of him, too close, too real, too good.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

Jack’s mouth moved against your neck.

Not a smile.

Almost.

You felt it anyway.

Your eyes opened just enough to glare at nothing.

He lifted his head.

His eyes met yours in the dark.

There he was.

Barely.

The smallest ghost of him beneath the heat.

Your rival.

Your roommate.

The man who was absolutely going to be impossible about this if either of you survived it.

Then he moved again, and your glare dissolved into something you would deny later with your whole chest.

Jack saw that too.

Of course he did.

His mouth came down over yours before you could make a sound of protest, and the kiss was deep enough to turn protest into something else completely.

He let go of your wrist only to slide his hand beneath your thigh, lifting, changing the angle, taking the last bit of air you had left.

Your body followed the pressure of his hand without thinking, opening for him exactly the way he wanted.

Jack’s breath caught.

“Good,” he said.

Your eyes closed.

God.

That was worse.

Everything tightened.

Everything narrowed.

Jack’s name broke out of you again.

This time, he did not falter.

This time, he groaned.

Low.

Rough.

Lost.

His forehead dropped to yours, and his control finally slipped past the point where he could fully catch it.

Still careful.

Still him.

But no longer slow.

No longer patient.

Your bodies found each other in the dark with a kind of brutal, wordless understanding that made something in your chest ache beneath all the heat. He knew when you were close because your breath changed. You knew he knew because his hand tightened on your thigh, because his mouth found yours, because his pace turned devastatingly precise.

Your back arched.

Jack’s name tore out of you.

He kissed it from your mouth.

The second wave hit harder than the first.

Your body went tight beneath his, shaking around him, every thought breaking apart under the weight of him, the heat of him, the fact of him. Jack held you through it, his mouth at your jaw, his hand locked with yours, his breath rough and uneven against your skin.

Then he followed.

Not quietly.

Not completely controlled.

A harsh breath.

A broken sound.

His body going tense above yours, his face buried against your neck as he lost the last clean edge of himself there.

For a moment, there was only the storm.

Rain against the glass.

Thunder moving away over the city.

Jack’s weight above you, carefully held even now.

Your hand in his.

His breath at your throat.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

Because the second either of you did, there would be a room around you again.

A bed.

A door.

An exam in three days.

A roommate agreement lying dead somewhere in the living room.

And neither of you was ready for that yet.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The storm filled the room around you, softer now, farther away. Rain tapped against the glass instead of throwing itself there. Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the city, low and tired, like even the sky had exhausted itself.

Jack’s weight was still above you.

Not fully.

Never fully.

Even now, wrecked and breathing hard against your neck, one forearm braced beside your head kept enough of him off you that you knew he was thinking about it.

Of course he was.

Of course Jack Abbot was still careful after that.

Your hand was in his hair.

Your other was pressed against his back.

You did not remember putting either there.

You did not move them.

His breath dragged over your skin, rough and uneven. His face stayed tucked against the side of your throat, and for one suspended second, the whole world was that. His body over yours. His heart still racing. Your own pulse trying to find its way back to something survivable.

Then Jack lifted his head.

Barely.

His eyes found yours in the dark.

He looked stunned.

That was the only word for it.

Stunned and flushed and completely stripped of every sharp edge he usually wore like armor. His mouth was parted. His hair was ruined. The hand beside your head flexed once against the sheets, like he had forgotten where he was and remembered all at once.

His voice came low. “Okay?”

Your throat was dry.

Your body was still humming.

Your brain had not returned to you in any meaningful capacity.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

You swallowed, then gave him the word because you knew he needed it. “Yes.”

His forehead dropped to yours for half a second.

Not relief exactly.

Something close.

Something quieter.

Then he shifted, careful as he pulled back, careful as he separated from you, careful as the air moved into the space his body had filled.

The loss of him was immediate.

Offensive.

Impossible.

Jack pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, so quick you almost could have imagined it.

Then he pushed himself up.

His voice was still rough. “I’m going to clean up.”

You blinked at him.

He paused at the edge of the bed, looking back at you through the dark.

Then he added, lower, “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded because words seemed ambitious.

Jack disappeared into the bathroom.

The door did not close all the way.

You heard water run.

You stayed where he left you, naked beneath his sheet, staring up at the ceiling of Jack Abbot’s bedroom like it had personally witnessed your downfall.

Which, to be fair, it had.

Your breathing was still uneven.

Your skin still felt too warm.

Your thighs trembled when you shifted, and the memory of his hands came back so sharply that your eyes closed before you could stop them.

That had happened.

That had actually happened.

Jack Abbot had kissed you against his bedroom door.

Jack Abbot had taken you apart in his bed.

Jack Abbot had said your name like it had hurt him.

No.

Worse.

You had said his.

Again and again, because he had asked for it, because he had liked it, because the sound of it had done something to him you were not sure you would ever recover from.

Your hands covered your face.

Oh, God.

You should have been panicking.

You were, maybe.

Somewhere beneath the shock and the warmth and the ridiculous, bone-deep satisfaction still moving through you in aftershocks, there was probably panic waiting with a clipboard and a list of consequences.

Roommate.

Rival.

Exam in three days.

A roommate agreement currently decomposing in the living room.

All of that should have mattered more.

It did not.

Not yet.

Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, was that you already knew you would do it again.

If he came back to that bed and touched you like that again, you would let him.

If he said your name in that voice again, you would forget every reasonable argument available to you.

If he looked at you the way he had looked at you before he said you were perfect, you would be gone.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The bathroom water shut off.

Your hands fell slowly from your face.

A moment later, Jack came back into the room.

He was naked, his hair still a disaster from your hands, a glass of water in one hand and a mark beginning to darken along the side of his neck, just beneath his jaw.

You saw it.

Your stomach dropped.

Then flipped.

Then did something even less dignified.

Jack did not seem to know it was there.

Wonderful.

That was going to be a problem for future you.

Future you could suffer.

Present you was busy watching him cross the room with a glass of water in his hand.

Of course he had gotten water.

Of course.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He did not crowd you. Not yet. He only looked down at you, eyes moving over your face in the dark like he was checking for something he still did not trust himself to ask.

You looked back at him.

Neither of you said anything.

The silence should have been awkward.

It was not.

It was too full for that.

Jack lifted his hand.

Slowly.

Giving you every chance to turn away.

You did not.

His fingers brushed your cheek, careful and warm, his thumb moving once near the corner of your mouth. The touch was so gentle after everything else that your chest tightened around it.

His expression shifted.

Barely.

Like he felt that too.

Then he held out the glass. “Drink.”

Your eyebrows lifted faintly.

There he was.

You took the glass because arguing would have required more strength than you currently possessed. The first sip made you realize how dry your throat was. The second made you realize Jack was watching you drink like it mattered.

You lowered the glass. “Bossy.”

His mouth almost curved.

Almost.

“Thirsty,” Jack said.

You stared at him for half a second.

Then, despite everything, despite being naked and storm-shaken and sitting in his bed after making several catastrophic choices with him, a laugh slipped out of you.

Small.

Breathless.

Unsteady.

Jack’s eyes warmed.

There.

That was worse than the sex, maybe.

Not better.

Not even close.

But worse in a different direction.

You took another sip.

Jack accepted the glass when you handed it back, setting it on the nightstand beside the scattered condom wrapper and the drawer he had never fully closed.

Your eyes flicked there.

His did too.

Both of you froze.

Then you looked away first.

Coward.

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You hated him.

You really, really did not.

Your breathing hitched a little when you shifted against the pillow, your body still too sensitive, too aware of the sheets, the room, the shape of him sitting beside you.

Jack noticed immediately.

His hand came to your hip through the sheet.

Steady.

Grounding.

You started to push yourself up, not even sure where you thought you were going. Your room. The bathroom. The living room. A new identity in another state.

Jack’s hand tightened once.

Not holding you down.

Just stopping the motion.

His voice came quiet. “Catch your breath for a minute.”

You looked at him.

His eyes held yours.

No smirk.

No challenge.

No lecture.

Just Jack, sitting at the edge of his bed with rainlight moving over his shoulders, telling you to stay still because he knew you were about to bolt before you knew it yourself.

Your throat tightened.

For once, you listened.

You settled back against the pillow.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip.

“Good,” he said softly.

The word hit differently now.

Still low.

Still rough.

But not heated this time.

Not praise in the same dangerous way.

Something steadier.

Something that made you want to close your eyes.

So you did.

The mattress shifted as Jack stood.

Your eyes opened again before you meant them to.

He noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His gaze met yours, and for one second, you both understood the stupid, fragile thing your body had done.

He was not leaving.

You knew that.

You knew that.

Still, your chest had tightened when he moved.

Jack’s expression softened by a fraction.

Then he crossed to the chair near the dresser.

No explanation.

No apology.

Just routine.

He sat, bent slightly, and took off his prosthetic with the same quiet competence he brought to everything else. Practical. Familiar. Unselfconscious in a way that made the room feel even more intimate than it already had.

You looked away.

Not because you thought you should not see.

Because seeing felt like being trusted with something.

Because you did not know what to do with how much that mattered.

The small sounds of it filled the room beneath the rain. A shift of fabric. A controlled breath. The soft placement beside the chair.

Then Jack shifted back to the bed.

Slower this time.

More tired.

More real.

He lifted the edge of the sheet and settled beside you, not touching at first. He lay on his back for one breath, staring up into the dark the same way you had, his shoulder warm near yours but not pressed against it.

The space between you was small.

Still, it was a question.

You answered before fear could turn it into one.

You shifted closer.

Jack’s hand found you immediately.

Your forehead brushed his shoulder, and something in him seemed to give. His arm came around you, firm and quiet, drawing you against his chest.

You went.

Of course you went.

Your cheek settled against him, your hand resting carefully over his ribs. His skin was warm beneath your palm. His heart had slowed, but not all the way. Not yet.

Neither had yours.

For a while, you both lay there listening to the rain.

No one said roommate.

No one said exam.

No one said mistake.

Jack’s hand moved over your back.

Slow.

Soothing.

Absent at first, like he did not know he was doing it.

Then more deliberate when your breathing hitched again.

Down your spine.

Up between your shoulder blades.

Back down.

Again.

Again.

Your body softened against him one inch at a time.

You hated how easy it was.

You loved it so much you could not look at it directly.

Jack’s chin brushed the top of your head.

His hand kept moving.

The storm moved farther away.

Your breathing found his in the dark.

Not on purpose.

Not because you meant to.

It just happened.

Like too many things had happened tonight.

Like the two of you had been moving toward this long before the power went out, long before the couch, long before his bedroom door closed behind you.

Your eyes grew heavy.

The last thing you felt before sleep took you was Jack’s hand spread warm between your shoulder blades.

Still there.

Still steady.

Still holding on.

By mid-October, Pittsburgh had stopped pretending autumn was romantic.

The leaves had gone slick along the curbs, the air had turned sharp enough to bite through a cardigan, and the rain had become less of a weather pattern and more of a personal attack.

By the time you and Jack reached the apartment, both of you were soaked.

It had come down hard during the last block from campus, cold and mean and sideways in a way that made umbrellas useless on principle. By the time the two of you shoved through the front door of the building, your shoes were wet, the cuffs of your jeans were dark with rain and street grit, and your bag felt like it had absorbed half of Pittsburgh.

Jack held the door open behind you and stepped inside with water dripping from his hair.

You stopped on the mat in front of the stairs and looked down at yourself.

Mud. Rain. Misery.

You sighed. “Great.”

Jack looked at the water pooling near your shoes. “You’re dripping.”

You lifted your eyes to him. “Thank you for the clinical assessment.”

His gaze moved over you, quick and practical until it wasn’t. “Accurate assessment.”

You pointed faintly at him. “You’re also dripping.”

Jack looked unmoved. “I know.”

You glanced down at his legs. “You have mud on your jeans.”

Jack glanced down. “So do you.”

You looked down again.

He was right.

That was rude of him.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere over the city, low enough to vibrate through the old front windows. The hallway light flickered once, then steadied.

You looked at it.

Jack did too.

Neither of you said anything.

The two of you climbed the stairs carefully, shoes squeaking faintly against the worn wood. Jack stayed a step behind you the whole way, quiet and steady, his hand hovering near the railing but never touching your back.

You noticed.

That was becoming a problem.

By the time you reached the apartment door, rainwater had worked its way beneath your collar, and a cold line moved down the back of your neck.

A shiver moved through you, sharp enough that you could not hide it.

Jack noticed that too.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Inside.”

You stepped over the threshold. “Bossy.”

Jack followed you in. “Wet.”

You turned around. “That is not an argument.”

Jack shut the door behind him. “It is if you’re getting water on the floor.”

You looked down at the small puddle already forming beneath you. “The floor started it.”

Jack stared at you for half a second like he was trying not to react to that.

Then he failed.

Barely.

His mouth twitched.

The sight hit somewhere beneath your ribs.

Annoying.

Devastating.

Deeply inconvenient.

You toed off one wet shoe, then the other, trying not to lose your balance and your remaining dignity at the same time. Jack took his shoes off beside yours, then looked at the muddy streak near the entryway.

Jack pointed at the floor. “Don’t move.”

You froze with one hand on the wall. “That feels unrealistic.”

Jack was already crossing toward the linen closet. “For once, try.”

You stared after him. “For once?”

He opened the narrow closet door in the hallway. “Yes.”

You stared at his back. “You are soaked and still managing to be insufferable.”

Jack pulled two towels from the shelf. “Consistency matters.”

You hated that you smiled.

You wiped it away before he turned around.

Mostly.

Jack came back with the towels, one tossed over his own shoulder, the other gathered in his hand. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the warmth of him cut through the cold damp clinging to your clothes.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack lifted the towel and wrapped it around your shoulders.

Your breath caught.

Barely.

Hopefully barely.

His hands stayed at the edges of the towel, pulling it closed around you with a carefulness that should not have felt intimate.

It did anyway.

The fabric was dry, soft, and smelled like laundry detergent. Jack’s fingers brushed near your collarbone as he adjusted it, and your brain supplied every useless memory it had been hoarding since the night before.

His thumb at your mouth.

His arm behind your shoulders.

The word good in his voice.

The almost.

Jack’s gaze flicked to your face.

You looked back at him.

Rain tapped hard against the windows.

The apartment was dim, gray light coming through the living room glass, the whole place smelling faintly like wet pavement, old radiator heat, coffee grounds, and the laundry detergent Jack bought because it was practical and unscented and somehow still smelled like him.

Another shiver moved through you.

Jack’s eyes sharpened immediately.

Then his hands slid from the towel to your upper arms.

He rubbed once.

Twice.

Firm and warm through the towel.

Jack’s voice was quieter this time. “You’re cold.”

You looked at him. “Another clinical assessment?”

His hands moved again, slower this time. “Still accurate.”

Your mouth went dry.

The rain was loud.

Too loud.

Or maybe that was your pulse.

Jack’s palms moved over your arms, practical enough to deny, gentle enough to ruin you. His head dipped slightly, his attention fixed on you with the kind of quiet concentration he usually reserved for difficult exam questions and badly drawn diagrams.

You should have said something sharp.

You had built an entire academic career on saying something sharp.

Instead, you stood there in wet socks and a towel, letting Jack Abbot rub warmth back into your arms like that was a normal thing roommates did after class.

His thumb shifted against your sleeve.

Your throat tightened.

You cleared it. “We should clean up.”

Jack’s hands stopped.

For half a second, he looked like he had forgotten what clean meant.

Then he stepped back.

The absence of his hands was immediate and offensive.

Jack nodded toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

Your voice was almost normal.

You were proud of that.

You grabbed your bag from the floor, then thought better of it when water dripped from the bottom onto the entry mat.

Jack noticed.

Jack reached for the strap. “I’ll put it by the radiator.”

You tightened your grip automatically. “I can—”

Jack gave you a look.

You closed your mouth.

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t enjoy that.”

Jack bent to pick up your bag. “I’m not.”

You watched his mouth twitch. “You are.”

Jack carried your bag toward the radiator. “Go shower.”

You pointed at him. “Bossy.”

He set your bag down near the radiator. “Wet.”

You hated him.

You did not hate him.

You went down the hall to your room, peeled off the damp cardigan and jeans with more force than necessary, then grabbed dry clothes from your drawer. The whole time, the apartment hummed with rain. Water hit the windows in sheets. Thunder moved closer, low and rolling, the kind that seemed to travel through the walls before it reached the air.

You paused with your hand on your doorknob.

For one moment, you thought of Jack in the living room.

His wet hair curling at the ends.

His hands on your arms.

The way he had looked at you when you shivered, like your discomfort was a problem he had already decided belonged to him.

Absolutely not.

You opened the door and crossed to the bathroom.

The shower helped.

Mostly.

It got the rain off your skin and the mud from your ankles. It warmed the cold places beneath your skin and gave you six uninterrupted minutes to pretend you were not thinking about Jack’s hands.

By the time you came out, dressed in dry sleep shorts and an old sweatshirt, Jack was standing near the kitchen with his towel around his neck and your bag propped carefully by the radiator.

He looked up.

His gaze moved over you.

Your fingers tightened around your damp towel.

You nodded toward the bathroom. “The bathroom’s free.”

Jack’s eyes came back to yours. “Okay.”

He crossed toward you, and for one awful second, you both ended up in the narrow hallway at the same time.

Of course you did.

Your apartment had been designed by someone with a grudge against personal space.

You stepped right.

Jack stepped the same direction.

You stopped.

He stopped.

Rain hammered the window at the end of the hall.

You looked up at him. “Really?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t do that on purpose.”

You lifted your brows. “Debatable.”

Jack looked down at you. “You think I’m using hallway traffic patterns to bother you?”

You held his gaze. “I think you use whatever resources are available.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Briefly.

Not briefly enough.

Then he stepped back, giving you room to pass.

Jack’s voice came low. “Resourceful.”

You moved past him, your shoulder brushing his chest because apparently the hallway wanted you dead.

You looked forward. “Insufferable.”

Jack’s voice followed you, dry and warm around the edges. “Consistent.”

You made it three steps into the living room before you smiled.

Luckily, he was already in the bathroom by then.

The door clicked shut behind him.

A moment later, the shower turned on.

You stood in the living room with your towel in your hands and tried very hard not to think about Jack on the other side of the bathroom door.

That lasted approximately four seconds.

Then thunder cracked hard enough to make the windows tremble.

You startled and looked toward the glass.

The sky outside had gone darker while you were in the shower. The rain had thickened into silver sheets beneath the streetlights, even though it was barely evening. Water ran along the curb in fast, dirty streams. Another low roll of thunder followed the first, long enough that the windowpane hummed in its frame.

The storm was getting worse.

You dropped your towel over the back of a chair, collected your binder from the coffee table, and sat on the couch.

Pathology.

You had an exam in three days.

You had already lost enough dignity to weather, mud, and Jack Abbot’s hands.

You could study.

You absolutely could.

You opened your notes to cellular injury.

The shower kept running down the hall.

Rain battered the windows.

The lights flickered once.

Then again.

You looked up.

The bathroom door opened a few minutes later.

Jack stepped out in dry sweats and an old T-shirt, towel looped around the back of his neck, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead.

You looked up from your notes.

Whatever you had been about to say faded.

Something in him had changed.

Not much.

Jack did not do much.

But his shoulders were too still, his gaze moving once toward the window before it came back to the room. His hand gripped the towel at the back of his neck for half a second longer than necessary.

Thunder rolled again.

Low.

Closer.

Jack’s jaw shifted.

There it was.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Something older than the storm.

Quieter than panic.

A tightness beneath his skin that he had clearly planned to pretend did not exist.

You watched him for one second too long.

Jack noticed.

His eyes moved to yours.

You looked down at your binder before he could build a wall out of it.

You turned a page. “If Singh asks about liquefactive necrosis, I’m blaming you.”

Jack was quiet.

Then he crossed into the living room. “That’s not how pathology works.”

Relief moved through you so gently you almost missed it.

You tapped your pen against the page. “It is if I’m desperate enough.”

Jack sat on the other end of the couch, leaving a careful amount of space between you.

Too careful.

Infuriatingly careful.

His mouth twitched faintly. “You’re always desperate enough.”

You looked at him. “And yet, somehow, still beating you.”

His eyes sharpened.

There.

That was better.

The storm pressed against the windows.

Jack reached for his binder from the coffee table, but his attention stayed on you now, pulled away from whatever the thunder had caught in him.

Jack opened his binder. “By half a point.”

You lifted your pen. “A win is a win.”

Jack settled back against the couch, his shoulder still tense, his eyes still a little too aware of the room.

But when you handed him the review sheet, he took it.

When you tapped question four, he looked down.

You pointed at the page. “Ask me this one.”

Jack’s voice came steady.

Almost.

“Difference between coagulative and liquefactive necrosis,” he said.

You smiled down at your notes.

Outside, thunder rolled again.

Inside, Jack stayed.

For twenty minutes, the two of you studied.

Mostly.

Technically.

Enough that, if Singh herself appeared in the living room and demanded proof of academic effort, you could have pointed to the open binders, the marked review sheet, and the growing list of terms you had written in the margin.

Whether either of you had retained anything was a separate and frankly invasive question.

Jack knew the answers.

That was the irritating part.

He knew the difference between coagulative and liquefactive necrosis. He knew ischemic injury, ATP depletion, mitochondrial swelling, membrane blebs. He knew the order of events with the same blunt precision he brought to everything else.

He also kept listening to the storm.

Not obviously.

Jack did not do obvious.

But every time thunder rolled over the building, his pen paused for half a second too long. Every time the windows rattled, his eyes lifted before he made them return to the page. Every time the rain hit harder, something in his shoulders went still.

You noticed.

You looked down at the review sheet and tapped your pen against the next question. “Mechanism of cellular swelling.”

Jack’s eyes came back to the page. “ATP depletion leads to failure of sodium-potassium pumps.”

You nodded. “Which causes?”

“Sodium influx,” Jack said.

You waited.

His mouth twitched faintly. “Water follows.”

“And morphology?” you asked.

“Hydropic change,” Jack said.

You wrote the words down even though you already knew them. “Show-off.”

Jack looked at you. “You asked.”

“I asked because I’m testing you,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’re testing me?”

You lifted your eyes from the page. “Someone has to make sure you’re keeping up.”

That worked.

Jack’s attention settled on you more fully, sharp and familiar.

Safer.

Dangerous in a different direction, maybe, but safer.

His voice went dry. “I’m keeping up.”

You tilted your head. “You say that now.”

Jack leaned back against the couch. “Ask the next one.”

Thunder rolled again before you could.

This one was louder.

Longer.

The windowpane hummed in its frame, and the lamp beside the couch flickered once.

Then again.

You looked up.

Jack was already looking toward the window.

The lamp steadied.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack closed his binder.

You watched him stand. “Where are you going?”

“Candles,” Jack said.

He crossed to the kitchen without looking back.

No joke.

No explanation.

Just practical movement, controlled and efficient, like the problem had been identified and the solution already existed somewhere in the apartment.

You stayed on the couch while he opened the drawer beside the stove, then the cabinet over the fridge. A minute later, he came back with two candles, a flashlight, and a box of matches.

He set everything on the coffee table.

The emergency pile looked small and ordinary between your notes.

Somehow, that made the storm feel closer.

Jack sat down again, but he did not reopen his binder right away.

The rain hit the windows harder as the lights flickered again.

You looked from the candles to him. “Does this happen a lot?”

Jack’s gaze stayed on the coffee table. “Sometimes.”

The answer was simple.

Too simple.

You knew better than to ask which part he meant.

The power.

The storm.

The waiting for something to go wrong.

You picked up your pen again and tapped the review sheet. “Question five?”

Jack looked at you.

For a moment, something in his face shifted.

Then he picked up the packet. “Cellular changes in reversible injury.”

You looked down. “Mitochondrial swelling, membrane blebs, ribosomal detachment.”

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Good.”

The word landed low in your stomach.

You ignored it with heroic commitment.

The lights flickered again.

This time, they did not steady.

The lamp blinked once.

Twice.

Then the apartment went dark.

Not dim.

Not shadowed.

Dark.

Your hand shot out before you could stop it.

Jack caught you.

Or you caught him.

It was hard to tell.

Your fingers closed around his forearm at the same time his hand wrapped around yours, warm and steady in the sudden black.

For a second, the only sound was the rain.

Then Jack’s voice came low beside you. “You’re okay.”

Calm.

Certain.

Too calm, maybe.

But you held on to it anyway.

Your breath came out unevenly. “Okay.”

His thumb moved once over your knuckles.

Not a question.

Not quite comfort.

Something close enough to ruin you.

Another roll of thunder moved over the building, not as sharp as the last one, but long enough that you felt Jack’s grip tighten before he could stop it.

You felt it.

He knew you felt it.

The dark made honesty harder to avoid.

You kept your voice gentle and practical. “Matches?”

Jack’s hand stayed around yours for one more second before he let go.

His voice came from beside you. “On the table.”

You heard him shift forward. His knee brushed yours. Something scraped softly over the coffee table. A match struck against the box, and a small flame caught with a faint hiss.

Gold light moved across Jack’s face.

For one second, you forgot the storm entirely.

He looked different in candlelight.

Still Jack.

Still damp-haired and sharp-eyed and impossible.

But softer at the edges. Warmer. The hard line of his jaw cut in shadow, his eyes lowered toward the flame, his fingers steady around the match, as if the whole room had narrowed to one controlled point of light.

He lit the first candle.

Then the second.

The living room came back in pieces.

The coffee table.

The review sheet.

Your pen.

Jack’s hand.

His face.

The space between you.

Not enough space, suddenly.

Jack blew out the match and set it in the ashtray neither of you used for anything except paperclips and the occasional dead pen.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Rain battered the glass.

The candlelight shifted over his face.

You looked down first.

“We can still study,” you said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on you for half a second too long. Then he looked at the review sheet in his hand. “Can we?”

You reached for your binder. “We have an exam in three days.”

Jack was quiet for a beat. Then he nodded once. “Ask the next one.”

You looked down at the review sheet because looking at Jack in candlelight seemed medically inadvisable.

The next question blurred slightly at the edges.

Not because of the dark.

Because Jack was sitting beside you in the gold wash of the candles, still too tense, still too quiet, his damp hair drying in uneven waves and his shoulder close enough that you could feel the heat of him if you leaned half an inch to the left.

You did not lean.

You were disciplined.

Allegedly.

You cleared your throat. “Primary mechanism of irreversible cell injury?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. “Mitochondrial dysfunction.”

You nodded and wrote it down, even though you already knew the answer. “And?”

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Membrane damage.”

You waited.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You lifted your brows.

Jack’s mouth twitched faintly. “Calcium influx.”

You looked down before your face could do anything unfortunate. “Show-off.”

His mouth almost curved. “Do you want me to be wrong?”

You lifted one shoulder. “Just once. For morale.”

Jack’s eyebrow lifted. “Your morale?”

You tapped the review sheet. “Mine. The room’s. General morale.”

Jack looked at the candlelit living room. “The room is fine.”

Thunder rolled low over the building.

Long.

Heavy.

The candle flames bent slightly, though there was no wind.

Your shoulders jumped before you could stop them.

Jack’s hand went still on the review sheet.

Not much.

Just a brief interruption in the movement of his thumb along the edge of the paper. His jaw locked, his gaze dropping to the page like the answer was written there, like concentration could make his body forget what it had heard.

Then he was steady again.

Too steady.

You saw it.

He saw you see it.

Neither of you said anything.

You looked away before he could feel cornered by your concern.

You tapped the page again, softer this time. “Question six.”

Jack inhaled once.

Then he looked back at the packet. “Morphologic changes of reversible injury.”

You picked up your pen again. “Cellular swelling. Fatty change.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “Organs affected by fatty change?”

You wrote as you answered. “Liver. Heart. Kidney.”

“Good,” Jack said.

The word hit the room differently now.

Maybe it always had.

Maybe you were just finally too tired to pretend it did not.

Your pen dragged beneath fatty change, underlining it twice.

The rain battered the windows hard enough to make the glass tremble.

Outside, lightning turned the living room white for half a second.

You flinched before the thunder even came.

Jack noticed.

The thunder followed a second later, closer this time, hard enough to rattle the loose pane.

“Jesus,” you breathed, one hand pressing briefly to your chest.

Jack’s shoulders tightened.

Only once.

Only for a breath.

Then he forced them down.

You knew it was forced because you were close enough to see the effort.

Your throat tightened.

He was trying to stay steady for you.

You were trying not to notice that he needed steady too.

The candles looked suddenly weak, two small flames fighting an entire sky.

Without meaning to, you shifted your knee closer to his.

Not touching.

Almost.

Jack’s gaze dropped to the movement.

Then slowly, carefully, he looked back at you.

The storm went on outside.

The room went very still inside.

You kept your voice gentle. “We can stop for a minute.”

His expression closed by a fraction. “I’m fine.”

You looked at him. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

His eyes held yours.

The candlelight moved over his face, catching on the line of his cheekbone, the damp curl near his temple, the muscle working once in his jaw.

You set your pen down. “I said we can stop.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then his gaze dropped to the open binder in your lap.

“You’ll get irritated if we stop,” he said.

The answer was so Jack that it almost hurt.

Your mouth almost curved. “Probably.”

His thumb moved against the edge of the review packet. “Then ask the next one.”

You studied him.

The storm pressed against the windows.

He looked back at you, tense and stubborn and determined not to need anything from anyone.

So you picked up your pen.

Because sometimes taking care of Jack meant not making him admit he needed it.

You looked back at the packet. “Fine. But if I miss this question, I’m blaming you.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “For asking you the question?”

You lifted your pen. “For being distracting while you ask it.”

His eyes held yours.

The room went quiet around the storm.

“That’s not my problem,” Jack said.

Your pulse jumped.

You looked back at the review sheet before your face could betray you. “Question six, Abbot.”

For a second, Jack did not move.

Then he looked down at the page.

“Morphologic changes associated with necrosis,” he said.

His voice had changed.

Not much.

Enough.

You wrote the heading in your notebook and told yourself not to notice.

Jack leaned closer to read the smaller print on the packet.

Not into you.

Not exactly.

But close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

Both of you stopped.

The contact was small.

Barely anything.

Cotton against cotton.

Warmth through fabric.

Still, every thought in your head scattered.

Jack did not move away.

Neither did you.

You stared down at the page like it had personally betrayed you.

Jack’s voice came lower when he spoke. “Coagulative.”

You swallowed. “Most tissues.”

His voice stayed close. “Except?”

You forced yourself to look at the notes. “Brain.”

“Liquefactive,” Jack said.

The candlelight shifted.

Rain hit the window in hard, uneven bursts.

Another crack of thunder split open above the building.

You jolted.

Your knee bumped his.

Jack’s hand closed around the review packet.

Fast.

Reflexive.

The paper crumpled beneath his fingers. Then he released it immediately, smoothing the corner flat with the side of his thumb like nothing had happened.

Like you had not seen.

Like he had not felt your body jump beside him.

You looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

Jack’s eyes were fixed on the packet.

His breathing was even.

Too even.

You knew better than to ask.

Instead, you let your knee stay where it was.

Touching his.

Jack noticed.

His gaze dropped again.

This time, he did not move either.

Your voice came quieter. “Next one?”

For a second, Jack only looked at you. Then he nodded once. “Next one.”

He looked down at the packet again, but his shoulder was still against yours, and your knee was still touching his, and this time, when another low roll of thunder moved over the building, neither of you pulled away.

That made it worse.

Better.

Both.

Jack read the next question. “Most common cause of coagulative necrosis.”

You knew the answer.

You really did.

But his voice was lower now, his shoulder warm against yours, his knee solid beside yours, his jaw still tight from the thunder he was pretending not to hear.

Your pen hovered uselessly above your notebook.

Jack looked at you. “You know this.”

You lifted your eyes. “I know.”

Jack’s gaze held. “Then answer.”

Your mouth went dry.

Lightning flashed again.

The room turned white.

You startled, smaller this time, but Jack’s hand moved before he could stop it, catching your wrist for half a second.

Steadying you.

Steadying himself.

Neither of you breathed.

His fingers were warm around your skin.

The thunder had not come yet.

Both of you knew it was coming.

Both of you waited.

Jack’s grip loosened, but he did not let go.

Your eyes met his in the candlelight.

The thunder hit.

Not the worst one.

But close enough to make the windows shudder.

Jack flinched.

Barely.

You felt it through his hand.

That was the problem.

You felt him.

And he felt you feeling him.

His fingers tightened once around your wrist. Then his thumb moved, small and slow, against the inside of it.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Only for a second.

Then he let go.

Too carefully.

Your wrist felt cold without his hand.

You looked back at your notes like they had any hope of saving you.

“Ischemia,” you said.

Jack’s voice came after a beat. “What?”

You swallowed. “Most common cause of coagulative necrosis. Ischemia.”

His gaze stayed on you. Then his mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The word moved through you like heat.

You looked down and tried to write ischemia.

Your handwriting came out terrible.

Jack saw it.

You shifted your notebook higher on your lap, trying to make room for the binder sliding toward your knee. Somehow, in the process, your body turned toward him.

Not fully.

Not intentionally.

Your folded leg angled across the couch cushion. Your knee rested near his thigh. The review sheet sat half between you, half abandoned.

Jack looked at the new position.

Then he looked at you.

Neither of you said anything.

Rain hit the window in hard, uneven bursts.

Jack cleared his throat and looked down at the packet. “Next question.”

You nodded too quickly. “Right.”

He turned the packet slightly so you could see it better. That made him turn too. His shoulder angled toward yours. His knee shifted on the couch, opening the space between you instead of closing it, and somehow that made everything worse, because now you were not sitting side by side.

You were facing each other.

Almost.

The candles burned low on the coffee table.

The storm kept moving closer.

Jack read from the packet, his voice lower than before. “What distinguishes apoptosis from necrosis?”

You knew this.

You stared at his mouth for half a second before forcing your eyes down. “Apoptosis is programmed cell death. No inflammation.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “And necrosis?”

Your fingers tightened around your pen. “Pathologic. Cell swelling. Membrane rupture. Inflammation.”

“Good,” Jack said again.

You looked up.

His eyes were already on you.

The review sheet lowered slightly in his hand.

The space between you had gone thin and strange.

Another flash of lightning cut through the room.

You startled before the thunder came, and this time, Jack moved toward you before you moved toward him.

His hand hovered near your knee.

Stopped.

Changed its mind.

Landed on the couch cushion beside it instead.

The restraint was so visible it made your chest ache.

The thunder rolled a second later, hard enough to shake the glass.

You shifted toward him on instinct.

Jack leaned in at the same time.

Not much.

Only enough that when the sound faded, you were closer than you had been before.

Your knee was against his thigh now.

His hand was still on the cushion beside your leg.

Your fingers were curled around the edge of the review sheet with his.

You both looked down at that.

Your hand.

His hand.

The paper trapped between you.

Then Jack’s thumb shifted against the back of your finger.

Barely.

Maybe an accident.

Maybe not.

Your breath caught anyway.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.

For a second, the storm disappeared beneath the sound of your own pulse.

You should have moved back.

He should have moved back.

Instead, Jack’s voice came rougher than before. “Question nine.”

You stared at him. “Are we still pretending to study?”

His mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

Not safe enough to be one.

“You tell me,” Jack said.

The thunder answered before you could.

Closer.

Louder.

Your body jumped toward him.

“Fuck,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Your hand caught his sleeve.

Jack’s hand caught your forearm. Close enough that the contact sent heat up your arm.

The review sheet slid off the couch and fell to the floor.

Neither of you reached for it.

You were facing him now.

Fully.

Your folded leg had shifted across the couch, your knee pressed against his thigh, your fingers wrapped in the fabric at his wrist.

Jack’s hand stayed around your forearm.

His other hand braced on the cushion behind you.

His face was inches from yours.

For one sharp second, neither of you moved.

Rain battered the windows.

The candle flames shook.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

This time, he did not look away.

Then lightning flashed bright enough to cut the room in half.

A second passed.

Two.

You looked at Jack.

Jack looked at you.

Then the thunder hit.

Not rolled.

Hit.

The whole apartment shook with it.

The windows rattled hard in their frames, the candle flames snapped sideways, and your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

You jerked fully into him.

Jack moved at the same time.

His hand finally caught your waist.

Your palm landed flat against his chest.

Your knee slid between his on the couch cushion, and suddenly you were close enough that there was no sensible way to call it studying anymore.

His heart was beating hard beneath your hand.

Your fingers curled in his shirt.

His arm came around your back.

Your noses brushed.

Barely.

A breath.

A mistake.

A match.

Jack went still.

So did you.

The storm moved around the apartment, but inside the small space between your bodies, everything went terrifyingly quiet.

Then Jack kissed you.

No warning.

No space left for either of you to pretend this had not been where the night was going.

His mouth found yours hard enough to steal the breath you had not gotten back from the thunder. For half a second, you froze from the shock of it, from the impossible fact of Jack Abbot finally touching you like this, from the heat of his hand at your waist and the solid beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Then your fingers tightened in his shirt.

You kissed him back.

Jack made a sound low in his throat, rough and almost startled, like he had expected resistance and found relief instead. His hand flexed at your waist, drawing you closer before he seemed to think better of it.

Too late.

You were already moving.

Your knee slid farther between his on the couch cushion, and Jack’s arm came around your back, firm and warm and careful in a way that somehow made the kiss hotter instead of softer.

The storm cracked outside again.

Neither of you pulled away.

Jack’s mouth moved over yours, less startled now, more certain. Your fingers climbed from his shirt to his shoulder, then to the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and his breath broke against your lips when you touched him there.

That sound went straight through you.

The kiss changed.

It stopped being instinct.

It became a choice.

Jack kissed you like every almost had been a punishment.

The kitchen.

The couch.

The careful distance.

The way he had stopped and left you standing there with cake on the counter and your heart somewhere in your throat.

Now he was not stopping.

His hand came to your jaw, fingers spreading along your face with devastating care. His thumb brushed near the corner of your mouth, the same place he had touched in the kitchen, and the memory of it shot through you so sharply that your fingers tightened in his hair.

Jack groaned against your mouth.

The sound ruined you.

You leaned back without meaning to.

Jack followed.

Then the couch caught your shoulders, and he stopped immediately.

His hand braced beside your head, holding his weight off you. His mouth hovered over yours, close enough that every uneven breath became shared.

His voice came rough. “Okay?”

Your fingers were still in his hair.

Your heart was trying to break out of your chest.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

You pulled lightly at the back of his neck. “Yes, Jack.”

Something in his face changed.

Then he moved over you carefully, one knee pressing into the cushion beside your hip, his hand sliding beneath your shoulder to draw you closer as his mouth found yours again.

You were warm beneath him. Your hands were in his hair. Your mouth opened under his because you wanted him there, because you had pulled him there, because this time there was no wall between wanting and touching.

Jack kissed you harder.

Your fingers tightened at the nape of his neck, and his hand moved along your side, stopping at your waist like he still had one last scrap of restraint left and hated it personally.

The kiss turned messy fast.

Hot and deep and impossible to survive with dignity intact.

His mouth left yours only to find the corner of it.

Then your jaw.

Then the sensitive place beneath it.

Your breath caught.

Jack stopped for half a second.

Just enough to feel the sound move through him.

His forehead touched the side of your face, and his breath came rough against your skin.

“Still okay?” Jack asked.

Your hand slid from his hair to the back of his neck. “Yes.”

Jack lifted his head.

His eyes found yours in the candlelight.

You watched the last of his restraint lose whatever argument it had been trying to make.

Then the lights came back on.

All at once.

The lamp beside the couch clicked bright.

The refrigerator hummed back to life.

Somewhere in the kitchen, the clock on the stove started blinking.

Jack froze above you.

You froze beneath him.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then reality arrived with horrifying clarity.

Your notes were scattered across the rug. One candle still burned on the coffee table. Your hand was at the back of Jack’s neck. His knee was planted beside your hip. His mouth was close enough to yours that you could feel every uneven breath.

Jack looked down at you.

You looked up at him.

The storm rumbled outside, quieter now, like it had done its job and was leaving the two of you to deal with the damage.

Jack’s voice came rough. “The power’s back.”

You blinked once. “It is.”

Neither of you moved.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

You felt it like a touch.

Then his jaw shifted, and he forced himself back an inch.

Only an inch.

Somehow, it felt cruel.

“We should study,” Jack said.

You nodded immediately. “Absolutely.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “We have an exam in three days.”

“We do,” you said.

His hand was still braced beside your head.

Your fingers were still curled in his shirt.

Jack swallowed. “We should be responsible.”

“We should,” you said.

A beat passed.

Then another.

The lamp hummed softly beside the couch.

Rain hit the window in steady sheets.

Your notes lay abandoned on the floor like casualties.

Jack’s mouth was still right there.

You whispered, “Responsible.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “Extremely.”

Then you pulled him down at the same time he bent toward you.

The kiss hit harder than the first.

No thunder this time.

No darkness.

No excuse.

Just Jack’s mouth on yours and your hands dragging him closer and the brutal, impossible relief of not pretending this was an accident anymore.

Jack’s hand slid beneath your shoulder, pulling you closer as his mouth moved over yours.

This kiss was slower for maybe three seconds.

Then your fingers found the hem of his shirt.

Jack went still against you.

Barely.

Just enough for you to feel it.

You made a frustrated sound against his mouth and pulled him closer, your hands sliding over his chest, his shoulders, the hard warmth of him through his shirt.

Jack’s breath broke. “Fuck.”

You kissed his jaw.

His hand flexed at your side. “You sure?”

You nodded against him immediately.

He turned his head, trying to catch your eyes, but your mouth moved to his neck, and his whole body went tight above you.

“Answer me,” Jack said, voice rough.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “Yes, Jack.”

His breathing turned uneven.

You kissed the side of his throat, open-mouthed and unsteady, and felt his restraint slip another inch.

“I’m sure,” you said against his skin.

Jack’s hand slid under your sweatshirt.

Your breath caught.

He paused for half a heartbeat, still checking, still Jack, even with his mouth flushed from yours and his chest moving too fast beneath your hands.

You pulled him down again.

That was all the answer he needed.

He kissed you like it ruined him.

After that, everything got messy.

Not graceful.

Not careful in the way the rest of the night had been careful.

Careful only in the ways Jack could not stop being careful: one hand braced near your head so the arm of the couch did not dig into you, his knee shifting before it trapped yours at the wrong angle, his palm stopping at your ribs until your fingers tightened in his hair and you made a sound against his mouth that felt too honest to survive.

Then restraint lost the argument.

Your sweatshirt rode higher beneath his hand. His shirt bunched under your palms. The kiss turned hot and broken, all mouths and breath and hands catching on fabric that suddenly felt like a personal insult.

You tugged at his shirt again.

Jack lifted his head just enough to help you.

The second his mouth left yours, you hated it.

The fabric dragged over his head, and then he was above you again.

Bare skin.

Messy hair.

Flushed mouth.

Breathing hard enough that you could feel it beneath your palms when they landed on his chest.

You forgot the storm.

You forgot the exam.

You forgot every rule you had written into the roommate agreement like rules had ever been enough to save either of you.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hands on him.

Then lifted to your face.

His jaw shifted. “Don’t do that.”

Your fingers spread over his chest. “Do what?”

Jack’s voice came low. “Look at me like that.”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Like what?”

His mouth found yours instead of answering.

Good.

You were not sure either of you would have survived the answer.

The kiss turned feverish fast. His hand slid along your side, your sweatshirt twisted around your ribs, your fingers dragged over his shoulders and down his back, and every sound he made seemed to take something out of him.

The coffee table was too close.

Your notebook slid farther across the rug.

Jack’s knee hit the edge of a textbook, and he cursed under his breath.

You laughed into his mouth before you could stop yourself.

The sound broke something open between you.

Not the heat.

That stayed.

But the terror of it.

The feeling that one wrong move would shatter the whole thing.

Jack lifted his head, and his mouth curved faintly, breathless and ruined. “That funny?”

You shook your head, still smiling against his mouth. “No.”

His eyes warmed. “Liar.”

You pulled him back down. “Shut up.”

Jack kissed you again, and the smile disappeared.

So did everything else.

His mouth moved down your jaw, then to the place beneath it that made your fingers dig into his shoulders. Your head tipped back before you could think better of it, and Jack went still for one fraction of a second.

Then his mouth touched your neck.

Once.

Careful.

A question.

Your breath caught hard enough to answer for you.

Jack’s hand tightened at your side.

The second kiss was not careful.

Your eyes closed.

The storm kept going outside, but it sounded farther away now, buried beneath the hum of the lamp, the rain on the glass, the uneven sound of Jack breathing against your skin.

Your hand slid into his hair.

His mouth moved lower.

Your whole body arched before you could stop it.

Jack stopped.

Barely.

Just enough to lift his head.

His eyes found yours, dark and wrecked and still somehow focused.

“Bedroom,” Jack said.

The word landed between you like another thunderclap.

Your pulse jumped.

Jack’s hand stayed at your side, warm and steady, like he was holding himself back by sheer force.

His voice came rougher. “If we’re doing this, I’m going to do it right.”

Your breath caught.

“Bedroom,” Jack said again.

You stared at him.

At his mouth.

At his bare chest.

At the careful restraint still somehow surviving under all that heat.

Then you nodded. “Yes.”

Jack did not move.

Of course he did not.

Your body was trying to combust, and Jack Abbot was still making sure.

You slid your hand up his chest, over his shoulder, to the side of his neck. “Yes, Jack.”

His eyes closed for half a second.

Then he moved.

Fast enough to make you gasp.

Careful enough to make your chest hurt.

Jack stood and pulled you up with him, one hand at your waist, the other catching yours as your feet found the floor. You barely made it upright before you kissed him again.

Or he kissed you.

It was hard to tell now.

The answer kept changing.

Your hands were on his shoulders. His mouth was on yours. You stumbled back a step, and Jack followed, one hand bracing behind your head before your back met the wall beside the hallway.

Not hard.

He protected you from the impact even while kissing you like he was done surviving himself.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders.

Jack’s breath broke against your mouth.

You kissed down his jaw because you could, because he had asked if you were sure and you were, because the shape of him beneath your hands had gone from impossible to real so fast you could not stop touching him.

His hand pressed flat to the wall beside your head.

“Careful,” Jack said, voice rough.

You kissed the side of his neck again. “I am.”

“You’re not,” Jack said.

You smiled against his skin. “You are.”

His laugh came out broken.

Then he kissed you hard enough to end the argument.

The hallway was narrow.

Too narrow.

Of course it was.

Your hip bumped the wall. Jack caught you. Your fingers hooked at the waistband of his sweats for balance, and he went completely still.

You looked up.

His eyes were on yours.

Dark.

Sharp.

Barely controlled.

Your fingers loosened immediately. “Okay?”

For once, he was the one who had to breathe before answering.

Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. “Yeah.”

Your pulse tripped.

His mouth curved faintly, but it was too ruined to be smug. “Keep walking.”

You did.

Barely.

Jack kissed you twice more before you reached his door.

Once against the wall.

Once with his hand wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, his mouth finding yours like he had forgotten where you were going and remembered only when your shoulder brushed the doorframe.

At his doorway, he stopped.

You nearly bumped into him.

Jack turned to face you, shirtless and breathless in the dim hallway, his hair ruined by your hands, his mouth flushed, one hand still holding yours.

For one second, neither of you moved.

The storm muttered behind the windows.

The clock blinked uselessly in the kitchen.

Your pathology notes were abandoned on the living room floor like evidence.

Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles.

His voice came low. “Last chance to be responsible.”

You looked at him.

Then you stepped closer.

Your free hand caught at his waistband again, deliberate this time, and his breath punched out of him.

You lifted your eyes to his. “Ask me one more time.”

Jack went very still.

His gaze moved over your face, searching for fear, doubt, anything that would make him stop.

He found none of it.

“Are you sure?” Jack asked.

You nodded immediately. “Yes.”

His jaw shifted.

You stepped closer until there was no space left. “I’m sure.”

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed the pause to survive you.

Then he opened them.

“Come here,” Jack said.

And you did.

The door closed behind you.

"Hold on."

You tear your lips from Andrew's, gasp for breath, then roll over in bed and reach for your bedside drawer. Opening it and fumbling inside it without seeing, you frown when you can't feel the telltale plastic wrapper of a condom.

"Fuck..." You get up on your elbows and scoot closer to the edge of the bed so you can see into the drawer. Andrew follows you, kissing your back and palming your ass cheeks.

"You're not helping, Andrew," you smile as you look for the one thing that you need to go further. He murmurs something unintelligible but looks up when you curse again.

"Wait, I think I have some in my purse."

You get ouf of bed, stark naked, and leave the bedroom in search for your purse, finding it on the couch in the living-room. Emptying it unceremoniously on the couch, you look over the contents and swear again. You go back to the bedroom and climb into bed.

"Bad news. I'm out of condoms."

Andrew stares at you for a split second before exhaling in frustration.

"Fuck."

"Tell me about it."

"I should've brought some but I didn't think..."

He showed up unannounced just as you were about to go to bed. Apologizing for the late hour and handing you a manila envelope with the rest of the money from the jewelry store job, he had nevertheless come in when you asked him to. You had been out a few times already and it had almost always ended with sex, but the last time hadn't, and you had been aching for it since then. It wasn't difficult to convince him to stay the night.

And now this.

"I didn't keep track, either." You could kick yourself. Your pussy is throbbing and you need it stretched out by that thick cock of his, but that's not happening now. You went to get tested together after only two dates (it was actually a pre-dinner activity that makes you laugh when you think about it) and both tests came back negative for everything, but you're not on birth control so condoms are still necessary. There is no need to mess around with Plan B or abortions. Both of you have been responsible enough to carry condoms, so the timing is really unfortunate for both of you.

Andrew sits up with a sigh.

"I can leave, if you want," he suggests in a low voice. "So you can get some sleep."

You frown at him. "Why would I want you to leave?"

"If we can't... have sex."

"Sex is more than just penetration," you remind him with a small grin, and his ears turn red. His eyes, however, are still fixed on you in a way which makes your face feel warm. You sit down next to him and put your hand on his knee.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you tell him in a low voice, and a small smile plays in the corner of his mouth before disappearing.

“Tell me… what you want,” he asks you. His eyes seem to darken as his tongue darts out to wet his lips nervously. “You want me to lick you?”

A shiver runs down your spine at the thought, but you have other plans.

“No,” you smile, “at least not yet. I want to suck your cock first.”

He actually swallows at that. Gently, you push him down on his back, laying down next to him and kissing him. His arms go around you, pulling you close, and you run your fingers through those charming curls of his. You take your time kissing him, knowing by now he likes it – you sometimes think this man could spend an entire night just kissing you – before you carefully disentangle your limbs from his, and start to kiss your way down his neck, nibbling at his Adam’s apple, sucking at his collarbone, playfully biting his nipple. You lick down his abs, smiling at him when your fingertips brushing down his side makes him twitch.

“Ticklish?”

“A little.” He seems a little huffy by this, but smiles shyly when you kiss his belly button. There is a delicate, almost imperceptible trail of light fuzz leading south, and now you follow it with your lips until you reach the rougher, dark coils of his pubic hair. You take a moment to settle more comfortably next to him before closing your fist around his girthy shaft. A surprised gasp escapes him, you see his abs tighten before they once again relax down into the bedding.

“Just relax,” you tell him softly before bending down to kiss the head of his cock. He sighs deeply and you take it as an invitation to go on. You start to lick him, trailing your tongue up and down the veins of his cock before closing your lips around the head. Andrew hums, and when you glance up at him you see his eyes are closed. His handsome features are almost wiped clean of his usual scowl, of which only a line between his brows remains. His hand finds your shoulder and strokes his, then runs up your neck to your head, cupping the back of it, fingers playing with your hair. You smile to yourself at how easily he surrendered himself to you, and decide to knock it up a notch.

You take as much of him as you can in your mouth, and start to bob your head. Andrew groans and his hand trembles on your scalp, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you away och push you down. You cup his balls and massage them gently, and when he starts to tremble you place your other arm over his hips to keep him still.

He throws his head back, gasps your name between shallow breaths, and it doesn’t take long before he cums in short spurts into your mouth. You swallow quickly and go on, despite his whimpers, your elbow pressing down harder to hold him still. His head shoots up from the bed and he stares at you with equal amounts shock and awe.

“What are you doing?” he whines, and you let go with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the red head of his throbbing member.

“You can do another one, right?” you ask sweetly, pumping him slowly. His lower lip quivers before he surrenders with a moan, head plopping back to the sheets, hands running over his face and through his hair. You grin victoriously and go back to sucking him, this time focusing on the head with your hand helping out. Your pussy is dripping at this point, ready for him, but you rework that hunger into the act of giving. Keeping an eye on him, you relish in having him completely at your mercy like this, and you wonder briefly if any woman has ever had him so defenseless. He’s not just naked in all of his muscled glory; he’s utterly exposed, submitted, raw.

Is it power that makes you feel so exhilarated, or is it the knowledge that this man, with his fearsome reputation and tough outer shell, can still surrender himself like this? Be soft and vulnerable with someone?

You don’t know, and this is not the time to further contemplate on that. You double down on your efforts to make this unforgettable for him, and notice with satisfaction that his hands are fisting into the sheets. When he gets close, he grabs your wrist like he wants to pull you away, but he keeps you there, instead holding you so hard you know you’ll have a bruise tomorrow. Saliva and precum are dripping down your chin but you let it, focusing instead on taking him deeper and deeper. You can’t take him down your throat but you’re pretty good at controlling your gag reflex, and even if it’s difficult with a cock as thick as this, you do pretty well because you can see his abs flexing and feel his strong thighs work underneath you. He’s moaning quite loudly now and when grab his balls again, he shouts out and your mouth fills with cum so fast that you start coughing. You use your fingers to rub the tears from your eyes, then the back of your hand to wipe your mouth. You stretch out next to him, your face at the level of Andrew’s. He’s staring up at the ceiling, panting wildly, and when you cup his cheek and turn his face to his, he flinches. His eyes are wide open and glazed over.

“One more, right?” you query softly, feeling a little sadistic but also more determined at ever to rock his world.

“What?” His voice is small and alarmed.

“You can do one more, can’t you, Andrew?”

“I… no, I don’t think… one more?”

You pass your thumb over his lips. “One more.”

He looks almost scared, so you press a kiss to his lips.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll stop. But if you want me to, I’ll suck your dick once more.”

He swallows audibly and you hear from the sound that his mouth is dry. Then he nods.

“Say it, baby.”

“One more.” It’s only a whisper, but it’s laced with a quiet confidence, and you kiss him once more before returning to your work.

“You can push my head down if you want to,” you tell him.

“Won’t you choke?”

“I won’t choke,” you promise him before taking his cock into your mouth once more. Your tongue and jaw muscles are starting to feel strained but you power on through, parrying his jutting hips and twitching legs. He’s only now starting to verbalize his pleasure, cursing under his breath between the moans and groans. His feet strain against the sheets and he once again finds fistfuls of bedding to hold on to. You employ every trick in your book – not that they are that many – and ignore the ache beginning to present in your lower jaw. Your throat starts to feel strained but you still take him as deep as you can, humming low when he releases one hand from the bedding to hold your head still. Your eyes tear up again but you focus on your breathing and let him hold you there.

“God, baby…” Andrew is almost sobbing. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He releases you to let his cock slide out of your mouth. You take a couple of deep breaths, enjoy his hand petting your hair, and then you start to pump his cock again, bending down to lick it. You reach up to tweak a nipple and Andrew’s entire body squirms. Oh, so you like that? You do it again, switching nipples, and are rewarded by a whine. His fist is almost as white as the sheet and the hand on your head pushes you down again, forcing you to take more and more of his length in your mouth. Only when you push back does he ease up on you, but when you start to bob your head down and up he can’t keep up anymore, releasing your head to instead hold onto whatever part of you he can. His chest is heaving with every breath he barely manages to draw, and his stomach is sucked in with the intensity of it, each abdominal muscle tightly drawn. You glance up and see that his head is thrown back, neck muscles stretched taut as he pants. You pinch a nipple and squeeze his balls, and when you taste the first bitterness of semen, you pull your hand back from his chest, curl your pointer finger and thumb around the base of his cock, and squeeze carefully. Andrew’s reaction is immediate: he shakes underneath you as you milk him dry, swallowing every drop, and when you finally release his cock he’s still trembling.

You lay down next to him and pepper his shoulder with kisses. He doesn’t know but you aim for a freckle each time, wishing you could kiss him for each little dot he has on his body. You then let him catch his breath before you speak.

“You okay?”

He swallows tightly.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Yes.”

You smile and caress his cheek, gently making him turn his face towards you. He looks stunned, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man look at you like this.

“Told you there were more ways of having sex than penetration,” you chuckle. Andrew grins, showing his crooked front teeth that you so rarely get to see. It makes him look even more boyish. Normal.

“What about… you?” he asks carefully.

“Oh, I fully expect you to reciprocate, as soon as you’re up for it,” you let him know with a complacent sigh as you roll over onto your back and put your hands behind your head.

“I don’t know if I can do as well,” he mumbles hesitantly, but you find his hand on the mattress and pat it reassuringly.

“You’ll do great no matter what.”

You give him time to rest even though your pussy is throbbing by now. To his credit, he doesn’t need as much time as you had feared. When he rolls onto his side and kisses your cheek, his hand immediately slides down between your thighs. He exhales hotly against your cheek when he draws a finger through your wet folds.

“You’re very wet.”

“I am,” you acknowledge with your lower lip caught between your teeth. “Want you badly, Andrew.”

“Tell me what to do.” His lips are on your neck, the raspy stubble on his upper lip making chills run down your spine and the hairs on your arms stand.

“You ever made a woman squirt?” you ask. He stops his ministrations and raises his head to look at you.

“No.”

“You want to try?”

“Isn’t that… very messy?” He looks reluctant, and you choose your words carefully.

“It doesn’t have to be. I can get a towel. And it’s not always like it is in porn, if that’s what you think.”

“No?” He seems to realize that he’s been had, and averts his gaze with a sheepish smile.

“Hey.” You run your fingers through his hair, ending with a fond tug. “Girls watch porn, too.”

“Whatever for?” He seems genuinely surprised, and you laugh.

“To get off, of course!”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, propping his head on his hand, elbow bent on the mattress, so you go on:

“I don’t squirt like a fucking lawn sprinkler. It’s more like a… a gush. But if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly and his lips purse as he regards you. You notice that his forefinger and thumb tapping against each other, and you give him a reassuring smile. Eventually, he nods.

“I want to try.”

Your pussy clenches, and you lean in for a kiss. Andrew greedily pushes his tongue into your mouth, pauses when he tastes his own cum before sucking your tongue into his mouth and placing his hand on the back of your hand to bring you closer. You have to tear your mouth from his to be able to remind him of the towel.

“Just lemme get it…”

“No.” He puts his strong arm over your upper body. “I don’t care. You’re not leaving this bed.”

You look at him in amazement before he kisses you again, and then he gives you the same treatment as you did earlier: kisses his way down your body, biting your nipples, licking your tummy, kissing your navel, before arriving between your thighs. You separate your legs and he licks his lips when he sees you open up before him. He takes a first, tentative taste of you, tongue dipping inside you before running from your slick hole to your throbbing clit, and you hum from pleasure.

“Tell me what to do?” His breath is warm against your skin and you need a second to answer. You get up on your elbows hold up your hand, first and second fingers together and slightly crooked.

“Do this with your fingers, and put them inside me. A little bit in, on the front, there’s a slightly spongy texture. Keep rubbing that while you lick me, and it should be a piece of cake.”

Andrew looks at your fingers doubtfully, and you give him an encouraging smile.

“Here, let me help you. Right hand?”

He nods, and you reach for his hand on your thigh, crooking his fingers into the right position and bringing them to your pussy. He tries to cram them in immediately but you hiss and grab his wrist.

“Gently.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, letting you slide his fingers through your folds before pushing them against your dripping hole. You moan when they glide in easy, and you lay back down.

“Now lick me, baby.”

His tongue is on your clit as he carefully pushes his fingers deeper, and you hum approvingly.

“Like that, yeah…” You move your pelvis, meet his fingers and moan when he finds the right spot.

“There, right there, stay on there!”

He juts at the spot, forcefully, and you hiss again.

“Gently, baby, like this.” You show the movement with your own fingers and he mimics it, and you melt against the bedding.

“Oh my God…!”

He stays on your G-spot, working it with purpose while his tongue swirls on your clit, and you guide him with moaned praise and the occasional instruction that he follows closely. You find that having to tell him what to do and him actually doing it is surprisingly sexy: you had anticipated that it would take focus away from your pleasure. But it feels good and you attribute it to the man more than anything else: being with Andrew just makes you feel good in every way.

“Getting close,” you pant when you start to feel the pleasure gathering, the pressure rising. “Don’t stop, Andrew, don’t stop!”

You let your head fall back against the sheets as you hand yourself over to the sensations and Andrew’s gaining skill. The moment right before the fall is the most intimidating: the intense pressure makes you feel like you’re going to piss yourself, and you’re afraid you’re going to break if you tip over the ledge. As a younger woman you’d make your lovers stop at this point. But now you let go and embrace the dizzying high and the fierce fall when hot liquid floods your trembling upper inner thighs. Andrew pulls out his fingers and when you open your eyes to look at him, you see him staring at your pussy in fascination. You want to tell him that he did well but you can only giggle, and he looks up at you with a frown between his eyebrows.

“’s good,” you manage to pant, “’s good, baby.”

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, looking a little unsure about what to do next. You want to ask him if he’s okay because you have a feeling he could be put off by the mess, but before you have regained control of your tongue he dives back down, sucking your clit between his lips. You wail in surprise and over-stimulation, your legs shake and your hips start to writhe. Andrew slips his arms underneath and around your thighs, his hands meeting and locking on your lower belly. You’re trapped with him ruthlessly sucking your clit and you just have to take it. You try to tell him that you can’t, but you can’t form words and besides, you want it, you want him to take control and force another orgasm out of you, you want him to turn you into jelly. So you beat the back of your head against the mattress, pull his hair, and surrender to him. When your second orgasm approaches and you start to thrust again, Andrew growls before the muscles of his arms flex so hard that the veins protrude through the skin and he drags you over onto your side. You keen as you bend over, curled up with his head in your arms, his arms still locking you against him even as you shake and cry out your climax. Only when you manage to stammer stop does he let go of you, panting and wild-eyed.

You roll over onto your back and try to steady your breathing between the involuntary giggles. Andrew sits up slowly and regards you curiously.

“One more?”

“No!” you almost yell, and his eyes narrow although a smile plays on his lips.

“No?”

“I can’t… Jesus fucking Christ, Andrew, I can’t.”

“I could.”

“I’m not as tough as you,” you sigh as you rub your face, your fingers continuing through your hair. “That was… that was intense.”

He lays down next to you and wipes at his chin, and you turn your head towards him.

“Was it very messy?”

“A little. But it was hot.”

“Yeah?” you smile. “You liked it?”

He nods, and you lift your head a little to signal that you want a kiss. He obediently dips down and presses his lips to yours, and you get to taste the salty moss of yourself.

“Mmm,” you hum and lick your lips.

“You sure two is enough?” Andrew looks almost concerned but you sense there’s a good-natured taunt hidden in his question.

“Definitely, when the first one was a squirt,” you let him know, now getting aware of how the wet of your thighs is cooling down.

“Is that different?”

“For me it is.”

He seems happy with that, and rolls over onto his back with a satisfied sigh. You let yourself rest for a while before you start to feel uncomfortable: both the sheets and you are wet.

“I gotta clean myself up, and change the sheets,” you let him know. “Are you staying the night?”

He hesitates, biting his lip as he stares at the ceiling. You guess he has business to attend to, if not already tonight then probably tomorrow morning.

“I have work tomorrow so I need to sleep, but I don’t mind if you stay,” you add, and he turns his head to look at you. The warm light from the bedside lamp reflects in his dark eyes.

“I’d like to stay.”

You smile at him. “Okay. I’ll grab a quick shower, then you can have one while I change the sheets?”

He nods, and you get up, a little wobbly on your feet at first but then finding your footing and making your way to the bathroom. You shower quickly and when you come back, Andrew has stripped the bed and is folding his clothes neatly. You stop and stare at him for a moment: his broad, strong back, those butt cheeks that almost make you blush despite never having cared about a man’s ass before, strong legs, arms that could crush you if he wanted to.

And yet, he touches you so softly when you thank him for helping out with the bed.

“I didn’t want to open your cupboards and dig through them for sheets,” he says, like he owns you an explanation for not having finished the job. You smile warmly and press a kiss to his lips.

"Hold on."

You tear your lips from Andrew's, gasp for breath, then roll over in bed and reach for your bedside drawer. Opening it and fumbling inside it without seeing, you frown when you can't feel the telltale plastic wrapper of a condom.

"Fuck..." You get up on your elbows and scoot closer to the edge of the bed so you can see into the drawer. Andrew follows you, kissing your back and palming your ass cheeks.

"You're not helping, Andrew," you smile as you look for the one thing that you need to go further. He murmurs something unintelligible but looks up when you curse again.

"Wait, I think I have some in my purse."

You get ouf of bed, stark naked, and leave the bedroom in search for your purse, finding it on the couch in the living-room. Emptying it unceremoniously on the couch, you look over the contents and swear again. You go back to the bedroom and climb into bed.

"Bad news. I'm out of condoms."

Andrew stares at you for a split second before exhaling in frustration.

"Fuck."

"Tell me about it."

"I should've brought some but I didn't think..."

He showed up unannounced just as you were about to go to bed. Apologizing for the late hour and handing you a manila envelope with the rest of the money from the jewelry store job, he had nevertheless come in when you asked him to. You had been out a few times already and it had almost always ended with sex, but the last time hadn't, and you had been aching for it since then. It wasn't difficult to convince him to stay the night.

And now this.

"I didn't keep track, either." You could kick yourself. Your pussy is throbbing and you need it stretched out by that thick cock of his, but that's not happening now. You went to get tested together after only two dates (it was actually a pre-dinner activity that makes you laugh when you think about it) and both tests came back negative for everything, but you're not on birth control so condoms are still necessary. There is no need to mess around with Plan B or abortions. Both of you have been responsible enough to carry condoms, so the timing is really unfortunate for both of you.

Andrew sits up with a sigh.

"I can leave, if you want," he suggests in a low voice. "So you can get some sleep."

You frown at him. "Why would I want you to leave?"

"If we can't... have sex."

"Sex is more than just penetration," you remind him with a small grin, and his ears turn red. His eyes, however, are still fixed on you in a way which makes your face feel warm. You sit down next to him and put your hand on his knee.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you tell him in a low voice, and a small smile plays in the corner of his mouth before disappearing.

“Tell me… what you want,” he asks you. His eyes seem to darken as his tongue darts out to wet his lips nervously. “You want me to lick you?”

A shiver runs down your spine at the thought, but you have other plans.

“No,” you smile, “at least not yet. I want to suck your cock first.”

He actually swallows at that. Gently, you push him down on his back, laying down next to him and kissing him. His arms go around you, pulling you close, and you run your fingers through those charming curls of his. You take your time kissing him, knowing by now he likes it – you sometimes think this man could spend an entire night just kissing you – before you carefully disentangle your limbs from his, and start to kiss your way down his neck, nibbling at his Adam’s apple, sucking at his collarbone, playfully biting his nipple. You lick down his abs, smiling at him when your fingertips brushing down his side makes him twitch.

“Ticklish?”

“A little.” He seems a little huffy by this, but smiles shyly when you kiss his belly button. There is a delicate, almost imperceptible trail of light fuzz leading south, and now you follow it with your lips until you reach the rougher, dark coils of his pubic hair. You take a moment to settle more comfortably next to him before closing your fist around his girthy shaft. A surprised gasp escapes him, you see his abs tighten before they once again relax down into the bedding.

“Just relax,” you tell him softly before bending down to kiss the head of his cock. He sighs deeply and you take it as an invitation to go on. You start to lick him, trailing your tongue up and down the veins of his cock before closing your lips around the head. Andrew hums, and when you glance up at him you see his eyes are closed. His handsome features are almost wiped clean of his usual scowl, of which only a line between his brows remains. His hand finds your shoulder and strokes his, then runs up your neck to your head, cupping the back of it, fingers playing with your hair. You smile to yourself at how easily he surrendered himself to you, and decide to knock it up a notch.

You take as much of him as you can in your mouth, and start to bob your head. Andrew groans and his hand trembles on your scalp, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you away och push you down. You cup his balls and massage them gently, and when he starts to tremble you place your other arm over his hips to keep him still.

He throws his head back, gasps your name between shallow breaths, and it doesn’t take long before he cums in short spurts into your mouth. You swallow quickly and go on, despite his whimpers, your elbow pressing down harder to hold him still. His head shoots up from the bed and he stares at you with equal amounts shock and awe.

“What are you doing?” he whines, and you let go with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the red head of his throbbing member.

“You can do another one, right?” you ask sweetly, pumping him slowly. His lower lip quivers before he surrenders with a moan, head plopping back to the sheets, hands running over his face and through his hair. You grin victoriously and go back to sucking him, this time focusing on the head with your hand helping out. Your pussy is dripping at this point, ready for him, but you rework that hunger into the act of giving. Keeping an eye on him, you relish in having him completely at your mercy like this, and you wonder briefly if any woman has ever had him so defenseless. He’s not just naked in all of his muscled glory; he’s utterly exposed, submitted, raw.

Is it power that makes you feel so exhilarated, or is it the knowledge that this man, with his fearsome reputation and tough outer shell, can still surrender himself like this? Be soft and vulnerable with someone?

You don’t know, and this is not the time to further contemplate on that. You double down on your efforts to make this unforgettable for him, and notice with satisfaction that his hands are fisting into the sheets. When he gets close, he grabs your wrist like he wants to pull you away, but he keeps you there, instead holding you so hard you know you’ll have a bruise tomorrow. Saliva and precum are dripping down your chin but you let it, focusing instead on taking him deeper and deeper. You can’t take him down your throat but you’re pretty good at controlling your gag reflex, and even if it’s difficult with a cock as thick as this, you do pretty well because you can see his abs flexing and feel his strong thighs work underneath you. He’s moaning quite loudly now and when grab his balls again, he shouts out and your mouth fills with cum so fast that you start coughing. You use your fingers to rub the tears from your eyes, then the back of your hand to wipe your mouth. You stretch out next to him, your face at the level of Andrew’s. He’s staring up at the ceiling, panting wildly, and when you cup his cheek and turn his face to his, he flinches. His eyes are wide open and glazed over.

“One more, right?” you query softly, feeling a little sadistic but also more determined at ever to rock his world.

“What?” His voice is small and alarmed.

“You can do one more, can’t you, Andrew?”

“I… no, I don’t think… one more?”

You pass your thumb over his lips. “One more.”

He looks almost scared, so you press a kiss to his lips.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll stop. But if you want me to, I’ll suck your dick once more.”

He swallows audibly and you hear from the sound that his mouth is dry. Then he nods.

“Say it, baby.”

“One more.” It’s only a whisper, but it’s laced with a quiet confidence, and you kiss him once more before returning to your work.

“You can push my head down if you want to,” you tell him.

“Won’t you choke?”

“I won’t choke,” you promise him before taking his cock into your mouth once more. Your tongue and jaw muscles are starting to feel strained but you power on through, parrying his jutting hips and twitching legs. He’s only now starting to verbalize his pleasure, cursing under his breath between the moans and groans. His feet strain against the sheets and he once again finds fistfuls of bedding to hold on to. You employ every trick in your book – not that they are that many – and ignore the ache beginning to present in your lower jaw. Your throat starts to feel strained but you still take him as deep as you can, humming low when he releases one hand from the bedding to hold your head still. Your eyes tear up again but you focus on your breathing and let him hold you there.

“God, baby…” Andrew is almost sobbing. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He releases you to let his cock slide out of your mouth. You take a couple of deep breaths, enjoy his hand petting your hair, and then you start to pump his cock again, bending down to lick it. You reach up to tweak a nipple and Andrew’s entire body squirms. Oh, so you like that? You do it again, switching nipples, and are rewarded by a whine. His fist is almost as white as the sheet and the hand on your head pushes you down again, forcing you to take more and more of his length in your mouth. Only when you push back does he ease up on you, but when you start to bob your head down and up he can’t keep up anymore, releasing your head to instead hold onto whatever part of you he can. His chest is heaving with every breath he barely manages to draw, and his stomach is sucked in with the intensity of it, each abdominal muscle tightly drawn. You glance up and see that his head is thrown back, neck muscles stretched taut as he pants. You pinch a nipple and squeeze his balls, and when you taste the first bitterness of semen, you pull your hand back from his chest, curl your pointer finger and thumb around the base of his cock, and squeeze carefully. Andrew’s reaction is immediate: he shakes underneath you as you milk him dry, swallowing every drop, and when you finally release his cock he’s still trembling.

You lay down next to him and pepper his shoulder with kisses. He doesn’t know but you aim for a freckle each time, wishing you could kiss him for each little dot he has on his body. You then let him catch his breath before you speak.

“You okay?”

He swallows tightly.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Yes.”

You smile and caress his cheek, gently making him turn his face towards you. He looks stunned, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man look at you like this.

“Told you there were more ways of having sex than penetration,” you chuckle. Andrew grins, showing his crooked front teeth that you so rarely get to see. It makes him look even more boyish. Normal.

“What about… you?” he asks carefully.

“Oh, I fully expect you to reciprocate, as soon as you’re up for it,” you let him know with a complacent sigh as you roll over onto your back and put your hands behind your head.

“I don’t know if I can do as well,” he mumbles hesitantly, but you find his hand on the mattress and pat it reassuringly.

“You’ll do great no matter what.”

You give him time to rest even though your pussy is throbbing by now. To his credit, he doesn’t need as much time as you had feared. When he rolls onto his side and kisses your cheek, his hand immediately slides down between your thighs. He exhales hotly against your cheek when he draws a finger through your wet folds.

“You’re very wet.”

“I am,” you acknowledge with your lower lip caught between your teeth. “Want you badly, Andrew.”

“Tell me what to do.” His lips are on your neck, the raspy stubble on his upper lip making chills run down your spine and the hairs on your arms stand.

“You ever made a woman squirt?” you ask. He stops his ministrations and raises his head to look at you.

“No.”

“You want to try?”

“Isn’t that… very messy?” He looks reluctant, and you choose your words carefully.

“It doesn’t have to be. I can get a towel. And it’s not always like it is in porn, if that’s what you think.”

“No?” He seems to realize that he’s been had, and averts his gaze with a sheepish smile.

“Hey.” You run your fingers through his hair, ending with a fond tug. “Girls watch porn, too.”

“Whatever for?” He seems genuinely surprised, and you laugh.

“To get off, of course!”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, propping his head on his hand, elbow bent on the mattress, so you go on:

“I don’t squirt like a fucking lawn sprinkler. It’s more like a… a gush. But if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly and his lips purse as he regards you. You notice that his forefinger and thumb tapping against each other, and you give him a reassuring smile. Eventually, he nods.

“I want to try.”

Your pussy clenches, and you lean in for a kiss. Andrew greedily pushes his tongue into your mouth, pauses when he tastes his own cum before sucking your tongue into his mouth and placing his hand on the back of your hand to bring you closer. You have to tear your mouth from his to be able to remind him of the towel.

“Just lemme get it…”

“No.” He puts his strong arm over your upper body. “I don’t care. You’re not leaving this bed.”

You look at him in amazement before he kisses you again, and then he gives you the same treatment as you did earlier: kisses his way down your body, biting your nipples, licking your tummy, kissing your navel, before arriving between your thighs. You separate your legs and he licks his lips when he sees you open up before him. He takes a first, tentative taste of you, tongue dipping inside you before running from your slick hole to your throbbing clit, and you hum from pleasure.

“Tell me what to do?” His breath is warm against your skin and you need a second to answer. You get up on your elbows hold up your hand, first and second fingers together and slightly crooked.

“Do this with your fingers, and put them inside me. A little bit in, on the front, there’s a slightly spongy texture. Keep rubbing that while you lick me, and it should be a piece of cake.”

Andrew looks at your fingers doubtfully, and you give him an encouraging smile.

“Here, let me help you. Right hand?”

He nods, and you reach for his hand on your thigh, crooking his fingers into the right position and bringing them to your pussy. He tries to cram them in immediately but you hiss and grab his wrist.

“Gently.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, letting you slide his fingers through your folds before pushing them against your dripping hole. You moan when they glide in easy, and you lay back down.

“Now lick me, baby.”

His tongue is on your clit as he carefully pushes his fingers deeper, and you hum approvingly.

“Like that, yeah…” You move your pelvis, meet his fingers and moan when he finds the right spot.

“There, right there, stay on there!”

He juts at the spot, forcefully, and you hiss again.

“Gently, baby, like this.” You show the movement with your own fingers and he mimics it, and you melt against the bedding.

“Oh my God…!”

He stays on your G-spot, working it with purpose while his tongue swirls on your clit, and you guide him with moaned praise and the occasional instruction that he follows closely. You find that having to tell him what to do and him actually doing it is surprisingly sexy: you had anticipated that it would take focus away from your pleasure. But it feels good and you attribute it to the man more than anything else: being with Andrew just makes you feel good in every way.

“Getting close,” you pant when you start to feel the pleasure gathering, the pressure rising. “Don’t stop, Andrew, don’t stop!”

You let your head fall back against the sheets as you hand yourself over to the sensations and Andrew’s gaining skill. The moment right before the fall is the most intimidating: the intense pressure makes you feel like you’re going to piss yourself, and you’re afraid you’re going to break if you tip over the ledge. As a younger woman you’d make your lovers stop at this point. But now you let go and embrace the dizzying high and the fierce fall when hot liquid floods your trembling upper inner thighs. Andrew pulls out his fingers and when you open your eyes to look at him, you see him staring at your pussy in fascination. You want to tell him that he did well but you can only giggle, and he looks up at you with a frown between his eyebrows.

“’s good,” you manage to pant, “’s good, baby.”

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, looking a little unsure about what to do next. You want to ask him if he’s okay because you have a feeling he could be put off by the mess, but before you have regained control of your tongue he dives back down, sucking your clit between his lips. You wail in surprise and over-stimulation, your legs shake and your hips start to writhe. Andrew slips his arms underneath and around your thighs, his hands meeting and locking on your lower belly. You’re trapped with him ruthlessly sucking your clit and you just have to take it. You try to tell him that you can’t, but you can’t form words and besides, you want it, you want him to take control and force another orgasm out of you, you want him to turn you into jelly. So you beat the back of your head against the mattress, pull his hair, and surrender to him. When your second orgasm approaches and you start to thrust again, Andrew growls before the muscles of his arms flex so hard that the veins protrude through the skin and he drags you over onto your side. You keen as you bend over, curled up with his head in your arms, his arms still locking you against him even as you shake and cry out your climax. Only when you manage to stammer stop does he let go of you, panting and wild-eyed.

You roll over onto your back and try to steady your breathing between the involuntary giggles. Andrew sits up slowly and regards you curiously.

“One more?”

“No!” you almost yell, and his eyes narrow although a smile plays on his lips.

“No?”

“I can’t… Jesus fucking Christ, Andrew, I can’t.”

“I could.”

“I’m not as tough as you,” you sigh as you rub your face, your fingers continuing through your hair. “That was… that was intense.”

He lays down next to you and wipes at his chin, and you turn your head towards him.

“Was it very messy?”

“A little. But it was hot.”

“Yeah?” you smile. “You liked it?”

He nods, and you lift your head a little to signal that you want a kiss. He obediently dips down and presses his lips to yours, and you get to taste the salty moss of yourself.

“Mmm,” you hum and lick your lips.

“You sure two is enough?” Andrew looks almost concerned but you sense there’s a good-natured taunt hidden in his question.

“Definitely, when the first one was a squirt,” you let him know, now getting aware of how the wet of your thighs is cooling down.

“Is that different?”

“For me it is.”

He seems happy with that, and rolls over onto his back with a satisfied sigh. You let yourself rest for a while before you start to feel uncomfortable: both the sheets and you are wet.

“I gotta clean myself up, and change the sheets,” you let him know. “Are you staying the night?”

He hesitates, biting his lip as he stares at the ceiling. You guess he has business to attend to, if not already tonight then probably tomorrow morning.

“I have work tomorrow so I need to sleep, but I don’t mind if you stay,” you add, and he turns his head to look at you. The warm light from the bedside lamp reflects in his dark eyes.

“I’d like to stay.”

You smile at him. “Okay. I’ll grab a quick shower, then you can have one while I change the sheets?”

He nods, and you get up, a little wobbly on your feet at first but then finding your footing and making your way to the bathroom. You shower quickly and when you come back, Andrew has stripped the bed and is folding his clothes neatly. You stop and stare at him for a moment: his broad, strong back, those butt cheeks that almost make you blush despite never having cared about a man’s ass before, strong legs, arms that could crush you if he wanted to.

And yet, he touches you so softly when you thank him for helping out with the bed.

“I didn’t want to open your cupboards and dig through them for sheets,” he says, like he owns you an explanation for not having finished the job. You smile warmly and press a kiss to his lips.

You gave yourself one night to be embarrassed.

One.

That felt generous.

You spent it staring at the ceiling in your room, replaying the same four seconds until they became unbearable from repetition alone.

Jack’s thumb at the corner of your mouth. His voice, low in the kitchen.

You had frosting.

The way he had leaned in. The way he had stopped. The way he had said, You should take the rest, like the two of you had been discussing cake and not the fact that you had been standing close enough to count the darker flecks in his eyes.

By morning, your pride had staged a full recovery.

Or something close enough to one.

The routine would not change.

That was important.

You and Jack walked to campus together because you always walked to campus together. You shared coffee because the coffee pot was communal. You argued over lectures because medical school was designed by people who hated joy, and someone had to be held responsible.

None of that meant anything. It had meant nothing before. It would mean nothing now.

That was the story, and you intended to tell it convincingly.

Jack was already in the kitchen when you came out. He stood at the counter in a faded dark T-shirt, one hand braced beside the coffee pot, his hair still damp from the shower and curling at the ends.

He looked up when your door opened.

You looked back.

One second.

Maybe less.

Long enough for the kitchen to remember what you were refusing to.

His thumb.

Your mouth.

The almost.

You moved toward the cabinet for a mug.

Then you looked at him. “Morning, Abbot.”

Jack’s voice came a beat too late. “Morning.”

There.

Normal.

Civil.

Terrible.

You stepped closer to the counter and reached for the coffee pot.

Jack did not move right away.

The space was narrow enough that you had to pass close to him. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that the warmth of his arm registered through the sleeve of your cardigan.

You poured coffee into your travel mug.

Carefully.

Because you were a normal person doing normal things before a normal day of medical school.

Jack watched your hand. Then your face. Then, briefly, your mouth.

You screwed the lid onto your mug and pretended not to see it.

Jack reached for his keys from the counter. “Ready?”

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

His eyes held yours for half a second too long.

Then he nodded once. “Okay.”

It should not have sounded careful.

It did.

You went first into the hall.

Jack locked the door behind you.

The deadbolt slid into place with a clean, final sound, and for one stupid moment, you thought of the apartment behind you. The kitchen. The cake. The exact place where he had almost kissed you and then decided not to.

You started down the stairs before that thought could finish forming.

Jack followed a few steps behind.

He always did.

You always walked down first because the stairs in the building were narrow and uneven, and Jack took them at his own pace. You had learned not to hover. He had learned not to accuse you of hovering when you weren’t.

Routine.

That was all.

Outside, the morning was gray and damp, the sidewalk dark from rain that had fallen sometime before dawn. The air smelled like wet leaves, exhaust, and coffee.

Jack fell into step beside you without asking.

He always did.

You always let him.

The sidewalk was the same. The damp September air was the same. The cracked stretch of pavement outside the old pharmacy was the same.

The only thing different was the amount of effort it took not to look at his mouth.

You considered that a private failing and refused to document it.

For two blocks, neither of you said anything.

That was not unusual. You and Jack were perfectly capable of walking in silence. You had done it before quizzes, after bad labs, during mornings when coffee had not yet made either of you fit for human interaction.

But this silence felt aware of itself.

Jack’s shoulder brushed yours when the sidewalk narrowed near a row of trash cans set out at the curb.

Barely.

Accidental.

Your hand tightened around your mug anyway.

Jack noticed.

He did not say anything.

That was worse.

At the next crosswalk, a car rolled too far into the turn lane.

Jack’s hand came up automatically, stopping just short of your elbow.

Not touching.

Close enough that your skin seemed to register the space where his fingers should have been.

The car stopped.

Jack’s hand dropped.

You crossed the street.

Your pride remained upright through sheer spite.

Halfway across, Jack said your last name.

You looked over at him before you could decide not to. His eyes were on your face, narrowed slightly, searching.

You tightened your fingers around your mug. “What?”

Jack held your gaze for a moment.

Then his jaw shifted. “Nothing.”

Liar.

You looked forward again. “Compelling.”

Jack did not answer.

Good.

That was fine.

You did not need him to answer. You did not need him to explain why he kept looking at you like something had gone wrong when he was the one who had stopped. You did not need anything from him before nine in the morning except shared rent, adequate coffee, and maybe Robby’s review packet if Jack had managed to get it.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. “Did Robby give you Singh’s review packet?”

Jack’s gaze flicked to you. “Not yet.”

You looked ahead. “Is he still bringing it?”

Jack kept walking beside you. “Later.”

You nodded once. “Good.”

Jack was quiet for half a step. “Good?”

You kept your eyes forward. “I like Robby.”

Jack looked at you.

You could feel it more than see it.

Jack’s voice came flatter than it needed to. “Oh?”

You took a sip of coffee and gave yourself one second to enjoy it.

You lowered your mug. “He’s useful.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “Useful.”

You kept your voice mild. “And friendly.”

Jack looked ahead. “Friendly.”

You added, “And charming.”

That did it.

Not much.

Jack did not stop walking. His expression did not change in any obvious way. But something in his jaw set, and his eyes moved away from you too quickly.

You looked forward before you could smile.

It should not have felt like winning.

It did anyway.

The medical building rose at the end of the block, ugly and gray and full of fluorescent lighting. Students moved through the front doors in tired clusters, clutching binders and coffee cups and whatever remained of their ambition.

You reached the entrance at the same time Jack did.

Your hand lifted toward the door.

So did his.

Your fingers almost met on the handle.

Both of you stopped.

Barely.

To anyone else, it would have looked like nothing. A mistimed reach. Two classmates trying to enter a building.

To you, it felt like the kitchen again.

His thumb.

Your mouth.

The space where a kiss should have gone.

Jack pulled his hand back first.

His voice was low. “Go ahead.”

Careful.

Decent.

Infuriating.

Your pride flared hot enough to burn through the last of your embarrassment.

You looked at him, smiled politely, and opened the door. “Thanks.”

Jack’s expression changed.

Not much.

Enough.

Then you stepped inside before he could say anything.

The lobby was bright and cold and crowded, and you were grateful for all of it. Noise gave you something to focus on. People gave you a reason not to look at him. The smell of burnt coffee from the student lounge gave you something to hate that was not yourself.

Jack followed you in.

You could feel him behind you.

Still.

Always.

Taylor waved from near the stairwell, binder tucked under one arm.

Taylor smiled when you approached. “There you are.”

You lifted your mug. “Barely.”

Taylor’s gaze moved from you to Jack, then back again.

You did not like the speed of her interest.

Jack’s voice came from behind you. “Don’t.”

Taylor’s eyebrows rose. “I haven’t said anything.”

Jack stopped beside you. “You were preparing to.”

Taylor’s smile widened. “I love being known.”

You walked toward the lecture hall before either of them could make your morning worse.

Inside, Taylor slid into your usual row. You took the seat beside her. Jack ended up behind you because Evan’s backpack occupied the seat at the end and medical students treated personal belongings like territorial flags.

Practical.

Normal.

Still, when you opened your binder, you were aware of Jack at your back.

Every shift of his chair. Every turn of his page. Every quiet breath he took when Dr. Singh walked in and the room settled.

You wrote the date at the top of your notes.

Then you wrote:

CELLULAR INJURY

Your pen hovered.

For no reason at all, you thought of Jack’s voice reading from A Lady’s Undoing.

Lower than usual.

Rougher than it should have been.

His hand found the heavy fall of her skirt—

Your pen slipped.

A black line cut straight through the title.

Taylor leaned closer. “You okay?”

You capped your pen with unnecessary force. “Fine.”

Behind you, Jack’s chair creaked.

You did not turn around.

You were fine.

You were normal.

You were entirely unaffected.

And if Jack Abbot believed that by the end of the day, then one of you deserved an award.

You were not picky about which.

Jack knew, by the third minute of Singh’s lecture, that he was in trouble.

Not academic trouble.

Academic trouble, at least, made sense. Academic trouble came with causes and consequences. A wrong answer. A missed distinction. A term he should have remembered but did not.

This was worse.

This was you sitting one row in front of him, writing notes like you had not nearly undone him in the kitchen the night before.

Your shoulders were squared. Your pen moved steadily. Your coffee sat at the corner of your desk, lid turned in the exact direction you always turned it because you were particular about small things and hostile when accused of being particular about small things.

You looked normal.

Jack did not believe you.

He had seen the black line cut through the top of your page. He had seen Taylor lean toward you. He had heard your answer.

Fine.

That one word had landed like a door closing.

Jack looked down at his own notes. He had written the date. Then nothing.

Singh was saying something about reversible injury and cellular swelling. Jack knew that because he knew pathology, not because he was paying any useful amount of attention.

His attention was in front of him.

On the back of your neck. On the place where a few pieces of hair had slipped loose and brushed the collar of your cardigan. On your hand, when you lifted it to tuck those pieces back behind your ear. On your mouth, in memory, because apparently his mind had become determined to ruin him.

You had frosting.

Jack tightened his grip around his pen.

He should not have touched you.

No.

That was not true.

He should not have touched you like that and then stopped without explaining himself.

That was the part that had followed him into bed. Not stopping. Stopping had been right. Stopping had been the only decent thing left to do after he had come home from a date with someone else and brought you cake like a confession he had not meant to make.

But he had watched your expression change.

He had watched you go still beneath his thumb. He had watched your eyes lift to his.

Then he had stopped.

And now you were sitting in front of him like nothing had happened. Like he was the only one still standing in that kitchen.

Jack’s jaw shifted.

Taylor’s pen rolled off her desk.

You caught it before it hit the floor.

Your hand moved fast, clean, automatic. Taylor whispered something. You passed the pen back without turning around.

Singh continued across the front of the room, chalk dust on one sleeve, her voice sharp enough to keep most of the class upright.

Jack made himself write down hydropic change.

Then, beneath it, for no reason he could defend, he wrote:

Robby — review packet later

He stared at the words.

Useful.

Friendly.

Charming.

Jack crossed the line out so hard the paper nearly tore.

Evan leaned back from the row ahead and glanced at him.

Jack looked at him.

Evan turned around again immediately.

Good.

At least someone in this room had survival instincts.

Singh asked a question from the front of the room.

Your hand went up.

So did Jack’s.

Both of you stopped.

It was small. Barely anything. The same old rhythm. The same old fight for the answer. The same reflex that had made half the class treat the two of you like an ongoing sport.

Except this time, when your hand paused in the air, Jack thought about your fingers almost meeting his on the door handle.

He lowered his hand first.

You answered without looking back. “Cellular swelling is the earliest manifestation of reversible injury. Failure of ATP-dependent ion pumps leads to sodium and water influx.”

Singh nodded from the front. “And the morphology?”

You added, “Hydropic change.”

Singh turned back toward the board. “Good.”

Jack watched your shoulders settle.

He should have been irritated that you got there first.

He was not.

That irritated him more.

Taylor leaned toward you and whispered something too low for him to catch. Your mouth curved.

Small.

Brief.

Controlled.

Jack looked down at his paper before he could think too much about the word controlled.

By the time the lecture ended, his notes were technically complete and functionally useless. He had written down the right terms. He had underlined the right headings. He had copied the flowchart Singh drew on the board.

He had also spent seventy-five minutes aware of every time you shifted in your seat.

That seemed medically concerning.

Students began packing around him in a rush of binders snapping shut and chairs scraping tile.

You stood in front of him.

Jack looked up before he could stop himself.

Your cardigan slipped slightly off one shoulder as you reached for your bag. You pulled it back into place without thinking.

Jack thought about the fact that he had once been trained to notice blood loss, breath sounds, exit routes, pressure changes, and a tremor in someone’s hand before they went into shock.

Now he was noticing the collar of your shirt.

Pathetic.

You turned, your binder against your chest, and found him looking.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then your expression smoothed into something mild enough to be insulting.

You glanced down. “You dropped your pen.”

Jack glanced down.

His pen was on the floor near his boot.

He had no memory of dropping it.

He bent to pick it up. “Thanks.”

You nodded once. “Wouldn’t want your notes to suffer.”

Jack straightened. “My notes are fine.”

Your gaze flicked to the page on his desk.

To the violently crossed-out line.

Then back to his face.

A tiny shift moved through your expression. Not a smile. Worse.

The knowledge of one.

“I’m sure they are,” you said.

Jack knew, with absolute certainty, that you had seen Robby’s name.

Before he could answer, Taylor appeared at your shoulder with a look that made Jack immediately tired.

Taylor looked between you and him. “Are we doing lunch or are you two going to continue whatever this is in the hallway?”

You adjusted your binder against your chest. “There is no this.”

Jack reached for his bag. “No.”

Taylor’s eyebrows lifted. “Convincing.”

You looked at her. “Lunch.”

Taylor smiled. “Great.”

You started toward the door with Taylor beside you.

Jack watched you go.

He told himself not to.

He did anyway.

At the doorway, you glanced back.

Not fully.

Just enough.

Your eyes met his over the movement of the room.

One second.

Maybe less.

Then you looked away and disappeared into the hall.

Jack stood beside his desk with his bag in one hand and his pen in the other.

Fine.

You were fine.

Apparently.

Jack looked down at the crossed-out line in his notes.

Robby’s name was still visible beneath the ink.

Jack closed the binder.

Harder than necessary.

By the time you got back to the apartment, Jack was already there.

His shoes were by the door, his keys in the bowl, his bag on the floor beside the couch. He sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly, pathology notes spread across the coffee table in a neat arrangement that looked personally judgmental.

He looked up when you came in.

You closed the door behind you and held your keys too tightly in your hand.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Hey.”

One syllable.

Quiet.

Careful.

Terrible.

You dropped your keys into the bowl beside his. “Hey, Abbot.”

His expression did not change.

Not enough.

But his eyes held on you for half a second before he looked back down at his notes.

You told yourself that felt like winning.

You also told yourself that winning did not feel this much like being punched directly beneath the ribs.

You were already moving toward the hallway when you spoke. “I’m going to change.”

Jack’s pen paused against the page. “Okay.”

That was all.

Okay.

Normal.

You went into your room and shut the door behind you before your face could do anything unfortunate.

For a moment, you just stood there.

Your bag slid off your shoulder and landed beside your desk with a dull thud. Your room looked exactly the same as it had that morning. Bed unmade. Textbooks stacked too high on the floor. A Lady’s Undoing half-hidden beneath your sweater on the chair, as if fabric could undo evidence.

You looked at it.

Then you looked away.

Absolutely not.

You changed out of your jeans and cardigan with unnecessary efficiency, tugging on soft sleep shorts and a faded T-shirt from undergrad, the one with a cracked logo across the front and a hem that had lost any interest in structure.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

Not chosen for anyone.

You paused in front of your mirror.

Then you rolled your eyes at yourself.

They were shorts.

It was a shirt.

You lived here.

Jack Abbot could survive fabric.

You grabbed your binder, two pens, and the last of your pride, then opened your door.

Jack was still on the couch.

His head lifted when you came back into the living room.

This time, his gaze dropped.

Not far.

Not long.

But enough.

Your skin noticed before your mind could file a formal complaint.

You walked to the couch anyway.

Routine.

That was the point.

The couch had two sides. You had a side. Jack had a side. The coffee table sat between you and academic ruin. Nothing about that had changed because of one almost-kiss in the kitchen.

You sat on your usual end, folding one leg beneath you and opening your binder across your lap.

Jack watched you settle in.

His mouth twitched faintly.

The small movement did something stupid to your chest.

You looked down at your notes before he could see it.

For several minutes, the only sounds were the scrape of your pen, the turn of Jack’s pages, and the radiator knocking once in the corner like it had opinions.

You made it through half a page on necrosis before the silence started to feel less like silence and more like a dare.

Jack reached for his mug on the coffee table. “Singh’s going to make the exam miserable.”

You kept your eyes on your binder. “That is her love language.”

Jack took a drink of coffee. “She has one?”

You wrote down coagulative necrosis in the margin. “Cruelty, mostly.”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That explains the review packet.”

You glanced over. “Robby’s still bringing it?”

Jack’s jaw shifted once before he answered. “He said he would.”

You looked back down before your smile could get too obvious. “Good.”

Jack was quiet.

Too quiet.

You could feel him looking at you again.

It was getting irritating.

It was getting effective.

You turned a page in your binder. “Are you planning to pass this exam by staring at me?”

Jack’s pen stopped.

There.

Maybe that was too much.

Maybe you should have left it alone.

Maybe pride was a disease, and you were in an advanced stage.

Jack’s voice came low. “Are you planning to pass it by noticing?”

Your hand stilled against the page.

The air changed.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to name.

Just enough.

You made yourself look at him. Jack’s eyes were on yours, steady and unreadable in a way that made your pulse do something embarrassing.

You lifted your chin. “I notice everything.”

His gaze held.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “I know.”

Two words.

Nothing else.

No smile. No easy deflection. No sharp little end to the moment.

Your throat went dry.

You looked away first.

Not because he won.

Because someone had to be responsible.

Obviously.

You wrote liquefactive necrosis beneath the heading with the kind of force that suggested pathology had personally offended you.

Jack went back to his notes.

Or pretended to.

You could hear the lie in the stillness.

After another minute, he leaned forward and slid one of his pages toward you across the coffee table.

You looked at it. “What’s this?”

Jack tapped the margin with his pen. “Singh’s pattern from last year.”

You leaned forward despite yourself.

The page was covered in Jack’s handwriting, clean and cramped, with arrows connecting mechanisms to morphology to likely question phrasing. He had underlined three terms twice and added a small note near the bottom:

If she asks “earliest,” don’t overthink it. Swelling.

You stared at the note.

Something in your chest pulled tight.

Jack cleared his throat. “Robby gave me one of the old outlines last week.”

You looked at him. “You had this already?”

Jack’s fingers shifted around his pen. “Some of it.”

“And you were waiting to share?” you asked.

His eyes lifted. “I’m sharing now.”

You should have made a joke.

You should have called him selfish. You should have accused him of academic sabotage. You should have said something easy, something normal, something that would keep both of you exactly where you belonged.

Instead, you looked back down at the paper.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “This is helpful.”

Jack did not answer right away.

When he did, his voice matched yours. “Good.”

That word.

Again.

Your pen pressed too hard into the page.

You slid the outline closer to your binder. “I’m still taking Robby’s packet.”

Jack’s expression flattened.

There.

Your pride stretched in the warmth of it.

He turned a page in his binder. “Your answer in lecture was good.”

Your pen paused.

You looked over at him.

Jack did not look away.

The compliment sat between you, simple and clean and somehow worse than flirting.

You tried to make your voice light. “I know.”

His mouth curved faintly. “There she is.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Barely.

But Jack heard it.

His eyes changed.

Not much.

Enough to make you want to leave the room and stay exactly where you were at the same time.

You looked back down at your binder. “Don’t get sentimental. It makes me uncomfortable.”

Jack’s voice softened by half a degree. “I’ll try not to.”

You hated him.

You did not hate him.

You hated that distinction most of all.

A knock sounded at the door.

You startled.

Jack’s gaze stayed on you for one extra second before he looked toward the hall.

The knock came again, followed by Robby’s voice through the door.

“Open up, Abbot. I come bearing academic salvation.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Jack saw that too.

When his eyes opened, they were already on you.

You lifted your brows. “Useful.”

Jack stood, his notes sliding slightly across the coffee table. “Don’t start.”

You leaned back against the couch, binder still open on your lap. “I’m just saying. Useful, friendly, charming.”

Jack looked down at you as he passed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Your answer came before you even thought about it. “You love it.”

Jack stopped for half a second.

The words landed.

You knew they did because his face went still in that particular way, the one that meant he had felt something and was immediately furious about it.

Then Robby knocked a third time.

“Jack,” Robby called through the door, “I can hear you emotionally withholding from here.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Jack walked to the door and opened it.

Robby stood in the hall with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray.

He looked at Jack first.

Then he looked past him at you on the couch.

His smile warmed. “There’s my favorite second year.”

Jack’s voice went flat. “No.”

Robby stepped inside anyway. “Good to see you too.”

Jack shut the door behind him. “You brought the packet?”

Robby looked offended. “No hello. No gratitude. Just business.”

Jack held out his hand. “The packet.”

Robby ignored him and turned toward you with the coffee tray lifted slightly.

His smile warmed. “How’s it going, gorgeous?”

Jack went still.

Not much.

But enough.

You looked up from your binder before you could stop yourself.

Robby’s grin widened like he knew exactly what he had done.

You let your mouth curve anyway. “That depends.”

Robby crossed the living room. “On?”

You glanced at the coffee tray. “Whether one of those is for me.”

Robby held one cup out to you. “Obviously.”

You took it from him, letting your fingers close around the warm cup. “Then it’s going better.”

Jack’s eyes moved to your face.

You felt them immediately.

Dangerous.

Stupid.

Effective.

Robby’s smile softened at the edges. “Good.”

Jack followed him into the living room. “There are two coffees.”

Robby glanced back. “Good eye.”

Jack looked at the tray. “There are three people here.”

Robby’s smile widened. “And yet.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Jack saw that too.

You tucked the coffee beside your binder. “Did you bring the review packet?”

Robby tapped the stack beneath his arm. “Singh review packet, old exam-style questions, and a few notes from last year.”

Jack held out his hand again. “Give them here.”

Robby looked at you. “He’s always like this?”

You glanced at Jack, then back at Robby. “Worse before coffee.”

Robby looked pointedly at the tray. “A tragic problem with an obvious solution.”

Jack’s voice went flat. “Robby.”

Robby handed you the top packet instead. “You get the good copy.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “They’re copies.”

Robby smiled. “Yours has better energy.”

You reached for the packet. “I’ll take whatever gives me the higher score.”

Robby placed it in your hand with a small bow. “Anything for a beautiful woman and the advancement of medical education.”

Jack’s jaw shifted.

You looked down at the packet before your smile could give you away.

It should not have felt good.

It did.

Not because you wanted Robby.

You knew that much.

It felt good because Jack was standing three feet away, watching someone flirt with you openly, easily, without touching your mouth and then stepping back like restraint was a virtue you were supposed to thank him for.

Your pride, already a little drunk on its own survival, lifted its chin.

You flipped open the packet. “These are Singh’s questions?”

Robby came around the coffee table and sat on the edge, facing you directly. “Mostly her style. A few are old review questions from last year, but they cover the same material.”

Jack moved closer with the remaining copies in his hand.

You ignored his shift at your side with heroic effort.

Robby tapped the packet in your lap. “Page two is the one everyone gets wrong.”

You turned to the second page.

The questions were marked up in Robby’s handwriting, less neat than Jack’s but somehow more alive, full of arrows and circles and comments like Singh loves this and do not get cute here.

You stopped at a margin note near the middle. “Actually, can I ask you something?”

Robby brightened. “You can ask me anything.”

Jack looked at him.

Robby did not look back.

You pointed at the second question. “Here. Reversible injury. Did she mean hydropic change specifically, or is she using cellular swelling more generally?”

Robby leaned closer without hesitation. “Let me see.”

Jack’s grip tightened around the papers in his hand.

You noticed.

Barely.

Then Robby leaned over the packet, one hand braced on the coffee table, the other pointing at the margin note.

He was close.

Not indecently close.

Not intentionally close.

Just close in the practical way people got when they were reading the same page.

Still, the air shifted.

Jack had gone very still.

Robby tapped the page. “Here? She means cellular swelling generally, but Singh loves when you say hydropic change because it makes her feel like she trained you personally.”

You nodded, tracking his finger across the margin. “So earliest reversible injury is swelling.”

Robby pointed to the next line. “Exactly. If she asks morphology, say hydropic. If she asks mechanism, blame ATP.”

You wrote quickly in the margin. “Failure of sodium-potassium pumps.”

Robby’s voice warmed. “Beautiful.”

Jack looked at him.

Robby’s eyes flicked up.

For half a second, his smile sharpened.

Then Robby looked back at the page. “The answer. Obviously.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack’s voice came low. “Robby.”

Robby straightened only slightly. “What?”

Jack stared at him. “Move.”

Your pen paused.

Robby looked down at himself, then back at Jack. “Why?”

Jack’s expression did not change. “Because you’re in the way.”

Robby’s brows lifted. “Of what?”

Jack said nothing.

That was worse than an answer.

You looked down at the packet because the room had suddenly become too small for your face.

Robby’s grin appeared slowly. “Oh.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

Robby lifted both hands and leaned back. “Hostile learning environment.”

A quiet breath left you, almost a laugh.

Jack looked at you.

The almost-laugh disappeared too quickly.

Robby saw it.

Jack saw Robby see it.

You pretended to underline hydropic change with great focus.

Robby stood up. “I can leave you to it.”

Jack answered immediately. “Good.”

You looked up.

The word was out before your pride could stop and consult your dignity.

“You can stay for a minute,” you said.

Jack’s gaze cut to you.

Robby turned back slowly, delighted in a way that promised future problems.

You kept your face mild. “If you don’t have somewhere to be.”

Robby looked at Jack first. Then he looked at you. His smile softened into something warmer than teasing. “I’ve got a minute.”

Jack’s jaw shifted.

You moved your binder to make more room on the coffee table. “You brought the notes. You might as well explain them.”

Robby returned to the coffee table and sat on the edge again, facing you directly with the packet spread between his knees.

Jack said nothing.

That was almost worse.

Robby tapped the packet. “Page three.”

You leaned forward, pen ready. “Question three?”

Robby nodded. “Coagulative necrosis unless it’s brain.”

You wrote it down. “Liquefactive in the brain.”

Robby pointed at the next line. “Exactly. Question four is where she gets mean.”

Jack moved.

Not much.

Just enough.

He sat on the other end of the couch, exactly where he always sat.

Almost.

An inch closer than usual.

You noticed because apparently your body had become an expert witness against you.

Jack settled back, opened his own binder, and stretched one arm along the back of the couch.

Not touching you.

Not even close enough to claim that.

But close enough for the air behind your shoulders to change.

Your pen paused.

Robby’s eyes flicked to Jack’s arm. Then to you. Then back to Jack.

His mouth twitched.

Jack looked at his notes like nothing in the world was happening.

Liar.

You looked down at the packet before your face could betray you.

Robby tapped the question with one finger. “Anyway.”

His voice was innocent.

Too innocent.

You narrowed your eyes at the page. “You sound pleased.”

Robby looked at you. “Pathology excites me.”

Jack’s voice came dry from beside you. “That’s not what’s exciting you.”

Robby’s eyebrows lifted.

Your head turned before you could stop it.

Jack kept his eyes on his binder.

For one second, nobody said anything.

Then Robby smiled slowly. “Careful, Abbot.”

Jack turned a page. “Teach the notes.”

You looked back at the packet, but your pulse had picked up.

Not because Jack was touching you.

He wasn’t.

That was the problem.

He was close enough for you to feel the shape of the choice. Close enough to remind you that he could touch you if he wanted to. Close enough to make you wonder whether he wanted to. Close enough to make you furious that wondering still mattered.

Robby, apparently thrilled to be alive, leaned forward and pointed at the next question. “Mitochondrial swelling, membrane blebs, ribosomal detachment.”

You forced yourself to focus. “Reversible injury.”

Robby nodded. “Good.”

Jack’s arm shifted slightly along the back of the couch.

Still not touching.

Your shoulder knew anyway.

Robby saw your pen stall.

Jack saw Robby see it.

The room became unbearable in a way that was technically no one’s fault.

Robby’s smile warmed. “Beautiful.”

Jack looked up.

Robby held up one hand. “The answer.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack’s gaze moved to your mouth.

Briefly.

Not briefly enough.

You looked down hard enough that the words on the page blurred for a second.

Robby tapped the packet again. “Question five.”

You cleared your throat. “Cellular swelling from ATP depletion, loss of membrane integrity if it progresses, calcium influx, mitochondrial damage.”

Robby pointed at you. “That’s my favorite second year.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “Robby.”

Robby’s grin widened. “What? I’m encouraging academic excellence.”

You looked down at the packet.

You were not smiling.

You were absolutely not smiling.

Jack’s arm remained stretched behind you, a quiet line of heat you refused to acknowledge.

For several minutes, the three of you went through the questions.

Technically studying.

Mostly studying.

Enough studying that, if questioned under oath, you could have defended the session as academically productive.

But underneath every answer, every page turn, every correction, something kept catching.

Robby said something too warm.

Jack went too still.

You smiled a little too long.

Jack saw it.

You knew he saw it.

You wanted him to see it.

That was the worst part.

Or maybe the best part.

You had not decided.

Eventually, Robby leaned back and checked his watch. “I should go before Harlan realizes I have his review notes.”

Jack looked at him. “You took Harlan’s notes?”

Robby stood with no visible remorse. “Borrowed.”

You closed the packet against your binder. “Does Harlan know that?”

Robby smiled at you. “Not yet.”

You held the packet against your chest. “Thank you. This actually helped.”

Robby’s teasing softened into something more genuine. “Good. You’ll be fine.”

The simple confidence caught you off guard.

You looked down at the notes. “Maybe.”

Jack’s gaze moved to you immediately.

Robby saw that.

He saw Jack see you.

He saw Jack’s face do whatever Jack thought his face was not doing.

Robby’s mouth curved.

You stood before the apartment could get any stranger. “I’m going to put this with my other notes.”

Jack looked up at you. “You’re done studying?”

You kept your voice even. “For five minutes.”

Robby stepped back to let you pass. “Rest is vital to retention.”

Jack did not look away from you. “You don’t believe that.”

You met his eyes. “No. But I like hearing it.”

Jack’s expression held.

Your fingers tightened around the packet.

Then you looked away and went down the hall before your pride could start a fire you could not control.

Your bedroom door clicked closed behind you.

Robby waited until your footsteps stopped.

Then he turned to Jack.

Jack was already glaring at him.

Robby’s grin arrived slowly. “What?”

Jack dropped his notes onto the coffee table. “Leave.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “After all I’ve done for medical education?”

Jack’s voice stayed flat. “Yes.”

Robby glanced toward your closed door, then back at him. “You hated that.”

Jack looked at him. “I hated you before you got here.”

Robby pointed at the couch. “No. This was specific.”

Jack stood. “Go home.”

Robby did not move. “She asked me about Singh’s notes, and you looked like I stuck my tongue down her thr—”

Jack’s voice cut across his. “Don’t.”

Robby stopped.

Then his grin arrived slowly.

“Don’t what?” Robby asked. “Finish that sentence?”

Jack’s stare sharpened. “Try it.”

Robby looked delighted. “So the leaning bothered you.”

Jack opened the door. “Out.”

“And the sentence made you consider violence,” Robby added.

Jack’s voice stayed flat. “Out.”

Robby stepped into the hall, still smiling. “You know, I was starting to think you were handling this badly, but now I’m realizing I gave you too much credit.”

Jack looked at him. “There’s nothing to handle.”

Robby turned back in the doorway. “Great. Then you won’t mind if I keep flirting with her.”

Jack’s answer came too quickly. “No.”

Robby smiled.

There was no kindness in it.

Only delight.

“Then do something,” Robby said.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

“Or don’t,” Robby added. “But you’re going to hate watching me.”

Jack stared at him.

Robby leaned one hand against the doorframe, suddenly less amused than he had been a second ago. “For the record, I was actually helping her.”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “I heard.”

“And she’s smart,” Robby said.

“I know,” Jack said.

The words came too fast.

Robby’s smile softened just enough to become dangerous in a different way.

Jack looked away.

Robby let the silence sit for half a second.

Then he tapped the doorframe once. “Careful, Abbot.”

Jack looked back at him. “With what?”

Robby’s eyes flicked over his face.

Then Robby smiled again. “Your face. It’s starting to tell on you.”

Jack shut the door in his face.

From the hallway, Robby’s laugh carried through the wood.

Jack stood there for a moment, one hand still on the lock.

Then he turned back toward the living room.

Your coffee sat beside your binder. Your pen rested where you had dropped it on the couch cushion. The review packet was gone. Your bedroom door was closed down the hall.

Jack looked at it.

He should have been relieved Robby was gone.

He was not.

Because now the apartment was quiet again.

And you were still there.

And he could still hear Robby’s voice in his head.

Then do something.

Jack closed his eyes briefly.

That was the problem.

He wanted to.

You stood in the quiet of your room, the review packet held against your chest, and tried to breathe like a person who had not just spent the last hour deliberately setting small fires in the living room.

It had worked.

That was the problem.

Robby had smiled. Jack had watched. You had smiled back. Jack had moved closer on the couch, one arm stretched along the back like he had any right to rearrange the air around you.

And you had noticed.

Every inch.

Every non-touch.

Every careful, infuriating bit of restraint.

You dropped the packet onto your desk and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.

The exam was in two days.

You should have been thinking about cellular injury. ATP depletion. Sodium-potassium pumps. The difference between reversible damage and the point where a cell could not come back from what had happened to it.

Instead, you were thinking about Jack’s thumb at the corner of your mouth.

You were thinking about his arm behind your shoulders.

You were thinking about the way his jaw had set when Robby called you beautiful.

Pathetic.

Truly.

You lowered your hands and looked at the mess on your desk.

Your notes were there.

Your binder.

Your pens.

Singh’s review packet.

And, half-buried beneath the cardigan you had thrown there that morning, A Lady’s Undoing.

You stared at the paperback.

Absolutely not.

You had an exam coming. You were an adult. You were disciplined. You were capable of managing stress in healthy and productive ways.

Three minutes later, you were sitting on your bed with your back against the wall and the book open in your lap.

It was not your fault.

The captain had been left in a very compromising position the last time you read, and it felt academically irresponsible not to follow through.

You found the page by habit.

That was the first mistake.

The second was hearing Jack’s voice in the words.

Lower than usual.

Rougher than it should have been.

His hand found the heavy fall of her skirt, gathering the fabric slowly, inch by inch—

You closed your eyes.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud.

“No,” you whispered to yourself.

You opened your eyes again and tried to keep reading.

It did not help.

The words blurred into the memory of Jack on the couch, the warmth of him beside you, his arm stretched behind your shoulders, close enough to feel like a choice and not close enough to be one.

Your body, traitorous and exhausted and apparently uninterested in pride, remembered everything.

The exam.

The book.

The almost-kiss.

The way Jack had looked at your mouth.

You shifted on the bed, restless and irritated with yourself.

The mattress creaked beneath you.

You froze.

The apartment stayed quiet.

Jack was in the living room.

Your door was closed.

You were allowed to be in your own room with your own body and your own terrible taste in fictional captains.

You let out a slow breath and sank back against the pillows.

For a while, you told yourself you were only reading.

For a while, that was almost true.

Then your hand slid over the rumpled hem of your T-shirt.

Your breath caught.

And the room went soft around the edges.

For a while, Jack stayed on the couch because his notes were already spread across the coffee table, and moving them would waste time.

That was almost convincing.

His binder sat open across his lap. His pen rested between his fingers. The review packet Robby had left behind was stacked neatly beside his mug, and Singh’s flowchart on cellular injury waited on the page like it had any hope of holding his attention.

It did not.

Jack read the same line three times.

Then four.

Then he stopped pretending the words were the problem.

Your door was closed down the hall.

You had gone to your room to put away your notes, or study somewhere quieter, or get five minutes away from whatever had been happening in the living room before it burned through the carpet.

All reasonable explanations.

All none of his business.

Jack looked back at his notes.

Reversible injury. Cellular swelling. ATP depletion.

Clean concepts.

Useful concepts.

Things with mechanisms and consequences and names.

None of them helped.

From down the hall, he heard the faint creak of your weight settling onto the bed.

Then a rustle of fabric.

Jack kept his eyes on the page.

That was normal.

You studied on your bed sometimes. You spread notes across your comforter and complained later that your back hurt because you had terrible posture and an impressive refusal to learn from consequences.

He had seen it before.

He had no reason to think anything of it.

So he did not.

For several minutes, the apartment stayed quiet. The radiator knocked once near the window. A car passed outside, tires hissing over damp pavement.

Jack wrote hydropic change in the margin of his notes, even though he had already written it twice.

Then he heard you gasp.

Soft.

Small.

Barely there.

Jack went still.

The pen stopped moving beneath his hand.

For a second, he told himself he had misunderstood.

The building was old. The pipes made noise. The walls carried things strangely. Sound bent in apartments like this. It traveled through vents and floorboards and radiator pipes and turned ordinary things into something else by the time they reached a person who had no business hearing them.

Then another sound came through the wall.

Quieter than the first.

A breath.

A moan.

Jack flushed so hard it felt like a physical blow.

He looked down at his notes.

The words blurred.

Your door was closed.

That mattered.

It mattered so much his stomach tightened with it.

You were in your room, behind a closed door, with every reasonable expectation of privacy. You had not invited him into this. You had not even left him a crack to look through. You had simply trusted the apartment to keep one room separate from another.

The apartment had failed you.

Jack should get up.

That was the first clear thought.

He should move. Go to the kitchen. Turn on the sink. Open a cabinet. Make enough noise to give you back the privacy neither of you had known the apartment could steal.

Instead, for one terrible second, his mind supplied an image with brutal, unforgivable clarity.

You on the other side of the wall.

Your body against the sheets.

Your soft sleep shorts bunched high on one thigh.

Your T-shirt twisted at your waist.

Your mouth parted around a sound you were trying to keep quiet.

Then the image shifted before he could stop it, worse because it was not even entirely his imagination. It had a source. A page. A sentence he had read aloud with your hand around his wrist and your face too close to his.

A woman in a dark green gown.

A man in shirtsleeves.

His hand gathering the heavy fall of her skirt, inch by inch, while she forgot every sensible reason she had meant to keep her distance.

Except now the man had Jack’s hands.

And the woman—

Jack stood.

Fast.

His binder slid off his lap and hit the floor with a dull slap.

He froze, listening despite himself.

The apartment went quiet.

Too quiet.

His jaw tightened.

No.

Absolutely not.

He crossed the living room, grabbed the battered headphones from the end table, and opened the drawer beneath it until he found the old Discman he used when the building got too loud to study.

His hands were steady.

Mostly.

He shoved in the first CD his fingers found, plugged in the headphones, and pressed play.

Nothing happened.

Jack stared at the Discman.

Then he remembered the batteries had been dying for a week because, of course, they had.

Another soft sound came through the wall.

Jack’s whole body went hot.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He yanked open the drawer again, found two batteries loose beneath a takeout menu, and changed them with more force than necessary.

This time, music crackled to life in his ears.

Too soft.

He turned it up.

Louder.

Louder still.

The guitar swallowed the apartment.

The wall disappeared beneath it.

Mostly.

Jack stood in the living room with the headphones clamped over his ears, the Discman in one hand, and his notes scattered at his feet.

He was trying very hard to be decent.

It was not helping.

Because the problem was not only what he had heard.

It was what his mind had done with it.

The book.

The couch.

Your wrist beneath his fingers.

Your mouth beneath his thumb.

Robby leaning closer to you.

His own arm stretched along the back of the couch, close enough to feel like a choice and not close enough to be one.

The way you had smiled when Robby called you beautiful.

Jack closed his eyes.

He wondered what your face would do if he said it.

Not as a joke.

Not as a way to irritate you.

Not tossed across a room where he could pretend it had not mattered.

Quietly.

Close enough that you would have to believe he meant it.

Beautiful.

His hand tightened around the Discman.

The music kept playing.

Loud enough to cover the wall.

Not loud enough to cover him.

Your pen was still on Jack’s side of the coffee table two days later.

Not that you had been looking for it. Obviously.

You had noticed it by accident. Several times.

Monday morning, it had been tucked into the front pocket of his bag when he set it on the kitchen chair before leaving for class. Monday afternoon, it had been clipped to the edge of his notebook during Singh’s lecture, which you had only noticed because Singh had been drawing a deeply offensive diagram of cellular injury and your eyes had needed a break.

Monday night, it had sat beside his coffee mug on the kitchen table while the two of you pretended to study in silence.

Now it was Tuesday evening, and the pen was still there. On his side. Beside his notebook. Near his hand. Like it belonged to him.

It did not.

It was your pen. Black ink. Fine point. Chewed cap.

Not special. Not sentimental. Not worth noticing.

And yet, you had noticed every single time.

Jack sat on the opposite end of the couch with one ankle crossed over the other, Robby’s old pharmacology notes open on his knee. His prosthetic foot rested near the edge of the coffee table, still and familiar now in the quiet way so many things about the apartment had become familiar.

Too familiar, maybe.

The lamp beside the couch cast warm light over his profile, catching on the line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the reddish-brown curls that had started to fall across his forehead because he kept dragging a hand through them.

You were not looking at him.

You were looking at the Singh folder in your lap. Technically.

The folder was open to a practice question about necrosis, which felt rude, because you had personally been suffering for at least forty minutes and did not appreciate pathology making it about cells.

Jack turned a page. The pen rolled half an inch toward his notebook.

Your eyes dropped to it.

Jack did not look up. “You’re staring.”

You looked back at the folder. “I’m reading.”

Jack kept his voice dry. “Aggressively?”

You tightened your grip on the folder. “Pathology requires aggression.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “That’s partially true.”

You looked over at him. “It is completely true.”

He made a small sound. Not quite a laugh.

Worse.

You looked up before you could stop yourself.

Jack was still looking at his notes, but the corner of his mouth had shifted in that barely-there way that always made irritation feel inconveniently close to satisfaction.

You hated that mouth.

You hated noticing it more.

Your gaze dropped back to the coffee table. The pen was still there. Your pen. On his side.

You reached for it before you could talk yourself out of it.

Your fingers closed around the barrel beside his notebook. “That’s mine.”

Jack did not look up from his notes. “Is it?”

You held it up between two fingers. “It has teeth marks.”

Jack turned another page. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Abbot.”

His gaze flicked to the pen, then to your face. “You threw it at me.”

You lowered the pen slightly. “You stole it.”

Jack’s attention dropped back to his notes. “Collateral.”

You tucked the pen beside your folder. “For what?”

His eyes flicked once to the stack of notes beside you. “Still deciding.”

Your stomach did something deeply unnecessary. You looked away first.

You muttered, “Thief.”

Jack turned a page. “Assailant.”

You looked back at him. “You provoked me.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You read recreational undoing in a shared living space.”

Your grip tightened on the folder. “Do not call it that.”

Jack finally looked up. “That’s what it was.”

You pulled the Singh folder higher in your lap. “It was a book.”

Jack leaned back against the couch. “It had a title.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It still has a title. One you are done mentioning.”

Jack held your gaze for one second. Then two. His expression stayed infuriatingly calm.

Jack said, “I didn’t mention it.”

You lifted your brows. “You were thinking it.”

His brows rose slightly. “Now you’re diagnosing thoughts?”

You looked back down at the Singh folder. “With you, it’s not hard.”

Jack’s voice dropped half a degree. “Careful.”

The word landed low. Not threatening. Not even serious.

Still, something about it moved under your skin.

You focused on the Singh folder because that was safer.

Worse, but safer.

The apartment settled around you. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. A car passed outside, tires hissing over pavement still damp from earlier rain. Somewhere upstairs, a pipe knocked once and went quiet again.

Jack went back to reading.

You tried to do the same.

For almost six minutes, neither of you spoke. You made it through one practice question, missed it, checked the answer, and hated Singh personally. Then you made it through half of the explanation before the words started to blur.

Your eyes drifted to the coffee table. Your mug. Jack’s mug. Two folders. One stack of old notes. Your reclaimed pen.

And, half-hidden beneath Robby’s pathology packet, the corner of a paperback cover.

Dark green. Gold lettering.

Your body went very still.

No.

Absolutely not.

You had forgotten you left it there.

You had set it there before dinner because you were going to read one chapter as a reward for surviving cellular injury, and then Jack had come into the living room with coffee, and you had panicked, slid a packet over it, and decided that counted as hiding it.

It did not count as hiding it. It counted as creating evidence.

Worse, it was evidence with context.

Because Jack was not entirely wrong.

The book did help you unwind. That was the point. Some people took baths. Some people went for walks. Some people drank tea and pretended their nervous systems were functional.

You read about fictional women being kissed senseless by fictional men with fictional self-control problems, and then you slept better afterward.

Healthy. Efficient.

None of Jack Abbot’s business.

Unfortunately, the book was currently sitting in the middle of your shared living room beneath a packet on coagulative necrosis, which made it, at best, poorly concealed and, at worst, discoverable.

Jack shifted beside you.

Your eyes snapped back to the folder.

Too late.

Jack noticed.

His gaze moved from your face to the coffee table.

You reached for the pathology packet. Jack reached at the same time. His hand landed on top of the packet before yours could.

You froze.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

You said, “Don’t.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I didn’t do anything.”

You kept your eyes on his hand. “You were about to.”

Jack glanced down at his hand on the packet. “I was moving notes.”

You shook your head once. “No, you weren’t.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “It’s a note.”

You gave him a flat look. “It is a packet.”

Jack looked at the packet beneath his hand. “Notes come in packets.”

You said, “Abbot.”

Then he slid the pathology packet aside.

The paperback appeared beneath it like it had been waiting to ruin your life.

Dark green gown. Stone wall. Man in shirtsleeves leaning far too close. Gold lettering.

A Lady’s Undoing.

Jack looked at the cover. Then at you.

Your fingers tightened around the Singh folder. “Do not.”

Jack picked up the book.

Your hand shot out. “Jack.”

He paused.

Not because you had reached for it. Because you had said his first name.

The room shifted.

You heard it too.

The small, stupid intimacy of it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For one second, neither of you moved. Then his fingers closed around the paperback, and his expression settled back into something dry enough to make you want to smother him with the Singh folder.

Jack said, “Interesting.”

You held out your hand. “Give it back.”

He turned the book slightly, reading the cover like he had not already memorized it Sunday. “Still undoing?”

You kept your hand out. “You are deeply unfunny.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Am I?”

You reached for the book again. “Painfully.”

He lifted it out of reach. Not far. Just enough.

You stared at him. “Are you twelve?”

Jack glanced at the cover. “This doesn’t look like it’s for twelve-year-olds.”

Your mouth fell open.

Jack’s mouth curved.

There he was. Smug. Controlled. Awful.

You leaned forward and grabbed for it. “Give it back.”

Jack shifted the paperback to his other hand. “I’m trying to understand the plot.”

You braced one hand on the couch. “You are trying to embarrass me.”

Jack held the book just out of reach. “I can multitask.”

You reached across him. He leaned back. Your knee pressed into the couch cushion between you, one hand braced near his thigh before you realized where you had put it.

Jack went still.

So did you.

Your fingers hovered inches from the book. His hand was still raised, paperback held loosely, but his eyes were not on the cover anymore.

They were on you.

Close. Too close. Not close enough.

You pulled back first.

Because someone had to.

Because if you stayed there, braced beside him, close enough to see the dark flecks in his eyes and the way his grip had tightened on the spine of the book, you were going to do something catastrophic.

Like lean closer.

Or say his name again just to see what it did to his face.

You sat back against your end of the couch and held out your hand. “Book.”

Jack looked at your open palm. Then at the paperback. Then, because he was terrible, he opened it.

Your stomach dropped. “Abbot.”

Jack looked down at the page.

You reached for the book again. “That is private.”

Jack tilted the book slightly. “You’re using a receipt as a bookmark.”

You leaned forward. “It is a private receipt.”

He scanned it. “Coffee and a muffin.”

You held out your hand again. “Riveting, isn’t it?”

Jack ignored you, his eyes moving over the page.

At first, his expression was exactly what you expected. Amused. Self-satisfied. Far too pleased with himself.

He cleared his throat once and lifted the book like he was about to address a lecture hall.

Jack made his voice grave. “Oh, this is serious.”

You lunged for the book. “Do not.”

Jack angled away, his eyes already on the page. “Lady Evelina knew she should not be alone with the captain.”

Your shoulders climbed. “Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved as he kept reading. “It was improper. Reckless. Entirely beneath the standards of a respectable young woman.”

You reached across the couch. “Give it back.”

Jack leaned away, still reading in that low, dramatic voice. “And yet, when he stepped closer, she found herself unable to retreat.”

You dropped your hand against the cushion. “I hate you.”

Jack glanced at you over the top of the paperback. “No, you don’t.”

You grabbed for it again. “I absolutely do.”

Jack looked back down, smug as anything. “The candlelight caught the hard line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt, the broad strength of his shoulders—”

You made a strangled sound. “Oh my God.”

Jack dropped his voice into a truly terrible imitation of melodrama. “And Evelina feared, most terribly, that ruin had never looked so inviting.”

You covered your face with one hand. “I am moving out.”

Jack looked delighted. “This is excellent.”

You dropped your hand and glared at him. “It is not for you.”

Jack held the book slightly higher. “It’s in the shared living space.”

You pointed toward the coffee table. “It was hidden under pathology.”

Jack looked at you over the book. “That may be worse.”

You pointed at him. “Stop reading.”

Jack looked back at the page. “I’m invested now.”

You stared at him. “You are not.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “I am.”

You reached for the paperback again. “You’re mocking.”

Jack nodded once, easy and smug. “I am.”

Then his eyes moved farther down the page. His smile lingered. For one second. Then another.

Then his eyebrows rose.

Jack’s gaze stayed on the page. “This is porn.”

Your mouth fell open. “It is romance.”

Jack glanced at you over the top of the book. “He has his hand under her skirt.”

You reached for the paperback. “That can happen in romance.”

Jack angled it away, mouth twitching. “Often?”

Your expression shifted before you could stop it.

Jack saw.

You held out your hand. “Give it back.”

Jack’s attention dropped to the page again. “For research purposes, I’m going to need an answer.”

You leaned across the couch. “For roommate survival purposes, you’re going to need to stop talking.”

Jack’s smile sharpened. “So, often.”

You grabbed for the book. “Abbot.”

Jack shifted it to his other hand. “Recreational undoing was an accurate diagnosis.”

You froze.

His eyes flicked up.

The joke should have ended there.

It did not.

Because there was a second, barely noticeable change in his face. A tiny delay. A silence where the next teasing line should have been.

Jack had said it to bother you.

Then he seemed to hear himself.

Recreational undoing.

His gaze dropped to the book again. Then, briefly, to you. Whatever he saw on your face made his grip tighten around the spine.

That was the problem.

You did not need to say anything. Your face had already betrayed you.

Because Jack was smart. Terribly smart. Smart enough to understand context.

The book hidden under pathology. The way you read it after long study days. The way you had reached for it too quickly. The way your expression had shifted when he said recreational undoing like a joke and then realized it was not entirely a joke at all.

This was not just something you read.

This was something that worked.

Jack knew it at the same time you realized he knew it.

His thumb pressed lightly into the spine.

Your hand lowered a fraction.

The room went quiet. Not awkward. Worse. Aware.

His eyes moved back to the page. Slower this time.

Your pulse jumped.

Because somewhere between calling it porn and calling it recreational undoing, Jack Abbot had stopped teasing you and started understanding exactly what kind of material you liked when you wanted to stop thinking.

That was worse. That was so much worse.

You reached for the book. “Give it back.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to yours. For a second, you thought he might. Then he looked back down.

Jack’s voice went quieter. “Wait.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait?”

Jack did not look up. “I’m reading.”

You shook your head once. “You are not.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. “I am.”

You swallowed. “You were mocking.”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “I was.”

The correction hung there.

Your breath caught.

Were.

Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. His voice, when it came, was lower than before.

Jack read, “The captain kissed her as if restraint had finally become impossible.”

The room went very still.

You reached for the book. “Stop.”

Jack angled it away, but the teasing had gone out of his voice. “His mouth moved from hers to the line of her jaw.”

Your fingers curled against the couch. “Abbot.”

Jack swallowed once.

You saw it.

He kept reading anyway, softer now. “Then lower, down the exposed curve of her neck, slow enough to make her tremble.”

Your fingers closed around his wrist. “Jack.”

He stopped reading.

The book stayed open between you.

Your hand was wrapped around his wrist. His skin was warm beneath your palm.

The apartment went quiet. Not silent. The refrigerator still hummed. Rain ticked softly against the window. Somewhere outside, a car passed. But the space between you went quiet.

Jack looked at your hand. Then at your face.

Your grip loosened, but you did not let go.

You kept your voice low. “Give it back.”

Your voice had lost the sharp edge.

You hated that.

Jack heard it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Only for a second.

Enough.

Then he looked back at the book.

Stupid. Dangerous. He should stop. You should make him stop. Neither of you moved.

Jack read the next line.

Quietly. Not enough for the whole apartment. Enough for you.

Jack’s voice was rougher now. “His hand found the heavy fall of her skirt, gathering the fabric slowly, inch by inch, until she forgot every sensible reason she had meant to keep her distance.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist.

Jack stopped.

His eyes lifted to yours.

There was no smugness left in his face now. No easy joke. No familiar rhythm to hide inside. Just Jack, too close on the couch, holding your ridiculous paperback in one hand while your fingers circled his wrist and your pulse tried to climb out of your body.

And then you saw it.

Color.

High on his cheekbones.

Jack Abbot was blushing.

Not because of the book. Not only because of the book. Because somewhere between the captain’s mouth at the heroine’s throat and his hand gathering her skirt, Jack had stopped thinking about fictional people.

Your lips parted.

Jack’s jaw shifted once, like he knew exactly what you had noticed and hated you for noticing it.

Then he closed the book.

Slowly. Carefully. Like sudden movement might make everything worse.

Or better.

Jack held the paperback out. “Here.”

You took it from him. Your fingers brushed his. Neither of you commented. You tucked the book against your chest.

His eyes followed the movement before he stopped himself.

You saw that too.

Jack looked back at his notes. “Study.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

His jaw shifted once. “Trying to be.”

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Jack picked up his pen.

His pen. Not yours this time.

He stared down at the pharmacology notes like they had personally saved his life.

You looked down at A Lady’s Undoing pressed against your chest.

Then back at him.

His face was calm. Mostly.

His ears were red.

Oh, that was even more interesting.

You sat back slowly, still clutching the book. “Fine.”

Jack did not look up. “Good.”

The word landed wrong.

Both of you knew it.

His hand stilled over the page. Your breath caught.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Then the phone rang.

You both startled. The apartment phone shrilled from the kitchen, loud and ordinary and deeply offensive. Jack opened his eyes. You looked toward the kitchen. Then back at him.

His expression had gone flat in a way that almost made you laugh.

Almost.

You nodded toward the kitchen. “You should get that.”

Jack looked at you. “Why?”

You hugged the paperback tighter. “Because if I get it, I’m telling whoever it is you’re busy with recreational undoing.”

Jack stared at you.

Then his mouth curved despite himself. Small. Reluctant. Devastating.

He set his notes aside and stood. “Don’t say that again.”

You looked up at him from the couch. “Recreational undoing?”

Jack paused beside the coffee table, his eyes dropping once to the book in your arms. Then to your face.

Jack’s voice lowered. “Especially not that.”

The phone rang again.

Jack disappeared into the kitchen before the phone could ring a third time.

You stayed on the couch with A Lady’s Undoing pressed against your chest and your pulse still somewhere in your throat.

The receiver lifted from the cradle in the kitchen.

Jack’s voice came flat and controlled. “Abbot.”

There was a pause. Then his tone shifted by half a degree.

Jack said, “Evan.”

You looked down at the book in your arms.

It was Evan.

Not that it mattered.

It did not matter who called Jack. It did not matter that Jack was standing in the kitchen with his back probably turned to you, one hand braced on the counter, pretending the last five minutes had not happened.

It did not matter that you could still feel the warmth of his wrist beneath your fingers.

You opened the book.

You did not read a single word.

From the kitchen, Jack said, “What do you want?”

A pause followed.

Then Jack said, “No.”

Another pause.

Jack’s voice flattened. “Because usually when you start with my name like that, you want something.”

You stared at the page. The captain was still there. The heroine was still there. The skirt was still, unfortunately, involved.

You snapped the book shut.

In the kitchen, Jack went quiet. Not regular quiet. A listening quiet. The kind you had started to recognize.

What you didn’t know was that Jack had gone quiet because Evan had said Claire’s name.

Claire had asked if Jack was single.

And for one ridiculous, dangerous second, Jack had looked toward the living room before answering.

You were still on the couch, holding the book against your chest like privacy could still be protected after he had already seen too much.

Jack’s grip tightened around the receiver.

What you didn’t know was that Jack was not looking at the kitchen wall because he was calm. He was looking at the kitchen wall because if he looked at you again, he was going to think about your hand on his wrist.

Your voice saying his name.

Your expression shifting when he said recreational undoing and realized it was not only a joke.

The way your fingers had tightened when he read about the captain’s mouth moving down the heroine’s neck.

The way you had looked at him when you understood that he understood.

Jack shut his eyes.

No.

Absolutely not.

This had to stop.

Evan said something on the other end of the line.

Jack opened his eyes.

You could only see part of him from where you sat. His shoulder. The side of his face. One hand holding the receiver to his ear.