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

Dinner had been good. Quiet, but good. That was how Jack knew something was wrong. Usually, you had something to say. Usually, you made at least one dramatic noise over the food just to make him roll his eyes. Usually, you poked at him until his mouth twitched and then acted like you had won something.

Tonight, you had thanked him, eaten half your plate, and spent the rest of dinner moving your fork through sauce you were not really tasting.

Now you were wiping down a counter that had already been wiped down twice. Jack watched you from the sink, one hand braced on the counter while the other held a pan under warm water. The kitchen smelled like garlic and dish soap. The house was quiet around you. Warm. Familiar.

You still looked like you were waiting for something to happen.

Jack turned off the faucet. “You’ve been quiet.”

You kept your eyes on the counter. “I’m cleaning.”

Jack reached for the dish towel. “Quietly.”

You dragged the sponge across the same clean stretch of counter. “That is usually how cleaning works.”

Jack dried his hands slowly. “Not with you.”

You glanced at him, and the look almost had your usual bite. Almost. You looked back down at the counter. “I’m fine.”

Jack set the towel down. “I didn’t ask that.”

Your hand paused. “You were going to.”

Jack leaned back against the sink. “No.”

You turned your head slightly, but you did not quite look at him. Jack’s voice stayed even. “Because you would have said that.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint tick of the cooling stove and the heater humming somewhere under the floor. Then you pressed the sponge flat beneath your palm.

You exhaled, “There was this guy in the parking garage.”

Jack went still. Not dramatically. Not suddenly. But something in him sharpened until you could feel the full weight of his attention settle on you.

You kept your eyes on the counter. “Nothing happened.”

Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Okay.”

You swallowed. “I mean, I don’t think anything happened. He was just behind me. I turned down a row, and he turned too. Then I looked back, and he was already looking.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “At you.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He did not ask if you were sure. That almost hurt more than if he had. You rubbed your thumb over the inside of your wrist. “So I walked faster. And then I turned again, because I thought maybe if I was being weird, I could prove it to myself.”

Jack’s brows drew together. “Prove what?”

You gave a small shrug. “That I was making it up.”

Jack’s face softened. “Baby.”

You hated that. Not because he said it. Because it worked.

You looked away. “Maybe he was parked near me. Maybe he was just walking. Maybe I looked insane because I kept checking over my shoulder.”

Jack spoke gently. “Maybe.”

You finally looked at him. Jack held your gaze. “But you thought it might be something.”

Your throat tightened. There it was. So simple. So clean. No argument. No evidence required. No little courtroom where you had to defend the fact that your body had known something before your brain could explain it.

Jack crossed the kitchen slowly. He did not crowd you. He came close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you, but he stopped before his body blocked yours in. Jack rested his hand near yours on the counter. “You noticed him. You trusted that something felt wrong. You got to your car. You locked the doors. And you left.”

Your eyes burned. Jack’s voice was gentle. “That’s good.”

You hated how much you needed to hear it. You hated even more that he seemed to know. For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then Jack shifted his hand an inch closer to yours. “You called me after.”

You huffed a small, shaky laugh. “You said you were making food.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I did.”

You glanced at him. “And I like food.”

Jack nodded. “I know.”

You lifted one shoulder. “And your house was closer than mine.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Also true.”

You tried for dry. “And you’re very needy.”

Jack’s eyebrow lifted. “I’m needy?”

You pointed the sponge at him. “You invite me over every time you cook.”

Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I invite you over because you show up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is circular logic.”

Jack’s mouth twitched again. “That is not what circular logic means.”

You pointed at him more firmly. “Do not flirt with me using accuracy right now.”

Jack’s expression warmed. You looked away before it could undo you completely. Jack’s voice was softer when he asked, “And?”

You hated him a little for knowing there was an and. You looked down at the counter. “And I wanted to see you.”

Jack’s fingers flexed once against the counter. When you looked back, there was no smugness in his face. No teasing. No dry little joke waiting at the corner of his mouth. Just Jack.

Warm. Steady. Yours. Jack’s voice was low. “I’m glad you did.”

The ache in your chest loosened so suddenly that you had to look away again. You tossed the sponge into the sink with more force than necessary. “I also did the stupid key thing.”

Jack blinked. “The key thing?”

You held up your hand awkwardly. “The thing where you put your keys between your fingers like Wolverine, but sad.”

For one second, Jack just stared at you. Then his mouth twitched. You pointed at him. “Do not laugh.”

Jack held up one hand. “I’m not laughing.”

“You’re doing the Jack version.” You replied.

Jack raised a brow, “The Jack version?”

You nodded. “Where only one percent of your face admits you think I’m funny.”

Jack’s mouth curved another fraction. “That sounds medically precise.”

You set the sponge down. “I work around doctors. I’ve picked up terminology.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. “It’s common advice.”

You lowered your hand. “But?”

“Not good advice.” Jack stepped closer, slow enough that you had time to move if you wanted to. “Keys move. They can cut into your palm. They weaken your grip.”

You frowned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “And if someone is close enough for that to matter, they’re close enough to grab you.” Your humor thinned. Jack saw it immediately. His voice softened. “Better principles.”

You looked up. “Principles.”

Jack counted them off calmly. “Create distance. Make noise. Keep moving.” Your eyes dropped to his hands. Jack finished, “Use leverage.”

You stared at him. Of course, Jack Abbot, in gray sweats and a white T-shirt, barefoot in his warm kitchen, knew how to use leverage. Of course, he said it like that. Calm. Practical. Devastating. You lifted your eyes to his. “That sounds like something people say when they know how to leverage.”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “I do.”

Your stomach did something stupid. You tucked your keys into your palm. “That was very ominous.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You said ‘I do’ like you were about to reveal a hidden assassin past.” 

Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I don’t have a hidden assassin past.”

You pointed at him,  “That sounds exactly like something a man with a hidden assassin past would say.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he asked, “Do you want me to show you?”

You blinked. “Show me what?”

Jack nodded toward the basement door. “A few basics.”

Your stomach dipped. “Self-defense?”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That is what we’re talking about.”

You looked down at yourself. Leggings. Loose shirt. Bare feet. Still a little shaky in your own skin. You admitted, “I wanted reassurance.”

Jack’s expression softened. “I’m giving you both.”

That should not have worked on you. It did. You glanced toward the basement door. “You have a self-defense dungeon, don’t you?”

Jack stared at you. You stared back. Jack said, “It’s a workout space.”

You nodded slowly. “That is exactly what someone with a self-defense dungeon would call it.”

Jack pushed off the counter. “Are you coming?”

You should have said something clever. You should have made another joke. Instead, you looked at him standing there, barefoot and broad-shouldered, one hand near the basement door, his hair a little mussed from the way he had run his fingers through it after dinner. Your body remembered the parking garage. The cold concrete. The fluorescent lights. The echo of footsteps that might have meant nothing but had still made your pulse climb into your throat.

Then your body registered Jack. Warm kitchen. Clean cotton. Bare feet. Quiet house. A man who had listened without making you feel ridiculous. You walked toward him.

Jack watched your face as you passed. “What?”

You glanced up. “What?”

Jack’s mouth softened. “I’m proud of you.”

The words landed harder than you expected. Your throat closed. Jack did not touch you. He just stood there, letting you absorb it. You looked down at the stairs. “For almost stabbing myself with my own keys?”

Jack’s voice stayed gentle. “For paying attention.” You swallowed. Jack continued, “For leaving.” Your fingers tightened around the railing. Jack’s eyes held yours. “For coming here.” 

You forced a shaky breath through your nose. Then you glanced past him into the basement, “Still sounds like a dungeon.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “It’s a workout space.”

You stepped down one stair. “Sure, Dr. Basement.”

Jack followed you down. “Don’t call me that.”

The laugh that left you came easier than the last one. The basement was warmer than you expected. Quiet, too. One corner had been turned into a practical home gym: black mats fitted together across the floor, a punching bag near the wall, a small rack of weights, and resistance bands looped neatly from a hook. Nothing flashy. Nothing excessive. Just useful. Very Jack.

You stepped onto the edge of the mat. “You have a punching bag.”

Jack came to stand beside you. “Yes.”

You pointed at the mat beneath your bare feet. “And a whole fighting area.”

Jack looked down at the mat. “It’s not a fighting area.”

You widened your eyes. “Oh, my mistake. Your peaceful rectangle.”

Jack’s mouth curved despite himself. “You done?”

You rocked back on your heels. “Probably not.”

Jack stepped onto the mat and faced you. “Come here.”

Your stomach flipped. You covered it with attitude and lifted your chin. “Yes, sensei.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled sweetly. Jack pointed at the mat in front of him. “Okay, smart ass. Get on the mat.”

That should not have worked on you. It did. You stepped fully onto the mat, bare feet pressing into the textured surface.

Jack shifted into something steadier, his shoulders relaxing even as his attention sharpened. “First rule.”

You folded your arms. “Already?”

Jack nodded. “This isn’t about winning a fight.”

You let your arms drop a little. “Comforting.”

Jack shrugged, “It should be.” You looked at him. Jack continued, “It’s about getting out.”

Your smile faded. Jack saw it happen. His tone softened without losing its firmness. “You are not trying to prove anything. You are not trying to be brave.” You looked down at the mat. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “You are trying to create enough space to leave.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Jack held out his hand. “Give me your wrist.”

You glanced at his hand. He waited. The pause mattered. You put your wrist in his palm. Jack’s fingers closed around you. Not tight. Not rough. But solid enough that your body understood the shape of it. Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Jack’s eyes flicked to your face. “Still okay?” You nodded. His grip loosened immediately, “Words.”

Your face warmed. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s fingers settled around your wrist again. “Good.” The word should not have moved through you the way it did. Jack’s thumb shifted against the inside of your wrist. “Don’t pull back.”

You looked down at his hand. “I wasn’t.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on your shoulder. “You were thinking about it.”

You frowned. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when your shoulder moves,” Jack replied. 

You looked at your shoulder, offended. “Traitor.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Turn toward my thumb.”

You tried. Jack held on. Your wrist stayed trapped in his hand. Jack shook his head once. “That was pulling back.”

You looked up at him. “Was it?”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “Yes.”

You huffed. “That is very supportive.”

Jack adjusted your wrist. “It’s accurate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I liked you better when you were feeding me.”

Jack’s other hand came up to guide your fingers. “You’ll survive.”

You watched his hand wrap carefully around yours. “Cold.”

Jack ignored that, but his mouth betrayed him a little. “Here. The weak point of the grip is where the thumb and fingers meet.”

His palm was warm. His thumb was rough. His hand looked impossibly large around your wrist.

Jack angled your arm slowly. “Don’t fight the strongest part of my hand. Turn toward the opening.”

You stared for one second too long. Jack noticed. Jack lifted his eyes to yours. “Focus.”

You snapped your gaze up. “I am.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “No. You’re thinking about my hand.”

Heat flooded your face. Jack did not smile. That was worse. He loosened his grip and reset your wrist. “Try again.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re very bossy for a man who lured me into a basement.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Workout space.”

You looked pointedly at the mats under your feet. “Basement.”

Jack closed his fingers around your wrist again. “Don’t pull back.”

You glanced down at his hand. “I’m not.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your shoulder. “You are.”

You looked at your shoulder like it had betrayed you. “I’m going to start taking this personally.”

Jack adjusted your wrist with careful fingers. “Good. Maybe you’ll remember it.”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Terrible motivational speaker.”

Jack’s thumb shifted once against your skin. “You’re still here.”

That should not have warmed you. It did. Jack reset his grip, his fingers closing around your wrist again with the same maddening care. “Toward my thumb.”

You tried to twist your wrist free. Jack held on. You frowned. “That was toward your thumb.”

Jack replied, “That was away from my hand.” 

You frowned, “Your hand is attached to your thumb.” 

Jack’s mouth curved. “Anatomically, yes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not flirt with me using anatomy right now.”

Jack’s expression stayed calm. “Then listen.”

You swallowed. Jack stepped closer by half an inch, not enough to crowd you, just enough for the space between you to become something you could feel. Jack said, “The weak point is here.”

His other hand came up, and one finger tapped the narrow gap where his thumb met his fingers. Jack continued, “Turn through that opening. Step with it. With your body, not just your arm.”

You blinked. “That is both very helpful and not helpful at all.”

Jack looked unimpressed. “Try it.”

You drew a breath. This time, you turned your wrist toward the gap in his grip and stepped with the movement instead of yanking backward. Your arm slipped free more easily than you expected. The sudden lack of resistance made you stumble a half step, and your eyes dropped to your own hand. You were out, just like that. For a second, the basement went very still. You looked up at him. “I did it?”

Jack’s face softened by a degree. “You did it.”

You looked down at your hand again. “Did you let me?”

Jack’s answer came quiet and immediate. “No.” Your eyes found his. Jack held your gaze. “I taught you.”

That landed somewhere tender. Not soft, exactly. Tender. A warmth moved behind your ribs because he said it like the distinction mattered. Like he would not take the win from you. Like he had no interest in making himself look stronger by making you feel small. You forced a breath out. “That was almost encouraging.”

Jack reset his stance. “Don’t get attached.”

You huffed. “There he is.”

Jack held out his hand. “Again.”

You stared at him. “Again?”

Jack nodded. “Again.”

You gave him your wrist because, apparently, that was your life now. He showed you three more times. The first time, you pulled back and swore at your shoulder. The second time, Jack told you to use your whole body, and you muttered something about filing a complaint with management. The third time, your wrist slipped free cleanly. Jack nodded once. “Good.”

You looked down at your hand, pleased despite yourself. “That one was good.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “It was.”

The praise was not flirtatious that time. That made it hit differently. You looked up at him. Jack’s eyes were steady on yours, warm and serious beneath everything else. “You’re getting it.”

Something in your chest loosened. You nodded, quieter now. “Yeah.”

Jack let that moment breathe. Then his gaze moved over you, assessing in a way that should have felt clinical and did not. Jack said, “Now your stance.”

You looked down at your legs. “My stance is standing.”

Jack shook his head. “Barely.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

Jack pointed toward your feet. “Feet apart.”

You obeyed, widening your stance by approximately two inches. Jack stared at the distance between your feet. You stared at him. Jack said, “Wider.”

You moved one foot out another inch. “Demanding.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still too narrow.”

You gave him a look. “How much space do you think I need?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “Enough that someone can’t knock you over because you’re being stubborn.”

You paused. Then you stepped wider. Jack nodded once. “Better.”

You looked down. “I feel ridiculous.”

Jack stepped closer. “You look stable.”

You glanced up at him. “That is not the same as cool.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You want cool or useful?”

You sighed. “I hate when the options are obvious.”

Jack touched two fingers lightly to your elbow. “Hands up.”

You lifted your fists near your chest. Jack’s brows rose. You frowned. “What?”

Jack tapped your knuckles. “Not fists.”

You lowered them slightly. “You just told me hands up.”

Jack took one of your hands and gently opened your fingers. “Open hands.”

You looked at your own palm. “Jazz hands?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No.”

You spread your fingers wider. “Defensive jazz hands.”

Jack looked at you for one long second. You smiled sweetly. Jack’s voice went dry. “You done?”

You tilted your hand back and forth. “Probably not.”

Jack’s thumb pressed lightly against your palm, closing your fingers into a looser shape. “Open hands give you options. Push. Grab. Block. Create space.”

You tried very hard to listen. You did. Mostly. But Jack was close again, and his white T-shirt pulled across his shoulders when he moved. The fabric was soft from wear, thin enough at the collar to show the warm line of his throat. His gray sweats sat low on his hips, plain and comfortable and unfair in a way that made you angry at clothing as a concept. He smelled like dish soap, clean laundry, and something warmer underneath. Like his house. Like him. Jack tapped your wrist. “Higher.”

You snapped your eyes back to his face. “What?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Hands.”

You lifted them higher. “Right.”

Jack studied you. “You were not thinking about your hands.”

You looked offended. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s gaze dropped pointedly to your hands, which had already started to drift down again. You lifted them fast. “Fine.”

Jack stepped to your side. “Knees soft.”

You bent your knees dramatically. Jack blinked. You held the position. Jack said, “Not a squat.”

You straightened slightly. “You said soft.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

You gestured down at yourself. “These are soft knees.”

Jack’s hand came to your hip. You forgot what a knee was. The touch was not sexual. That almost made it worse. His palm settled at the side of your hip, warm through the soft fabric of your leggings, firm enough to guide but not enough to hold. His other hand hovered near your shoulder, and the space between his body and yours narrowed until you could feel the heat of him at your side. You went still. Immediately, Jack’s hand loosened. “Still okay?”

You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s hand returned to your hip, slower this time. “Good.”

The word moved through you low and warm. You hated that he probably knew. Jack adjusted your weight with a small pressure on your hip. “Don’t lock your knees.”

You stared straight ahead. “I’m not.”

Jack’s hand stayed steady. “You are.”

You exhaled. “My body is filing a complaint.”

Jack’s mouth curved near your shoulder. “Denied.”

You closed your eyes for half a second. Mistake. With your eyes closed, everything else got louder. The soft hum of the heater. The faint drag of Jack’s bare foot shifting on the mat. The warm shape of his hand at your hip. The quiet brush of cotton as his shirt moved with his breath. The space of him beside you, close enough to feel, not close enough to lean into without making it obvious. You opened your eyes. Jack’s gaze was already on your face. You tried to recover. “You’re very hands-on.”

Jack’s hand slid from your hip to your waist, adjusting your angle by a fraction. “You asked me to show you.”

You looked at him. “I asked for reassurance.”

Jack’s thumb shifted once at your waist. “I’m giving you both.”

The callback landed hard. Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth, only for a second. Then he looked back at your stance like he had not just wrecked the air between you. He was infuriating. Jack stepped behind you. “Keep your feet where they are.”

Your spine straightened. You forced your voice into something light. “What part of the lesson is this?”

Jack touched your right elbow, guiding it down a fraction. “The part where you learn not to fall over.”

You glanced back. “Sexy.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “Useful.”

You faced forward before your face could get any hotter. His heat settled behind you. Not touching at first. Just there. It changed the room anyway. Jack’s fingers touched your left shoulder. “Relax this.” You tried. Jack’s fingers stayed there. “Actually relax it.”

You made an offended sound. “That was relaxed.”

Jack’s thumb pressed gently into the tense muscle near your shoulder blade. “That was your pretending.”

Your mouth went dry. The pressure was careful, almost absent, but your body reacted as if he had dragged his hand down your spine. Jack felt the shift. You knew he did because his fingers stilled. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jack’s voice came lower. “Breathe.”

You pulled air in. It sounded embarrassingly uneven.

Jack’s hand left your shoulder and came to your elbow. “Hands up.”

You lifted your hands again. Jack’s palm passed near your waist without touching this time. “If someone moves into your space, don’t freeze. Hands open. Weight centered. Knees soft.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack stepped closer behind you. “Don’t pull against me.”

The words were practical. His voice was not. Your breath caught. Jack went still. For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Then his hand settled at your waist again, warm and certain through your shirt. Jack’s mouth came close to your ear. “There it is.”

Your eyes closed. “Jack.”

His thumb moved once at your side. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You swallowed. “What is?”

Jack’s voice dropped. “You like being told what to do when it’s me.”

You stared straight ahead at the punching bag in the corner. “That is a very arrogant diagnosis.”

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “It’s an accurate one.”

You swallowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s mouth came close enough to your ear that his breath warmed your skin. “A little.”

Your eyes closed before you could stop them. His hand eased at your waist, giving you room even as his voice stayed low. Jack asked, “Still okay?”

You nodded, then caught yourself. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s palm settled again. “Good.”

The word went through you with embarrassing precision. You tried to breathe like a normal person. “You say that like you know what it does.”

Jack’s mouth curved near your ear. “I do.”

Your stomach dropped. Jack stepped away before you could answer. The sudden absence of him was almost worse than the closeness. You turned your head enough to glare at him. “That was rude.”

Jack came around to stand in front of you, expression calm except for the small, pleased curve at his mouth. “That was restraint.”

You stared at him. “I hate when you’re technically right.”

Jack’s gaze moved over you, taking in the stance, the hands, the way you were breathing a little too hard for a basic lesson in his basement workout space. Then his face softened. Jack said, “You have the wrist.”

You lifted your brows. “Do I get a certificate?”

Jack’s mouth curved. “No.”

You dropped your hands. “Terrible program.”

Jack pointed once toward the mat. “Turn around.”

Your smile faltered. Only slightly. Jack saw it immediately. His face shifted, the heat banking into something steadier. Jack said, “We can stop here.”

You shook your head. “No.”

Jack did not move. “We can.”

You held his gaze. “I know.”

He waited. You took a breath. “I don’t want to stop.”

Jack studied your face for another second, then nodded once. “Okay.”

You turned around. The room looked different, facing away from him. The punching bag hung still in the corner. The weights sat neatly on the rack. The stairs led back up to the kitchen, where the sink probably still smelled like garlic and dish soap, where your keys were sitting on the counter, where the world had felt a little too big until Jack made it smaller. Behind you, his footsteps shifted on the mat. Bare feet. Quiet room. Warm air. Your pulse climbed anyway.

Jack stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel his heat before he touched you. Jack’s voice came low and even. “Still okay?”

You nodded, then answered before he could correct you. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack’s hand touched your waist first, a quiet point of contact before anything else. “I’m going to put my arm around you.” Your fingers flexed once at your sides. Jack added, “Not tight.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “If you want me to stop, say stop.”

You nodded. “I will.”

Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “And I will.”

Your throat tightened. You believed him. That was the dangerous part. Jack stepped in behind you. His arm came around your middle, forearm settling across your stomach with careful, controlled pressure. His chest brushed your back through the thin fabric of both your shirts. Not fully pressed against you. Not trapping you. Not taking anything. Just holding. Your eyes fluttered.

Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Drop your weight.”

For a second, your body did not understand him. Or maybe it did, and that was the problem. His forearm pressed carefully across your stomach, hand resting at your side. The cotton of his shirt brushed the back of yours. His chest was close enough that each breath he took moved faintly against your spine. His bare foot was just behind yours on the mat, close but not touching, the heat of his body surrounding you in a way that made the practical basement blur at the edges.

You swallowed. “Drop my weight.”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “Bend your knees.”

You bent forward. Jack’s arm tightened immediately, stopping you before you could fold at the waist. Jack corrected you, his mouth still near your ear. “Not forward.”

Your breath caught. “Where, then?”

Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “Down.”

The word moved through you like a command your body wanted to obey for every wrong reason. Your eyes closed. Jack felt it. His thumb moved once at your side. “There.”

Your stomach pulled tight. You tried to make your voice work. “This is a self-defense lesson.”

Jack’s arm stayed steady around you. “It is.”

You stared at the punching bag across the room. “Then maybe stop saying things like that.”

Jack’s thumb dragged once over your waist through your shirt. “Like what?”

You hated him. You wanted to lean back against him so badly your knees almost gave you an excuse. You kept your hands loose at your sides. “You know.”

Jack’s breath warmed the side of your neck. “I do.”

That was worse. That was much worse. For a second, neither of you moved. The heater hummed. The mat pressed cool and textured beneath your feet. Somewhere upstairs, the house settled with a quiet creak that made the basement feel even more private. Jack’s arm stayed across your stomach, warm and solid, and the longer he held you there, the more impossible it became not to notice exactly how he was holding back. His forearm was firm against you. His fingers were open at your side. His chest was barely touching your back.

Barely. The restraint was what ruined you. Jack’s voice dropped. “Try again.”

You blinked. “Right now?”

Jack’s mouth curved near your ear. “Yes.”

You tried to gather whatever dignity you had left. “Demanding.”

Jack’s hand shifted at your waist. “Accurate.”

You exhaled and softened your knees this time, letting your weight sink downward rather than forward. Jack’s arm followed the motion, not pulling, not forcing, just staying with you as your center of gravity lowered. His chest brushed your back more fully for one second. The contact stole the air out of both of you. You heard it. The slight change in his breathing. Barely there. But there. Your lips parted. Jack went still behind you. You both knew. Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “You okay?”

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

You smiled at the wall. “That was not an answer.”

Jack’s voice came rougher this time. “It was the one you’re getting.”

Your smile widened. There he was. Not completely. Not enough. But there. The crack beneath all that calm. Jack’s arm loosened. “Now step.”

You blinked. “Step?”

Jack’s hand moved to your hip, guiding your attention downward. “Outside my foot.”

You looked down. His foot was close to yours on the mat. Bare, steady, placed just behind and slightly outside your own. His ankle brushed yours when you shifted, and the small contact went through you with humiliating force. Jack felt that too. His fingers tightened once at your hip. You heard him exhale. You stepped outside his foot. Jack’s voice stayed controlled by effort now. “Good.”

The praise hit harder because you could hear what it cost him. You breathed in. “Then what?”

Jack’s arm came around you again, demonstrating the hold from behind. “Turn into me.”

You went still. The phrase landed worse than all the others. Not worse. Better. Your body understood it before your brain had a chance to pretend. Turn into me. Jack knew exactly when it hit. His hand stilled at your hip. The basement went quiet. Then Jack’s voice came lower, almost against your skin. “That one got you.”

Your face burned. “You’re impossible.”

Jack’s thumb moved slowly over your hip. “You’re transparent.”

You tried to look over your shoulder. “I am not.”

Jack’s arm held you in place, not tight, just enough. “Forward.”

Your pulse kicked. You faced forward. Jack’s voice softened into something more dangerous than teasing. “Listen.” You went quiet. His hand moved from your hip to your waist. “Step outside my foot.”

You nodded. “I did.”

Jack’s forearm settled against your stomach. “Drop your weight.” You bent your knees. Jack moved with you. “Now turn into me.” Your body hesitated. Jack felt it. Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Into me. Not away.”

You swallowed. “That is a phrasing problem.”

Jack’s mouth came close to your ear. “No.” His hand tightened once at your waist. Jack continued, “That one’s just true.”

Your breath caught. For one second, you forgot the move entirely. Jack waited. He did not rush you. He did not laugh. He only held you there, warm and steady behind you, letting the charged silence stretch until it stopped feeling like embarrassment and started feeling like permission to want what you wanted. Jack’s arm loosened a fraction. “Do it.”

You stepped outside his foot. You dropped your weight. Then you turned into him. The movement brought you around faster than you expected. Your foot slid over the mat. His arm released as you rotated, and suddenly you were facing him, close enough that your hand landed on his chest for balance. Jack’s hand came to your waist at the same time. Steadying you. Catching you. Holding you there. Your palm flattened against his T-shirt. His heart was beating hard. Harder than it should have been. You looked up at him. Jack looked down at you.

Neither of you moved.

The basement felt too quiet around you. The heater hummed. The punching bag hung still in the corner. Your hand stayed on his chest, and beneath your palm, Jack’s heartbeat kept giving him away.

You whispered, “You’re not as calm as you look.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. His hand flexed at your waist. “No.”

The honesty went through you like heat. Your fingers curled slightly in his shirt. Jack’s gaze dropped to the movement. Then to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. For one dangerous second, you thought he might kiss you. For one dangerous second, you wanted him to.

Jack drew a slow breath and stepped back. Your hand fell from his chest. The loss of contact felt obscene. Jack’s voice came rougher. “One more.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

You stared at him. “You’re evil.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You get better every time.”

That did something to you. Not just the praise. The certainty. The way he said it, like your body learning to get free, mattered. Like he was affected and still committed to making sure you knew how to leave before he ever asked you to stay, you swallowed. “Fine.”

Jack nodded once. “Turn around.”

You turned before he could see what his voice had done to your face. Or maybe he already had. Probably. Jack stepped in behind you. His arm came around your middle. His chest brushed your back. His breath touched the side of your neck. Everything in you went still and listened.

Jack’s voice came low. “Ready?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

Jack’s hand settled at your waist. “Drop your weight.”

You bent your knees. Jack moved with you. “Step.” You stepped outside his foot. Jack’s arm loosened. “Turn into me.” 

You turned. Maybe your foot caught the edge of the mat. Maybe you moved too fast. Maybe both of you were too aware of the other, and the room had been tightening around this moment for too long. Whatever it was, your balance shifted wrong. You felt yourself tip. Jack moved instantly. His arm came around your waist, not to restrain you this time, but to control the fall. His other hand protected the back of your shoulder as the two of you went down to the mat in a controlled, breathless tangle.

You hit the mat on your back, but not hard.

Jack took most of the weight before you could, one hand braced beside your head, the other still firm at your waist. His body covered yours without fully settling, knees planted on either side of your hips, chest hovering close enough that every breath had to move around him.

For one second, neither of you breathed. Then your eyes opened. Jack was above you. His hair was mussed from the fall. His jaw was tight. His hand stayed at your waist, fingers spread warm and careful over your side, and the arm beside your head flexed with the effort of keeping his weight off you.

You stared up at him. “I feel like this means I failed the lesson.”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth before he could stop them. Then he looked back at your eyes. Jack said, “Depends on the lesson.”

Heat went through you so fast it almost embarrassed you. You tried to find your attitude and came up short. “That is not self-defense.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “No.”

The honesty made the air change. Your breathing came fast beneath him. The mat was cool against your back. His knee was beside your hip. His hand was at your waist. His body was above yours, close enough to feel, not close enough to trap. He was holding himself back. You could see it in his shoulders. Feel it in the careful distance he kept between his chest and yours.

Jack’s voice came low. “This is where I need your words.”

Your throat tightened. His thumb moved once at your side. Jack held your gaze. “Because you’re not trying to get out.”

The room went silent around you. Jack continued, quieter, “And before this goes any further, I need to know that’s because you want to stay.”

Your breath shook. You nodded once. “I want to stay.”

Jack did not move. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and steady, while his hand remained careful at your waist. “Tell me what you want.”

Your mouth went dry. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him with every breath. Close enough that his body covered yours without resting fully against you. Close enough that the space between you felt deliberate now. Cruel, almost. Like, restraint had become another kind of touch. You looked at his mouth. Then back at his eyes.

You whispered, “Kiss me.”

Jack’s control broke quietly. Not all at once. Not violently. Just enough for you to see it happen, his jaw shifted. His hand flexed at your waist. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and for one breathless second, he still did not move.

Then Jack kissed you.

His mouth came down on yours, firm and warm and devastatingly sure, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding from your waist to the small of your back as if he had been waiting for permission to touch you there. The first press of his lips stole the air out of your lungs. The second took the rest of your thoughts with it.

You made a sound against his mouth. Jack heard it. His hand tightened at your back, pulling you closer beneath him, and the careful distance he had been keeping disappeared by inches. His chest lowered against yours. His weight settled just enough for you to feel him, not enough to trap you, and that difference made heat rush through you so fast your fingers curled helplessly against the mat.

Jack kissed you like he had been behaving for hours. Like the entire lesson had been a line he refused to cross until you invited him over it. His mouth opened over yours, slow and deep, and you forgot the basement, the mat, the punching bag in the corner.

There was only Jack above you, Jack’s hand at your back, Jack’s breath rough against your lips when he pulled away for half a second only to kiss you again harder. Your hands found his shirt. You grabbed at him without meaning to, fisting the soft cotton near his ribs, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth that went straight through you.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “Still okay?”

Your eyes opened. His face was close, his mouth wet from yours, his breathing less controlled than before. You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”

Jack searched your face. “You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

His gaze held yours for one more second. Then his mouth curved, faint and dangerous. Jack said, “Good.”

The word barely had time to land before he kissed you again. This time, the kiss was deeper. Less patient. His hand slid beneath your back, pulling you up into him while his other arm stayed braced beside your head, holding most of his weight off you. Even now. Even like this. Careful.

You felt it in the way he kissed you, like he wanted to ruin you, and held himself like he was still afraid of asking too much. You felt it in the restraint of his hand at your back, in the space he kept between his hips and yours, in the way his mouth went rough while the rest of him stayed controlled. It made you ache. It made you impatient.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Jack.”

His mouth hovered over yours. “Yeah?”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “I don’t want you to be careful with me.”

Jack went still. Completely still. His eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them sharpened into something serious. Jack said, “Careful is not optional.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s hand slid to your waist, firm and grounding. “Not with you.”

The words landed hard. Your chest rose against his. You shook your head. “That’s not what I mean.”

Jack did not move. “Then tell me what you mean.”

Your face burned. The words were there, hot and heavy in your throat, but saying them while he was above you, while his body covered yours and his mouth was still close enough to touch, felt more exposing than kissing him had. Jack waited. You looked at his mouth, then back at his eyes.

You whispered, “I want you to stop holding back.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. His hand flexed once at your waist. You felt the words hit him. You felt what it cost him not to move. Jack’s voice came lower. “How?”

Your stomach dipped. “Jack.”

His thumb moved once at your side. “Use your words.”

Your breath shook. You stared up at him, pinned beneath the weight he was still mostly keeping off you, and understood exactly what he was asking for. Not because he did not know. Because he wanted you to hear yourself choose it. You swallowed. Then you said, “I want you to take me how you want me.”

Jack’s control slipped, just for a second. His eyes closed, and the breath he let out sounded like it had been dragged out of him. When he opened his eyes again, there was no mistaking what you had done to him. His voice was rough. “You need to be careful saying things like that to me.”

Your pulse jumped. “I thought careful wasn’t optional.”

Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft now. “Smart ass.”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, firmer than before. You arched into the touch before you could stop yourself. His eyes darkened. You whispered, “I mean it.”

Jack held your gaze. “Say it again.”

Your throat went dry. His hand tightened at your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make every thought in your head go quiet. 

 “Tell me again,” Jack murmured. 

You breathed, “I want you to take me how you want me.”

Jack lowered his mouth to yours, stopping just before the kiss. His voice was low enough to feel. “And if I want you right here?”

Your whole body went hot. You whispered, “Then take me right here.”

For one second, Jack only looked at you. Then the last careful inch of distance between your bodies disappeared. His body settled over yours, solid and warm, pinning you to the mat with enough weight to make your breath break and not enough to hurt. Never careless. But no longer holding himself away from you either.

You made a sound into his mouth, and Jack swallowed it as if it belonged to him. His hand slid beneath your back, pulling you up into the kiss while his other arm stayed braced beside your head. His chest pressed yours down. His hips settled between your thighs, and the first real press of his hard length against you made both of you go still for half a breath.

Jack felt it. So did you. The heat of him. The weight of him. The hard line of him fitting against you through layers of fabric. Your breath caught against his mouth. Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, focused, taking in your face like he was cataloging every reaction. Then he moved his hips again. Slow. Controlled.

The drag of him caught exactly where you needed it, and the gasp that left you was so sharp it almost sounded surprised. Jack went still above you. His eyes flicked over your face. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Oh.”

Your face went hot. “Don’t.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “You liked that.”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

Your breathing came fast beneath him. Jack’s hips pressed forward again, deliberate this time, giving you the same slow, firm pressure. Your back arched before you could stop it.

His mouth brushed your ear. “There.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Jack’s voice stayed low, rougher now. “That’s what I want.”

The words sank into you. You opened your eyes. “What?”

Jack moved again, grinding against you with enough pressure to make your hands grab at his back. “This.”

Your breath broke. His mouth dragged along your throat. “I want to feel you react to me before I take anything off.”

Heat rushed through you so fast your legs tightened around his hips. Jack exhaled hard against your neck. He liked that. You felt how much he liked that. His hips moved again, slower, filthier, pinning you beneath the weight of him while he watched what it did to you.

Jack said, “I want to know what gets you quiet.”

Another roll of his hips. You gasped. His mouth curved against your skin. “What gets you loud.”

He did it again, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack’s hand slid down to your thigh, gripping firmly as he opened you a little wider beneath him. “I want to know how you look when you stop trying to pretend you’re not desperate for me.”

Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack lifted his head, eyes dark and devastatingly pleased. He murmured, “There she is.”

You hated how much that did to you. You hated that he knew. You hated that your body answered him before you could find anything clever to say. Your hips shifted up against his. Jack’s face changed. The pleased edge sharpened into something hotter. Hungrier.

His hand dragged back to your waist, holding you still as he rolled against you again, harder this time. You moaned. Jack kissed the sound out of your mouth, deep and rough and possessive enough to make your head spin. He kissed you like he had decided he liked taking you apart this way. Like he had every intention of doing it slowly. Like the wanting was not something he had to rush past to get to the rest.

When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. His eyes stayed on yours. Jack said, “You asked me to take you how I want.”

You nodded, dazed. His thumb moved along your waist. “This is how I want you first.”

Your whole body went hot beneath him. Jack’s mouth lowered to yours, but he did not kiss you yet. He let you feel him pressing against you, let you feel how hard he was, let you feel exactly how much restraint was still threaded through the way he held you down. His voice was rough when he continued. “I want you worked up before I even get my mouth on you.” 

Your breath caught. Jack’s hips moved again, and the friction hit so perfectly your eyes shut. He watched you take it. Then his mouth brushed yours. Jack said, “I want you aching for it.”

You whispered, “I already am.”

His control slipped. Just a little. His grip tightened at your waist, and the next roll of his hips was harder, less polished, enough to make both of you breathe out at the same time. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, they were darker.

His voice came low. “Good.”

Then he kissed you again, moving against you until every thought in your head narrowed down to the weight of him, the pressure, the rhythm, the rough sound of his breathing against your mouth. It was too much. It was not enough. Your hands slid under his shirt onto his bare back, fingers pressing into warm skin and muscle, trying to pull him closer even though there was no closer left to take.

Jack groaned into your mouth when your nails dragged lightly over his shoulder blades, and the sound made your hips lift without permission. The friction caught just right. Your breath broke. His mouth slowed against yours, not stopping, just changing. Paying attention. His hips rolled again, deliberate now, finding the same angle, the same pressure, the same devastating drag of his body against yours through the thin layers still between you.

Your head fell back against the mat. Jack’s mouth followed, kissing along your jaw, your throat, the place beneath your ear that made your whole body go tight. “There,” he murmured against your skin.

You hated that one word. You loved it. His hips moved again, slower this time, forcing you to feel every second of it. The hard line of him pressed exactly where you needed pressure, and your thighs tightened around his hips before you could stop them.

Jack’s breath left him hard. “Fuck,” he said, low against your throat.

The word went straight through you. His hand slid down your side, over your hip, to your thigh. He gripped there and pulled your leg higher around him, opening you more beneath his body, changing the angle until the next roll of his hips made you gasp so sharply your fingers dug into his back. Jack lifted his head. His eyes were dark. Focused. Gone in a way that still felt controlled enough to ruin you.

“That,” he said.

Your chest rose hard beneath him. “What?”

Jack moved again, grinding down slowly and firmly, and watched your mouth fall open. His voice dropped. “That’s what I want.”

You could barely think around the pressure. “Jack.”

His hand tightened on your thigh. Jack kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then dragged his mouth back to your ear. “I want you aching for it. I want you so worked up you stop trying to be clever.”

Your breath shook. He rolled his hips again. You made a sound that was not clever at all. Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “There she is.”

You would have told him to shut up if you had any air. You did not. Your body had become embarrassingly honest under his. Every slow grind pulled another sound out of you. Every press of his hips made your thighs tighten. Every rough breath he let out against your neck made you feel how much he liked it, how much he wanted you exactly like this. Pinned. Wanting. Undone before he had even touched bare skin.

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you still when your hips tried to chase the next roll of his body. You whimpered. His eyes lifted to yours. “That too.”

Your face burned. “Don’t.”

Jack lowered his mouth to yours, stopping just close enough that his lips brushed yours when he spoke. “No.”

The word was quiet. Certain. Hot enough to make your stomach pull tight. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, and moved against you at the same time. Your body jerked under him, overwhelmed by the pressure and his mouth and the way he seemed to know exactly when to give you more and exactly when to make you wait.

You broke away on a shaky breath. “Jack, please.”

He went still. Not away. Not cold. Just still enough that you felt the full weight of his attention. His hand stayed firm on your waist. “Please, what?”

Your eyes opened. His face was close, mouth wet from yours, breathing rough, expression dark with want and patience and something more dangerous underneath both. You swallowed. He did not prompt you. He waited because he knew you could say it. Because you had already told him what you wanted. Because now he trusted you to ask for more.

Your fingers curled against his back. “I want your hands on me.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped over you, to your mouth, your chest, the place where your shirt had ridden up just enough to show a strip of skin above your leggings.

Then he looked back at your eyes. “Good.” 

The word hit low. Then Jack pushed up just enough to strip his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere beyond the mat. You barely had time to look at him before he was over you again, warm skin under your hands this time, muscle shifting beneath your palms as he came back down and kissed you like he had missed your mouth in the three seconds he had been gone.

His hand left your waist and slid under the hem of your shirt. The first touch of his palm against your bare stomach made you suck in a breath. His hand was warm, rougher than you expected, steady as it spread over your skin. He dragged it slowly up your side, over your ribs, thumb brushing beneath the band of your bra, and watched every inch of your reaction like he had been starving for it.

Your back arched. Jack’s mouth parted. “Christ.”

His hips pressed down once more, not as controlled this time. Rougher. A little ruined. You felt what touching you did to him. That made it worse. That made it better. His hand covered the side of your breast through your bra, thumb dragging over the fabric with enough pressure to make your head fall back. Jack lowered his mouth to your throat again. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, to the neckline of your shirt. His hand slipped out from beneath the fabric only long enough to catch the hem.

His voice was rough. “I want this off.”

You lifted your arms before the words were fully out of his mouth. Jack’s eyes flashed. Then he pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside. The air hit your skin. For one second, he only looked at you. His gaze moved over your face first, then down, taking in your swollen mouth, your flushed chest, your bra, the way your body was still arching toward him like it had not gotten the message that he had stopped moving.

Jack’s expression went quiet. Not soft. Not gentle. Hungry in a way that had nowhere to hide.

“Fuck,” he said again, under his breath.

Your stomach tightened. Jack saw. His hand spread over your waist. “You like hearing that.”

You did not bother lying. Your breath came shallow. “Yes.”

Something in his face sharpened. Jack lowered his mouth to your chest and kissed the bare skin above your bra, slow and open. His hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric, and your back arched before you could stop it. Jack followed the movement with his mouth. He kissed along the top edge of your bra, then over the fabric itself, his mouth closing hot and deliberate over your breast.

Your breath broke.

His hand tightened at your waist, holding you still while his mouth worked you through the thin barrier, tongue dragging damp heat over the fabric, teeth grazing carefully enough to make your whole body jolt. Your fingers twisted in his hair. The reaction that pulled from him was immediate. His breath caught. His hand flexed hard against your waist. His mouth pressed more firmly to you, like he had lost one more piece of the restraint he had been clinging to.

You did it again. Jack groaned. The sound vibrated through your chest and went straight between your thighs. His mouth moved to your other breast, giving it the same slow attention, kissing and licking through the fabric until you were shifting beneath him, hips restless, breath coming out in uneven little sounds you could not swallow down. Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were worse.

“I wanted to see how long it took,” he said.

Your chest rose hard against him. “For what?”

Jack’s thumb dragged over your ribcage. “For you to stop pretending you could be quiet.”

Heat rushed through you. Then his hand slid behind your back. He unhooked your bra with one sharp, competent movement, and your breath caught before the fabric even loosened. Jack’s gaze stayed on your face as he drew the straps down your arms. Watching. Trusting the yes you had already given him. When the bra fell away, the room seemed to narrow to the weight of his stare and the heat of his body above yours. You felt exposed for half a second.

Then Jack’s mouth was on your breast.

No fabric. No teasing layer. Just the wet heat of his mouth closing over your nipple while his hand covered the other breast, palm warm and firm, thumb dragging over sensitive skin until your back arched hard off the mat.

“Jack.” His name left you broken.

Jack groaned against you. His hand slid down to your waist and pressed you back to the mat, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth kept working at your breast. Slow suction. Tongue. Teeth, careful and devastating. His other hand moved over your ribs, your stomach, your hip, learning the places that made your breathing catch. He was not rushing. That was the worst part. He had you pinned beneath him, half naked and shaking, and he was taking his time because he wanted you like this. Desperate before he ever touched you lower.

His mouth left your breast with a wet, filthy sound, and you nearly died from it. Jack looked down at what he had done to you, then back at your face. His voice came out rough. “Look at you.”

Your eyes fluttered. Jack kissed the center of your chest, then the curve of your other breast. “Already this worked up.”

His mouth closed over you again, and this time your hips lifted helplessly against his. Jack caught the movement with his own body, pressing his hips down into yours in a slow, deliberate grind. The friction hit exactly right. You gasped, sharp and helpless. Jack stilled for one beat. Then he did it again. Harder. Your hands flew to his shoulders. Jack lifted his head, eyes dark and locked on yours. “That’s it.”

He rolled his hips again, grinding against you while his mouth hovered over your breast, close enough that his breath moved over wet skin. “You asked me to take you how I want,” he said.

You could barely nod. Jack’s hand slid to your thigh and pulled it higher around his hip. “This is what I want.”

Another slow press of his hips. Another broken sound from you. His jaw tightened like he felt it everywhere. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Jack’s mouth returned to your breast, sucking harder this time as his hips moved against yours. The rhythm was slow and filthy and controlled, each drag of his body catching exactly where you needed it until your thoughts started coming apart at the edges. You tried to say his name. It came out as a moan.

Jack groaned against your skin. “Fuck, there she is.”

Your whole body went hot. His hand tightened on your thigh, keeping you open for the roll of his hips. “I want to watch it happen,” Jack said against your breast. “Every time you forget to be embarrassed. Every time your body tells me what you want before your mouth does.”

You whimpered. Jack lifted his head. His eyes were dark, wrecked, and completely focused on you. “That’s what I want,” he said. “I want you undone by me.”

The words hit so hard your hips shifted up into his again. Jack took it. He pressed you down into the mat and gave you another slow, firm grind, watching your face while the friction dragged another helpless sound out of you. His mouth curved, but his breathing was too rough for smugness. 

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, baby.”

His hand slid from your thigh to the waistband of your leggings. This time, when his fingers hooked there, he did not tease for long. He looked up at you, and you knew he saw the answer before you gave it. Still, you gave it anyway. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. That was all he needed. He kissed your breast one more time, slower now, almost indulgent, like he wanted to remember the way you shook beneath his mouth. Then he moved lower. His mouth dragged down the center of your chest, over your ribs, across your stomach, slow enough to make you feel every place he chose to stop. He did not kiss you as if he were passing through. He kissed you like every inch of skin mattered.

His hands followed his mouth, palms warm on your waist, your hips, the outside of your thighs. He was still breathing raggedly. Still hard against you every time his body shifted. Still visibly holding himself back from rushing, and the knowledge that he was choosing this pace made you ache worse. Jack’s mouth pressed to the bare skin just above your leggings. Your stomach tightened. He felt it under his lips.

His fingers hooked into the waistband. Jack looked up at you from there, eyes dark beneath the fall of his hair. “I want these off.”

Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”

The word had barely left your mouth before Jack pulled. He dragged your leggings down slowly at first, watching your face as the fabric moved over your hips. Then his patience thinned, and he tugged them the rest of the way off, taking your underwear with them in one deliberate motion that made your breath catch hard in your throat. The air hit you. So did the weight of his attention.

Jack stayed between your thighs, one hand wrapped around your ankle, the other pressed to the mat beside your hip. For a second, he did not touch you. He only looked. Your instinct was to close your legs. Jack caught the movement immediately, his palm sliding to your thigh.

“Don’t,” he said.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your inner thigh, not soothing exactly. Grounding. Reminding. “You said you wanted me to take you how I wanted.” His gaze lifted to yours. “This is how I want you.”

Your breath came shallow. Open. Exposed. Aching. His hand pushed your thigh wider, and your fingers curled against the mat. Jack watched the movement. Then his mouth pressed to the inside of your knee. You nearly laughed from nerves. It died in your throat when he kissed higher.

Slow. Deliberate. Cruel.

His mouth moved up your inner thigh, each kiss warmer than the last, his hand holding you open with easy strength. You could feel his breath against skin that was already too sensitive, already waiting, already desperate from everything he had done to you without ever giving you enough.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His mouth paused against your thigh. “I know.”

You did not think he did. Then his teeth grazed lightly over the soft skin near your hip, and your whole body jolted. Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh. He exhaled against you. “I know, baby.”

The words ruined you. His mouth moved closer. Not close enough. Your hips shifted before you could stop them, chasing him, and Jack pressed you back down with one hand spread low over your stomach. “Stay there,” he said.

Your breath broke. Jack looked up at you, and the sight of him between your thighs nearly took you apart before he touched you. His hair was mussed from your hands. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His chest was bare, shoulders broad, one hand holding you down while the other kept your thigh open. He looked focused. Hungry. Like this was not something he was doing before getting to what he wanted. Like this was what he wanted.

Jack’s mouth brushed your inner thigh. Your fingers twisted in the mat. His eyes stayed on yours.

“Look at you, all worked up,” he said. “Trying to be patient.”

He kissed closer. Your stomach pulled tight under his hand. Jack’s voice dropped. “Failing.”

You made a sound you could not swallow down. His mouth curved against your skin. Then he finally lowered his mouth to you. The first touch of his tongue made your entire body lift off the mat. Jack held you down through it, palm firm against your stomach, forearm pressing across your hips as his mouth opened against you. Hot. Wet. Certain. Not tentative. Not careful in the way he had been before.

He had heard you. He trusted you. And now he was taking.

Your head fell back, his name breaking out of you before you could make it sound pretty. Jack groaned against you like the sound pleased him. Like it fed him. His tongue dragged through you again, slower this time, and your thighs shook around his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

Jack’s hand flexed against your stomach. He liked that. Of course, he liked that. His mouth moved with more pressure, and whatever was left of your composure started to come apart under the steady, devastating focus of him. He learned you fast. Too fast. The soft sound you made when he licked slowly. The way your hips tried to move when he used more pressure. The way your breath caught when his mouth closed around your clit.

Jack found that and stayed there. Your hand flew to his hair. His eyes lifted to yours from between your thighs, dark and wrecked, and the sight of him looking at you while his mouth was on you made you clench around nothing. Jack felt it. His groan vibrated through you.

You gasped, sharp and helpless, fingers tightening in his hair. Jack pulled back just enough to speak against you. “There.” Your hips jerked. His mouth curved. “There she is.”

You could not answer. You could barely breathe. Jack did not seem to need you to. He lowered his mouth again and gave you exactly what had made you shake, one hand still pinning your hips, the other sliding under your thigh to pull you wider for him. He ate you like he had been thinking about it all night. Like he wanted to ruin you with patience. Like every sound you made told him he was right to take his time.

Your body started to go tight. Jack noticed immediately. His hand slid from your stomach to your hip, holding you down when you tried to move away from the intensity.

“No,” he murmured against you. The word was low and absolute. Your breath came out as a whimper. Jack’s mouth worked you slower. Deeper. Meaner. “Don’t run from it now,” he said, voice rough against your skin. “This is what I wanted.”

Your thighs trembled. His eyes lifted again. “I wanted to watch you fall apart.”

You were close enough that the words nearly pushed you over. Jack knew. He slid one hand from your hip, dragging his fingers through you, gathering wetness before pressing one finger inside slowly. Your mouth opened on a silent gasp. Jack groaned like it hurt him.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking wet.”

The filth of it punched through you. Your hips rolled into his hand. Jack’s mouth returned to your clit as his finger moved inside you, slow and firm, and the combination made your back arch hard off the mat.

“There,” he said against you. “Take it.”

You did. He added a second finger, and your hand pulled hard in his hair. Jack groaned against you. Your whole body tightened. “Jack.” His name came out broken. His fingers curled inside you, and your vision went white at the edges. 

He lifted his mouth just enough to look at you. “That’s it.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I can’t—”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “You can.”

His mouth returned to you. His fingers moved again. And that was it. You came with his name in your mouth and his hand holding you open, your body going tight and then shaking apart beneath him. Jack did not stop. He worked you through it, mouth softer now but still there, fingers slowing only when your thighs trembled hard around his shoulders.

By the time he lifted his head, you were wrecked. Breathless. Boneless. Half convinced the mat had melted under you. Jack kissed the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then the bare skin below your stomach. His mouth was wet. His breathing was rough. His eyes looked almost black when he crawled back up your body.

He kissed you before you could recover. Slow. Filthy. Letting you taste yourself on his mouth. You made a weak sound, and Jack smiled against your lips.

“There,” he murmured. “Now you’re listening.”

The words barely reached you through the haze.

You were still trying to remember how to breathe. Still flat on your back on the mat, skin damp, thighs loose around his hips, your whole body trembling in the aftermath of his mouth. Jack was above you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding slowly and firmly over your waist like he was checking what he had done to you by touch.

His mouth was wet. His hair was ruined by your hands. His chest rose and fell harder than before, and his eyes were fixed on you with a focus that made your stomach tighten all over again. You swallowed. “That was listening?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That was a start.”

Your breath caught. His hand dragged down your side, over your hip, then back up again like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you most. “You’re still shaking,” Jack said.

You tried to glare at him. It did not land. “Whose fault is that?”

His thumb moved over your hip. “Mine.”

The way he said it made your entire body go warm. Not apologetic. Not even a little. Jack lowered his mouth to your jaw, kissing you there, then lower, the side of your throat, the tender place below your ear. His body shifted over yours, and you felt him then, still hard against your thigh, still held back by the last few layers he had not let himself remove.

You turned your head into him, breath brushing his ear. “Jack.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “Yeah?”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, over his ribs, lower, until they caught at the waistband of his sweats. Jack went still. Completely. You felt the restraint lock through him. Your mouth brushed his jaw. “Take these off.”

His breath left him hard. For one second, he did not move. Then he lifted his head and looked at you, really looked, like he was giving you one last chance to take it back. You did not. Your fingers curled in the waistband and tugged once. Jack’s eyes darkened. “Okay,” he said.

That single word landed low in your stomach. His gaze stayed on yours as he hooked his thumbs into his sweats and pushed them down. His underwear went with them. Your mouth went dry.

He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair. Broad shoulders, bare chest, the dark trail of hair below his navel, the hard line of him revealed between you. You had known, obviously, that he wanted you. You had felt it. You had felt him pressed against you, felt him losing pieces of control against your body. Seeing him was different.

Jack saw your face change. His jaw tightened. “Don’t look at me like that unless you want this to get worse.”

Your pulse jumped. “Worse?”

His hand wrapped around himself once, slow and rough, and your thighs shifted open before you could think better of it. Jack’s eyes dropped. Then lifted. His voice came low. “For you.”

You stopped breathing. He reached for his discarded sweats and pulled a condom from the pocket, because of course Jack had one, because of course he had enough control left to remember that when your entire brain had gone soft around the edges. The thought must have crossed your face, because his mouth curved.

Jack said, “You’re thinking something.”

You swallowed. “I’m thinking you’re very prepared for a man who invited me over for dinner.”

Jack tore the packet open with his teeth, eyes still on yours. “I was prepared to be hopeful.”

A laugh broke out of you, breathless and shaky. Then he rolled the condom on, and the laugh died in your throat. Jack noticed. He always noticed. His hand came to your knee, warm and firm, sliding up the inside of your thigh as he lowered himself over you again.

The weight of him returning made your eyes close. His chest against yours. His hips between your thighs. His mouth was close enough to yours that every breath felt shared. The mat beneath your back. The heat of him everywhere.

Jack brushed his lips over yours. “Look at me.”

Your eyes opened. His face was close, his expression stripped down to something rawer than before. His hand moved between your bodies. You felt him line up with you, and your breath caught so hard your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack stilled immediately. Not pulling away. Not asking five more questions. Just there. Present. Listening.

You nodded once, holding his gaze. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours for one steady second. Then he trusted you. He pushed in slowly. The stretch stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. Jack’s forehead dropped toward yours, his breath shuddering against your lips as he sank into you inch by inch, careful because he was Jack, because careful was not optional, because even now, even after everything, he would not take your yes like permission to stop paying attention.

But he did not hold back the way he had before. He let you feel him. The weight. The pressure. The way his body shook once when he finally buried himself fully inside you.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

Your hands slid up his back, nails pressing into warm skin. He held still above you, giving you time, but his jaw was tight, his arm flexed beside your head, and you could feel what stillness was costing him. You tilted your hips, just barely. Jack’s eyes snapped to yours.

Your voice came out thin. “Please.”

His control cracked. Jack kissed you as he pulled back and thrust into you again, slow but deep enough to make your whole body jolt beneath him. The sound you made disappeared into his mouth. His hand slid under your hip, angling you up, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“There?” Jack asked, voice rough.

You nodded, breath already coming apart. “There.”

He did it again. And again. The rhythm built slowly at first, each stroke deep and controlled, his hips pinning yours to the mat, his mouth moving over your jaw, your throat, back to your mouth when your sounds got too sharp. He was everywhere. Above you. Inside you. Around you. His hand under your hip. His other braced beside your head. His chest dragging against yours with every thrust. His voice low in your ear, telling you exactly what he wanted while he took it.

“This,” Jack said, breath rough against your skin. “This is what I wanted.”

Your eyes fluttered. “Jack.”

He thrust deeper, and your voice broke. “You like knowing that?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That I wanted you like this?”

Your body answered before you did, clenching around him so hard his rhythm faltered. Jack groaned, low and wrecked. “Jesus.”

Heat rushed through you. His hand tightened under your hip. “That’s a yes,” he said.

You could not even be embarrassed. Not with him moving like that. Not with the slow, brutal drag of him inside you, the mat under your back, the sound of his breathing getting rougher every time your body pulled him in. Jack lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. “I wanted you under me.”

Your breath caught. His hips drove into yours again. “Open for me,” he said, voice low and filthy. “Taking me because you asked for it.”

You moaned. Jack’s eyes darkened. His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, pushing it higher, opening you wider beneath him. The new angle made the next thrust hit deeper, sharper, and your head fell back against the mat. Jack watched you take it. Of course he did. That was what he wanted.

“I wanted to see this,” he said. “You falling apart. Trying to be good. Trying to take it.”

Your fingers slid into his hair and pulled. His eyes closed for half a second, his hips stuttering forward hard enough to drag a cry out of you. When he opened his eyes again, the last bit of polish was gone. “Do that again,” Jack said.

You pulled his hair again. He fucked into you harder. The sound that left him was almost a growl, and it went through you like fire.

“There she is,” he said, mouth against yours. “That’s my girl.”

Your whole body clenched. Jack felt it immediately. His hand moved between you, thumb finding your clit with the same devastating focus his mouth had had earlier.

Your back arched. “Oh, my god.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “No hiding now.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I’m not.”

“I know.” His thumb moved in slow, firm circles while his hips kept their rhythm. “I can feel you.”

The words nearly finished you. You tried to turn your face away, but Jack kissed you before you could hide, deep and messy and rough. His body pressed you down into the mat, his thrusts losing some of their control now, harder, hungrier, every one of them making the pressure inside you build until your thoughts went white at the edges.

Jack broke the kiss, breathing hard. “You’re close.”

You nodded because you could not make words happen. His thumb pressed more firmly. His hips slowed just enough to make every thrust count.

“Good,” Jack said, voice wrecked. “That’s what I want.”

Your nails dragged down his back. He cursed against your mouth.

“I want to feel it,” he said. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

That was all it took. You came hard, body locking beneath him, his name breaking out of you as the pleasure tore through you. Jack groaned like it hurt, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him, his hand still working you through it while his mouth found your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. That’s it.”

You shook under him, overwhelmed, half sobbing his name, and Jack held you through all of it. Not gentle exactly. Steady. Anchoring. Taking what he had asked for and keeping you there while it happened. Jack did not stop.

He slowed, but he did not stop.

His hips moved in a deep, controlled rhythm that kept the aftershocks rolling through you, each drag of him inside you pulling another broken sound from your throat. You were still coming down, still shaking beneath him, and Jack was watching every second of it like he had not gotten enough. Like watching you fall apart once had only made him want it again.

Your fingers slid weakly over his shoulders. “Jack.”

His mouth brushed yours. “I know.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I don’t think I can…”

Jack’s hand moved over your thigh, slow and firm, holding you open beneath him. “You can.”

Your breath caught. His thumb found your clit again, gentler at first, circling over nerves already too sensitive from his mouth, from his hand, from the way he filled you. Your body jerked.

Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “There.”

You whimpered. “Oh, my god.”

His hips rolled into yours, slower now, deeper, every thrust timed with the movement of his hand until the pleasure stopped fading and started building again. Want tangled low in your stomach.

You grabbed his back. “Jack, fuck.”

His breath broke. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “That’s what I want.”

Your head fell back against the mat. Jack’s mouth moved down your throat. “I want one more.”

Your whole body clenched around him. His hips stuttered once.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed against your skin. “Just like that.”

He kept going. Not rushed. Not frantic. Focused. Ruthless in that devastatingly patient way, like he knew exactly how sensitive you were and exactly how much you could take. His hand stayed between your bodies, his thumb moving in steady circles while his hips drove into you slow and deep enough to make your thoughts scatter.

Your body started to tighten again. You shook your head, but your hips lifted into him. Jack saw both. His voice dropped. “Don’t fight it.”

You gasped. “I’m not.”

His mouth curved against your neck. “You are.”

The words should not have hit the same way they had during the lesson. They did. You clenched around him again, and Jack made a sound so rough it almost finished you by itself.

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. “Give it to me.”

Your breath broke.

His thumb pressed a little firmer. His hips kept their rhythm. His body covered yours, hot and heavy and sure, pinning you in place while pleasure rose too fast for you to hold back.

“Jack.”

His jaw tightened. “I know, baby.”

You grabbed at him, nails digging into his back, and came again with a broken sound that barely felt like your own. It tore through you harder this time, sharper, your body locking around him while Jack held you through it, hips slowing but not stopping, his mouth at your jaw, your throat, your cheek, murmuring low, wrecked praise against your skin.

“That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. Good girl.”

You were still shaking when he finally went still. Not because he was done. Because he was trying not to be, you felt it in the tension of his body. The hard flex of his arm beside your head. The way his breath came unevenly against your mouth. The way his hips pressed deep and stayed there like moving again might cost him everything.

You opened your eyes. Jack was looking down at you like you had ruined him. Your voice came out soft and wrecked. “You didn’t…”

His jaw shifted. “No, not yet,” Jack said.

The word was rough. Your stomach flipped. His hand slid over your hip, fingers pressing into skin he had already touched, already held, already used to keep you open for him.

Jack swallowed hard. “Turn over.”

The command went through you like heat. Your breath caught. “What?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. Dark. Focused. Barely restrained. His hand tightened at your hip. “Hands and knees.”

Your body reacted before your brain caught up. He felt it. Of course, he felt it. Something in his face changed. “There,” Jack murmured. “You like that too.”

You could barely breathe. Jack pulled out slowly, and the emptiness made you shiver. He helped you turn, one hand steady at your waist, the other sliding along your thigh as you rolled onto your stomach and pushed yourself up on shaking arms. Your knees pressed into the mat. Your hands flattened against the floor. You were still trembling. Jack settled behind you, and the first touch of his hand on your hip made your spine arch.

“Easy,” he said, voice low behind you.

There was nothing easy about it. Not the mat beneath your palms. Not the heat of his body at your back. Not the way his hand moved over your waist like he was looking at you and touching you at the same time. Not the way you could hear his breathing change when he saw you like this.

Jack’s palm slid up your spine, warm and steady. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

The words were rough enough to feel dragged out of him. Your throat tightened. Then his hand moved back to your hip, and his voice dropped. “And this is how I want you now.”

Your fingers curled against the mat. Jack guided your hips back, slow and firm, and pressed into you again from behind. The first thrust stole whatever air you had left. Your head dipped between your shoulders.

Jack’s hand spread over your lower back. “There you go.”

The angle was different. Deeper. Too much and exactly right, his hips meeting yours with a controlled force that made your arms shake. Jack noticed immediately, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you up slightly, keeping you steady while he fucked into you with the last of his restraint burning down behind you.

You could hear it now. Every rough breath. Every low curse. Every time your body took him, he had to fight not to lose himself too quickly.

“Fuck,” Jack said behind you, voice wrecked. “You feel so good like this.”

Your body tightened around him. His hand gripped your hip harder. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

He moved faster. Not careless. Never careless. But harder now. Less polished. His hips snapped into yours, each thrust pushing you forward over your hands, and Jack held you there, one hand at your hip, the other braced against the mat beside yours when he leaned over you. His chest brushed your back. His mouth came to your shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

You believed him. You pushed back into him. Jack cursed against your skin. His rhythm broke for one second, then came back rougher.

“That’s it,” he said. “Take it.”

The words broke something open in you. You lowered onto your forearms, overwhelmed, and Jack followed immediately, hand sliding under your stomach to keep you up enough for him. His body covered your back now, hot and heavy, his mouth at your neck, his thrusts shorter and harder and losing control by the second.

“You asked me,” he said, voice torn up against your ear. “You asked me to take you how I wanted.”

Your breath came out in broken pieces. Jack’s hand slid down between your thighs. You jolted. He groaned when he felt how sensitive you still were.

Your body clenched around him.

His head dropped against your shoulder for half a second. “Fuck. Don’t do that unless you want me to come.”

You turned your face into the mat, voice muffled and wrecked. “Maybe I do.”

Jack went still, only for a beat. Then his hand tightened on your hip, and his mouth pressed hard to your shoulder. “Yeah?” he asked.

You nodded, shaking. “Yes.”

The last of his control went. Jack fucked into you harder, deeper, one hand braced beside yours, the other locked on your hip. His breath was harsh at your ear, his body tense over yours, every thrust dragging a sound out of both of you now. You pushed back into him again, and his rhythm faltered.

“Again,” Jack said, rough and low.

You did.

His hand tightened hard at your hip. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking around it. “Just like that.”

Your body clenched around him, and Jack groaned your name like it had been punched out of him. The sound went straight through you. His hips snapped forward once, twice, then lost their rhythm completely.

“That’s it,” Jack said, wrecked against your shoulder. “That’s it, baby. Don’t move. Fuck, don’t move.”

You went still under him, shaking, taking the weight of his body over yours, the heat of his mouth at your skin, the desperate, broken rhythm of him as he chased the last few seconds. Jack buried himself deep and came with your name in his mouth.

Not quiet. Not controlled. Your name, then a curse, then a low, ruined sound against your shoulder as his whole body went tight above yours. His hand gripped your hip, his chest pressed to your back, and his breath stuttered hot and uneven over your skin while he emptied into the condom.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.  The room was nothing but breathing. The heater. The mat beneath your hands. Jack’s body over yours, shaking. Then his grip eased. His mouth pressed to your shoulder, softer now. Once. Twice.

“I’ve got you,” Jack murmured again, voice rough and spent. This time, it sounded different. Less command. More promise. For a few breaths, he stayed there, curved over you, chest against your back, mouth pressed to your shoulder like he was trying to remember how to be in his body again. Then his weight shifted, careful even now, and he eased away slowly. You shivered at the loss.

“I know,” he murmured, one hand smoothing over your hip. “Easy.”

He moved with the same quiet competence he had carried through the whole night, taking care of what he needed to before coming back to you. He did not leave you long enough for the air to cool around you. One second, the mat was too wide and too quiet beneath your knees; the next, Jack was there again, settling beside you and gathering you carefully into his arms. You went without argument.

Your body felt loose and heavy, every muscle humming, your skin too sensitive where his hands had been. Jack rolled you gently onto your side, then pulled you against his chest, one arm tucked beneath your head and the other wrapped around your waist. The basement was quiet around you now in a different way. Not charged. Not waiting. Just warm. The heater hummed. Somewhere above you, the house creaked softly, ordinary and safe.

Jack’s hand moved slowly over your stomach. “You with me?”

You nodded against his chest. “Mostly.”

His mouth brushed your hair. “Mostly?”

You closed your eyes. “Some of me is still on another planet.”

A laugh moved through him, low and tired and pleased. “That so?”

You hummed. “Your fault.”

Jack’s arm tightened around you. “Mine.”

The word was softer this time. Not smug. Not hungry. Just his.

For a minute, neither of you moved. His fingers traced slow, absent lines over your side, then your hip, then the outside of your thigh. Not trying to start anything again. Just touching because he could. Because you were there. Because he had taken you apart, and now he was putting the room back together around you.

Eventually, Jack shifted enough to look at your face. “Anything hurt?”

You blinked up at him, still warm and dazed. “My pride.”

His mouth curved faintly. “That was in rough shape before we started.”

You gave him a tired look. “Rude.”

Jack said, “Accurate.”

You sighed. “I hate when you’re technically right.”

His smile softened. His hand came up, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. “I’m serious.”

You knew. The tenderness in his voice made something in your chest go quiet. You took inventory because he was asking you to, because he would want the real answer. Your knees were a little sore from the mat. Your hips felt pleasantly used. Your throat was dry. Your body was exhausted in a way that felt more like floating than pain.

You shook your head. “Nothing bad.”

Jack watched you for another second. “Good.”

You reached for his hand before he could move away. “I mean it.”

His fingers threaded through yours. “I know.”

And that was its own kind of aftercare, too. Not making you prove your yes again. Not turning your answer into something fragile. Just hearing you and believing you. Your eyes burned suddenly, which was deeply inconvenient after everything else your body had already done on that mat. Jack saw it because, of course, he did.

His expression changed at once. “Hey.”

You shook your head quickly. “I’m okay.”

Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “I know.” Your throat tightened. He opened his arm wider. “Come here anyway.”

That undid you more than it should have. You tucked your face into his neck, and Jack held you. Not loosely. Not like you might break. Firmly. Completely. His hand spread wide over your back, warm and steady, and for the first time all night, your body believed there was nothing left to brace for.

After a while, you murmured, “I cannot believe your self-defense dungeon has seen this much action.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his chest moved under your cheek. He was laughing. Quietly. The Jack version.

You smiled against his skin. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like that.”

His hand moved slowly up your spine. “I’m not pretending anything right now.”

Your smile softened. The silence settled again, warmer than before. Jack kissed your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then your mouth, slow and sweet and almost unbearably gentle after the roughness of his hands and voice. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours one more time.

“You did good,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “At which part?”

Jack’s mouth curved. “All of it.”

You looked down at your tangled hands, at the mat beneath you, at his thumb moving gently over your knuckles. “Even the part where I failed the lesson and ended up pinned under you?”

His eyes warmed. “Especially that part.”

You laughed softly. “Terrible instructor.”

Jack kissed your knuckles. “You learned what mattered.”

Your chest went quiet. You knew what he meant. Not the wrist. Not the stance. Not the leverage. You knew how to get out. You knew he would let you. And you knew exactly why you had stayed.

Jack shifted beside you, one arm still firm around your waist. “Come on.”

You made a faint protesting sound. “Where?”

Jack brushed his mouth over your temple. “Upstairs. Water. Shower. Bed.”

You opened one eye. “In that order?”

His mouth twitched. “Unless you plan to argue with hydration.”

You sighed dramatically, though it came out sleepy. “Fine.”

Jack’s hand slid beneath your thigh, helping you sit up before you could pretend your legs worked normally. The room tilted for one second, and he steadied you at once, palm warm against your back.

“There?” he asked.

You leaned into him. “There.”

His expression softened at the callback. Then he stood, tugged on his sweats, and helped you into his shirt before guiding you toward the stairs with one arm around your waist. You let him. This time, letting him take care of you did not feel like proof that the world was dangerous.

It felt like proof you had somewhere safe to go after it was.

Peace. That's what this getaway was about, taking you somewhere the two of you could live as a young couple, un-disturbed. It was about the only thing that had gotten Robby through the last tough weeks of work. All the blood and death and bathroom breaks of locking himself in stools to silently cry was all so he could come home to you and his family in one piece.

Now, he could shred every responsibility that didn't include being your husband and that wasn't a responsibility. More an honour.

Robby looked down at you with a smile, expecting to see one back. Instead, you were looking down at your phone. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“I'm just checking in with the kids.”

He groaned and grabbed your phone, throwing it ahead into the cabin. It landed somewhere soft on the rug. “They'll be fine, they're what? Twenty something?”

You laughed and stepped closer into his circle of heat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and drawing yourself closer. “Look at you, pretending not to know your kids ages.”

Robby dropped the bags, snapping his arms around your waist and holding you up. “What can I say? I'm loving... attentive...”

His beard scratched up and down your neck as he littered slow kisses there.

“Should I carry you through the doorway? Like when we were married?” Robby wasn't exactly encouraged by the idea with your laughter shaking in your chest.

“I don't think your back can handle that, old man.”

His brows rose up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and you bit back a smirk. He couldn't help but think how sexy you looked, even after kids and marriage you never failed to stop looking beautiful.

And Robby had never found being called old sexier.

“Well,” he grunted, lifting you further till your toes were scraping the floor. “How about you go up to that bedroom and I show you just what this old man can do?”

“Dad's gonna kill me... Dad's gonna kill me.”

Noah watched his brother, John, pace the small hospital room. For such a tiny pace he was making good job at trekking miles. “Relax, at least we're in a hospital,” he said. “That way they can shock you back to life.”

“So he can kill me all over again!” John hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smack bouncing around the walls.

Their sister, Casey, laughed on the bed.

She was taking all this surprisingly well considering it was her arm broken and limply lying in her lap.

The brothers looked to her as if remembering she was there. Like she wasn't the reason they were there. Well- technically it was John's fault. Because he was older and he was supposed to be looking after Casey. He should have been the one watching her on the trampoline. Should have seen how she fell on her arm and a sickening crack followed.

To her credit, Casey didn't cry.

Instead she let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor shudder.

Noah didn't know which is dad would hate more: the cast she'll inevitably be put in or the words she'd some how picked up.

“How're you feeling?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hungry,” she said, pulling out the puppy dog eyes and pout that only a six year old could do effectively.

“Can't eat I'm afraid, not till we've got that arm looked at.”

“Will I need stitches?”

Noah let out one loud, ha! “Worse!”

Casey shrieked.

“Noah!” John lectured.

“What? I'm being honest! Honestly is the best policy.”

“Not when it scares her!”

“I'm not scared,” said Casey, momentarily misplacing her broken arm as she tried to flail them around only to end up teary eyed at the pain.

John shuffled closer to her side in panic, throwing an arm around her shoulder and comforting her. “It's okay, oh, it's okay.”

“I want daddy!”

John and Noah looked at each other, gulping.

It had been a total of four hours. Four hours they'd been gone and already things had gone wrong! The drive up to their cabin alone was five so they'd maybe only had three hours of relaxation. That was enough, right?

For months their dad had drilled it into them he was taking their mother away for an anniversary he had to work three months ago. This was the only time off together your schedules could work out. After all, PCMT didn't run steady without the attending and nurse.

We'll be gone three days, their dad told them, sitting the two brothers a year apart down. Carter will be busy at Presby so I need you two to look after Casey, alright? John you're eighteen, you're in charge.

Noah had never been happier to be younger.

It was all amusing to him really, besides the fact his sister was hurt- obviously.

“I want daddy too,” Noah laughed.

John paled.

Suddenly the door flew open and just when Noah thought it might have been a doctor they'd never seen, or Abbot or Dana, it only got worse.

Carter rushed in, white lab coat billowing a second behind him. Their dad thought it was tacky and dumb (med students haven't worn them since the 90s, he'd said) but their mom thought Carter looked handsome so- the doting mommy's boy he was- Carter always wore it.

Noah rolled his eyes.

“Hey, hey, what's going on here?” he rushed over to Casey, pressing a kiss to her forehead and petting down her hair. “You okay? She okay?”

“She's fine,” said John, standing from the bed.

“My arm hurts,” whined Casey.

“I'll give you ten bucks to say nothing,” said John.

Casey made a dramatic move in holding in her words.

John should have done it for five.

Carter looked around the room like he was wholly confused even if he was in his second year of med school in Presby and was accustom to the look of a hospital room. “Where's her chart? Has she been looked at? Has Dana been in?”

“No, I got us in on the down low,” said Noah, standing from his chair.

Carter hovered over the computer, trying to find a way to log in that didn't mean hacking into the system. “The down low?”

John reached his other side. “I bribed Donnie to get us a room.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So they don't call mom and dad!”

“They're not here?” Carter asked, a furrow between his brows.

“No, they're up at the cabin,” said John.

“Their romantic getaway, you remember that?” asked Noah.

Carter's expression dropped. “That was today?”

“Yeah that was today, where have you been living?” said Noah, knowing his brother lived in the second biggest room of the house and had been pretty much vacant from it with his studies. Noah had took to invading the room at any chance.

John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We called you cause... you know, you're a doctor.”

“Well, no, I'm a med student,” said Carter, though briefly the word 'doctor' had gone to his head. And ego.

“But you're so good at it,” encouraged Noah, thumping their eldest brother on the chest and fixing his crooked stethoscope. “What better time will you have to put your skills to good use then to help our sister?”

The three looked back to Casey who was watching them, blinking.

“How's your pain on a scale of one to ten, Casey? One being no pain at all, ten being horrible, terrible, worst pain of your life?” asked Carter, keeping his voice as light and brotherly as possible.

Casey looked to John.

He sighed. “You can talk, Casey.”

She thought about it for a second. “A seven?”

Carter cursed under his breath.

John and Noah shared a look, knowing who to blame Casey's exclamations on. “You can order labs,” said John.

“Yeah, get her a scan or something,” added Noah.

Carter laughed them off. “I can't, I don't work here!”

John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course you can, you're a Robinavitch.”

“Hey,” said Santos, approaching the nurses station as if in a daze. “I'm like totally not crazy and I totally don't miss the guy or anything but I swear I just saw a younger version of Robby walk in here.”

“What?” Javadi laughed.

Whitaker nodded along, as if he'd expected it. “You must really miss the guy, huh?”

Santos rolled her eyes. “No, Jesus that's not it. I just mean Robby's literal doppelganger just walked in, white lab coat and all.”

Dana didn't make it a habit to listen into gossip... sometimes she couldn't help it. She lingered at the nurses counter, listening with one ear to everything else around her in case there was an actual emergency.

“Really, where?” Javadi asked.

“Hey! You three!” Dana called, snapping her fingers as she approached the three, peering at them over her glasses. “We got beds to empty, people to see, let's move it!”

The three were resigned to do their job, as so many usually were, but Dana watched them go, ensuring they were all going to three separate locations but not before she caught Trinity leaning into Javadi, whispering in her ear an exam room where this mysterious young Robby was hid in.

Dana wondered but not for long as she found the room with not one, not two but four Robinavitch children inside.

A grin formed. It was always good to see them, especially since she'd been seeing them since they were babies, having held each one of them in her arms and held each of their hands as they started to walk. Sometimes they still needed the hand.

Carter, John and Noah's backs were to the door, the three standing over the bed in clear thought if their folded arms and tense backs were anything to go by, so like their father they were.

Casey Robinavitch, the youngest of the set, was first to spot her, smiling wide. “D! D!”

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” she celebrated.

Casey did what she could to move but Dana was there at her side, embracing her and helping her back down onto the bed.

The boys were less enthusaticaly.

“Hey, Dana,” John said quietly.

Carter was by far his father's son in looks. The same sloped nose and brown eyes. Dressed up as a doctor he looked even more the part. It freaked Dana sometimes, like having the ghost of young and cocky Michael Robinavitch hovering around the place.

John and Carter- still alike their father- had a bit more of you in them. In their smile and eyes. Casey too.

“What the hell's going on here, you miss me that much you invaded the place, huh?” she asked though she could tell by all three of the boys looking worried and Casey sitting still that there was some reason to have been here.

“It looks like Casey broke her arm,” said Carter, brushing back his hair. “A simple Distal Radius fracture.”

“You got all that without a scan? Presby must be teaching you something,” she teased.

Carter blushed.

Dana cast her gaze to the quiet John and Noah. “Which one of you supposed to be looking after my girl here anyway?”

They both pointed at each other.

Dana shook her head and rolled her eyes before focusing ahead to Casey. “Okay, honey, you hungry? I keep a stash of candy in my draw, you want a piece?”

She nodded enthusaticaly.

“But she'll need surgery for her arm, she can't eat,” said Carter.

“Even I knew that,” added John.

“Yeah well the OR's a little backed up,” said Dana with a pat to Casey's knee. She stood up and drew the curtain around them, closing them in. “We had an accident and there's a long que.”

She didn't want to get in the specifics of crash that involved all the OR's time but Carter approached her.

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

Dana smiled. She had to say, it was good to see the kids that were made from her favourite attending and nurse. “No, kid. You stay here with your family, I'll handle everything.”

“What's with the curtain?” asked Noah.

“Are we grounded?”

“You're all a bit of a celebrity around here, the new residents and med students don't know you guys exist, heck they only realised your parents were married after Huckleberry caught them in the lounge.”

“Ew,” said John.

“Caught them what?” asked Casey, full of child like innocence.

The boys looked to Dana in amusement.

“Doing things adults shouldn't do at work,” she said.

Casey wasn't satisfied. “Like what?”

“You can ask them when they get here.”

“You're not gonna call them, are you?” asked John, adam's apple moving in his swallow.

“Have to kid, sorry! I'll get Princess to take you to X-ray, sound good?” she asked Casey, knowing Princess was her favourite (other than herself of course) because she was better at braiding than both her parents.

John fell into his seat, hunched over. In comfort, Carter clamped a hand on his shoulder.

Dana left the family, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile. She'd pushed you and Robby to go away, trusting that the three boys you held in such high esteem would handle looking over one small girl who really wasn't that much trouble.

She hated to be proved wrong.

Hated even more she had to interrupt the two of you after she'd had to watch the sultry looks passed between the two of you and stop the two of you from disappearing together into rare empty beds and store rooms.

Dana called you first, shaking her head while she did.

“Robby!”

He groaned into your neck, his arms caging in your head as he moved in and out of you with a rapid pace. Sweat covered both your bodies from the long-awaited sex he planned to drag out. “My god,” he groaned.

Your nails scratched down his back leaving angry welts in your place. He licked lazily at your neck, moaning and groaning at the taste.

The both of you were as loud as you liked, without kids barging in to say they couldn't find the remote or wanting to know what was for dinner. The cabin stood alone with only trees as its companion so you could be as loud as you liked.

He'd had you coming on his mouth and fingers- then once more for luck- before he finally found himself home in you and that was how it felt, coming home.

Your back arched into him as his hips met yours. “Michael... Michael...”

You could feel him grin into your neck. “Gonna come again? Come on my cock, jus how I like.”

Robby found your lips and kissed you openly, all teeth and tongue. His breathing was laboured, his lips a hungry mess. His hips drove in more and more, his groaning louder, face scrunched in concentration to last.

“Please, Michael, please,” you whined against his lips.

Robby licked at your lips, nodding-

Suddenly there was a loud ringing and vibration against the wood off the bedside table where you'd left your phone.

Robby groaned but not in pleasure. As his lips pulled away from yours you turned to look at your phone. “Ignore it, ignore it,” he begged, cupping your cheek to move you to look at him again.

You let him kiss you, let him distract you with his tongue as he drove his cock in and out quicker, desperate to chase your high.

“Oh god, hurgh, fuck!”

Your phone still rung and his grip hardened on your face.

“Could be... could be the kids...” you uttered.

“They're fine, they're fine-”

But you couldn't help but stretch, under the feign of pleasure you arched up and grabbed your phone, turning it face up.

“Jesus-” Robby grunted but stilled inside of you, impossibly close.

Hospital. Work. Calling.

“Jesus-” he chuckled dryly. “Hasn't even been a day.”

Before you could even think about answering it Robby snatched it from your hand and threw it half way across the room.

“Robby!” you laughed.

Your arms wrapped back around him and drew him in, legs going around his waist as his cock continued his work.

“Jack, thank god!” Dana gasped when she spotted the night attending making his way in. He greeted her with a bag already over his shoulder, giving her a brief hug.

“Hey, got your message, what's going on?” he asked, brows knitted together in worry.

It was a last ditch attempt. Dana had called you a handful of times from the hospital phone and her own. She'd tried Robby and been sent straight to voice mail. Nothing. She couldn't exactly blame the two of you, it was supposed to be a holiday.

None of the kids were willing to be the one to make the call and other than tackle them to get a phone Jack was the last result.

“Got a family situation, the parents won't pick up,” she explained.

“What kind of family-”

Dana led him into the exam room.

Casey was sitting in the bed, her arm up in a sling with a pizza box in her lap. Next to her Noah was cosied on the bed while John and Carter were on each side of the bed, chairs pulled him and pizza slices in hands.

“Uncle Jack!” Casey cheered.

The boys at least looked happier to see him than they had Dana. They knew if Jack was here it meant they couldn't get in contact with either you or their dead.

“What's this? A pizza party and I wasn't invited?” he said, setting down his bag and heading for Casey, checking in on her first.

“What's this? Where's the pizza come from?” asked Dana.

“They were hungry, I ordered,” said Carter.

“And surgery for her arm?”

Carter chocked down the last of his pizza. His doctors coat was still sat on his shoulders but his tie was lose around his neck and several pens were missing from his pocket. “The OR's backed up, you said that, you gave her a lollipop!”

Dana tried her best efforts to be mad on behalf of Robby but it didn't work. Robby could maybe be mad at the boys if he had the right too but Casey he could never seem find to be angry with. A daddy's girl through and through.

“Hey, Carter, how's Presby?” asked Jack, all the while testing the pain with Casey.

“Good, it's er, it's good,” he said. “I told them there was a family emergency.”

There was only one reason Carter had gone to Presby and that was to keep work and home away from each other. He couldn't be a student under his dad and mom.

“So you er-” Noah started. “Couldn't get through to mom or dad, huh?”

There was an un-denying gleam of joy at that.

“No, we couldn't,” said Dana. “But we're gonna keep trying.”

Carter crossed his arms over his chest as if he were the concerned doctor and not the worried older brother. “We need their permission for the surgery, what happens to her arm if it's not put right soon?”

“Well good news is I can pull weight in the OR, though we'll have to wait for the pizza to go down,” said Jack, taking a bite from the slice Casey held in hand. She laughed. “What colour we thinking? Pink? Red? Black?”

“Can I have three colours?” she asked.

Jack shrugged. “I'll put the request in.”

“Why aren't they answering? Maybe they're asleep?” said John.

Noah smirked. “Or maybe they're enjoying their free time.”

Jack shot him an unamused look.

“I meant playing games!” he defended.

“Like twister?” asked Casey.

Carter looked away, scratching the back of his head as Dana hid her smirk along with him.

“Yeah, twister.”

You'd managed to escape the clutch's of Robby, managing to throw his shirt on and get to the kitchen for a glass of water. Your legs had been shaky in the sort of delicious way you'd missed.

It was dark out, the small orange glow of the lights around the cabin lighting your way as you downed half your drink.

The wooden floor creaked behind you. The curve of Robby's belly met your back.

His hands wound under his shirt on your body, fondling your hips. “I thought the point of a get away was no clothes allowed.”

You bit your lip, gently setting down your glass of water. “And if I turn around are you going to be following that rule?”

Robby chuckled into your skin. His lips found your neck again, kissing over the bruises he'd left from before. It started slow, the sort that reminded you of your first time before his teeth met your skin and nipped. His hands got further up your skin, running over the curves of your body. “Why don't you look and find out?”

The idea of Robby in all his beauty had you salivating at the mouth and lower parts when a vibration alerted the two of you.

Robby groaned again, the both of you finding his phone left in his pants pocket crumpled on the floor.

It seemed you'd been in a hurry to get them off.

“The thing keeps going!”

Robby was naked, and it distracted you all through the walk to get his pants, fishing for his phone. Not that he cared, he only finished your glass of water.

Your hormones were going crazy, begging you to climb your husband like a tree but you still managed to answer the phone. “Michael's phone.”

“Jesus what's it take to get you to pick up a phone!” Dana said in a way of greeting.

“Oh, hi Dana, how are you? Sorry, we were... busy.”

“Yeah busy my ass, listen you guys need to come back.”

“Why, what's happening?”

Robby heard the worry in your voice and turned to look over his shoulder.

“Your kids are here, Casey's hurt.”

“So let me get this straight: You're letting Jack sign your cast first, then Carter, then John, then me!” gasped Noah.

The family had made themselves at home at in the small room, Casey in the bed like the queen of the castle though even queens needed sleep.

Carter was watching his sister come in and out of sleep while John stayed close to her side, stroking back her hair. They'd put her in the list for the OR, it was backed up enough that by the time she got in her eating wouldn't have been a problem. In three more hours he'd have to get back to Presby and carry on a shift. He should've used the time for napping but found the hospital chairs not so comfy.

Casey nodded, as if proud.

“It's John's fault and he gets to sign it before me!”

“He didn't steal my favourite crayons!” she said.

Jack raised his brows at Noah. “Crayons?”

Noah stuttered with all the eyes on him. “I was taking notes.”

“In crayons?” asked Jack.

“Colour helps you retain information! Look it up!”

There was a gang of laughter before the doors burst open.

Robby was first into the scene and you were close behind.

“Dad!” said Casey.

“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted, by-passing everyone else in the room to press a kiss to her forehead, keeping a hand on her fine arm. “What the hell happened?” he asked to the room.

John and Noah fell into your side, trying to be safe there away from the wrath of their father. “She- she was on the trampoline and she fell, broke her wrist.”

“Distal fracture,” corrected Carter.

“Why weren't you looking out for her?” Robby asked as he took Jack's stethoscope from around his neck, pressing it to her chest as if there could be something wrong and as if they hadn't already checked.

“I-I turned my back for a second,” said John.

“It's okay,” you said, stroking back John's air just a little.

You walked past the boys, greeting Carter quickly before you set on the edge of Casey's bed. Your daughter had your eyes. “Hey honey, how are you feeling?”

Robby gave her another kiss on the forehead before stepping away and letting Jack- the closest thing the kids had to an uncle- take his place. There was a small wave of his hand and the boys- even Carter- fell into step. “So tell me why not even five hours into the trip with your mother we're called back in because you let your sister get hurt?”

“He didn't let her get hurt, dad,” Noah defended. “It could've happened whether or not John was watching her.”

Robby's hands ran up and over his face, pulling at the lines of age and worry. Deep down he knew that was true and the boys knew he knew that. It didn't change that Casey had been hurt and ended up in the hospital. If it had been one of them- Carter, John or Noah- Robby and you would have drove with the same speed.

“Okay, okay,” Robby nodded. “And who let her have pizza when she's in line for the OR?”

John and Noah turned to Carter.

Robby frowned. “Are they teaching you anything at Presby?”

“Dana said the OR was backed up!”

“Don't drag me into this kid!” called Dana from the open door and over the crowd that had formed.

On second look Robby spotted Whitaker, Javadi, King and Santos at the door with Samira- all of who knew you and Robby well, knew you had a flirty thing going on yet had no idea the life you'd shared and continued to create behind the scene.

Next to them stood Langdon, the one holding the door open for them all to see. The one that did know and had even played a hand in Casey's birth.

“Holy shit,” said Whitaker.

“You have kids?” asked Javadi. “Like actual, real-life off springs?”

Carter frowned, looking from the crowd to you. “Why do they seem so surprised at that?”

You smiled, leaning your head on Casey's as she babbled about the accident and everyone she wanted to sign her cast (including barbie herself). “Well, we didn't really mention the whole kids part.”

“So nobody knew we existed?” asked Noah, offended. “What happened to pride and joy?”

“What happened to pain in my ass?” said Robby, lovingly. At least, Carter thought it came off that way. “Okay- yes, yes,” he said addressing the crowd. “We have kids, we didn't say anything because well frankly it was none of your buisness-”

“I knew I saw a younger Robby!” said Santos. Her phone was in hand and clicking with the sound of a picture of the room- specifically Carter-before anyone could stop her.

“It's not like I don't have my hands full with you lot already,” Robby mumbled, rubbing at his temples. “But yes, we have four beautiful children, anything else?”

There was a clear of a throat. Surprisingly not from the crowd of doctors but from behind him. From you.

“What?” asked Robby.

You gave him a pointed look.

He'd said four kids. Had he got it wrong? Somewhere along the lines it did get hard to keep track of them all. Who had exams when, who was in line to follow in their footsteps in practising medicine, who wanted a dog for christmas, etc.

Just in case, Robby did a head count, counting his kids off on his fingers: Casey, Noah, John, Carter. Casey, Noah-

It wasn't till he looked at you and saw your hand lingering over your stomach that he realised.

He thought back to the wine you'd declined at dinner last week, to the morning sickness you'd tried to hide from him, to the way you said there were things to talk about when you had a chance alone. After four, Robby should have been good at spotting the signs.

Five children it would appear.

“Congratulations, brother,” Jack was first to say, smiling in amusement that you'd caught your husband so off guard. Again.

John and Noah were next in clapping him on the back before attending to you in the same celebrations.

Robby took it all red in the cheeks as Santos started to clap behind him, Whitaker following un-sure a beat behind her.

“Jesus, dad, can you keep it in your pants for once,” joked Carter, standing at his full height next to him.

Robby shrugged, arms folding over his chest. “Takes two.”

Noah frowned. “Ew.”

Casey, the poor girl with the broken wrist, wasn't sure what was going on. “Takes two to what?”

The room fell silent. You pursed your lips, looking to Robby for some explanation.

Carter patted his dad on the back, slipping out of the room.

John smirked. “Yeah, dad, takes two to what?”