He watched you for a long beat, those storm-blue eyes searching your face like he could read every carefully hidden crack. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, but close enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Fair enough, Doc,” he murmured, voice still low and rough. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

You gave him a small, professional smile and glanced at the clock. “We’re actually coming up on the end of our session. Before we wrap up, I’d like to give you a couple of things to try before next week.”

He nodded, leaning back again, though his gaze never fully left you. You outlined a simple grounding exercise for the nightmares, the 5-4-3-2-1 sensory technique when he woke up sweating and suggested he keep a notebook by his bed to jot down fragments of the dreams if he could.

Then you reached into your bottom desk drawer and pulled out a small woven basket containing various stress toys, squishy foam balls, textured fidget rings, and a couple of smooth worry stones.

“Some clients also find it helpful to keep something tactile nearby,” you added, trying to keep your tone casual. “These can be useful during the day if the anxiety starts to build. You can take one if you’d like.”

James stared at the basket for a second, then let out a low, dry chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You think I need one of these little toys, Doc?” His voice carried a hint of amusement edged with something sharper. “What, you see me as a little boy who needs something soft to squeeze when things get tough?”

Your face flushed instantly, heat blooming across your cheeks. You set the basket down a little too quickly, fumbling for words.

“No- God, no,” you stammered, hating how flustered you sounded. “That’s not it at all. Some clients, especially those with trauma, find that having something to touch or manipulate helps ground them in the present moment. It’s not about being childish. It’s just… another tool.”

James’s eyes lingered on your flushed face, the corner of his mouth twitching with clear amusement. For a brief second, something hotter flickered behind the blue.

“Relax, Doc. I’m just messing with you.” He shook his head, still smirking faintly. “I’ll pass on the toys. Got enough metal in me already.”

The playful jab hung in the air for a moment, easing some of the tension that had built during the session. You let out a small, relieved laugh, grateful for the shift in mood, even as your cheeks remained warm.

James listened attentively as you wrapped up the rest of your recommendations, repeating the grounding exercise once more and emphasizing the importance of the dream journal. His vibranium fingers continued their slow, metallic rhythm against his thigh, a subtle tell of the restless energy still simmering beneath his calm exterior.

When you finally closed your notebook, he stood, once again filling the small office with his commanding presence. The air seemed to shift with him.

“Thanks,” he said simply, voice low and sincere. “For not kicking me out after I lost my temper earlier.” It softened further. “And for listening.”

You rose as well, smoothing your dress down over your hips, suddenly hyper-aware of how close the session had felt. “That’s what I’m here for, James. Same time next week?”

He gave a short nod, then paused at the door, one gloved hand resting on the frame. For a second he looked like he wanted to say something more. His eyes met yours again, that same intense, searching gaze that made your pulse stutter.

Instead, he offered a small, crooked smile that did dangerous things to your heart.

“Take care of yourself, Doc.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room feeling strangely empty.

You stepped into the hallway before you could stop yourself, the cool air brushing against your heated skin as the door to your office clicked shut behind you.

“James,” you called, your voice softer than intended but still carrying down the quiet corridor.

He turned slowly, his broad frame silhouetted against the late afternoon light filtering through the window at the end of the hall. Those storm-blue eyes locked onto yours instantly, sharp and searching. The faint scent of leather and warm skin still clung to him, mixing with the faint trace of lavender that followed you from your office.

You walked toward him, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor, each step amplifying the nervous rhythm of your pulse. Your black dress shifted against your thighs with every movement, the sheer tights whispering softly as your legs brushed together. The persistent ache from earlier had only grown sharper.

“If the nightmares get bad- really bad- before our next session,” you said, stopping a few feet away from him, “you can text me. Just to let me know you’re okay.”

James tilted his head slightly, his vibranium arm whirring faintly as he shifted his weight. The dog tags at his neck caught the light for a brief second.

You continued quickly, trying to sound professional even as heat crawled up your neck. “Clients with cases as severe as yours… they sometimes find it more helpful to reach me directly instead of calling the office and waiting to get through my assistant. It can feel isolating when you’re in the middle of a spiral. This way, if you need a quick grounding reminder or just… need to know someone’s there, you don’t have to wait.”

You pulled a small notepad from the pocket of your dress, the paper cool against your warm fingers. Your hand trembled slightly as you scribbled your personal cell number. When you tore the page free and held it out, your fingertips brushed against the smooth black leather of his gloved hand. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through you, pooling low in your belly.

He stared down at the small slip of paper for a long moment, then folded it carefully between his fingers, treating it like something fragile.

“You sure about this, Doc?” His voice was low and gravelly, laced with caution. “This isn’t… standard procedure, is it? Giving out your personal number on the first session?”

You forced a calm, professional smile, though your cheeks felt flushed. “It’s just a safety measure. For clients dealing with intense, recurring nightmares and trauma like yours. I’ve done it a few times before when I thought it was necessary. Nothing more than that.”

James held your gaze a second too long. His blue eyes darkened slightly, studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something knowing.

“Necessary, huh?” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, rough like worn leather. “Or is this because you could see how bad it gets?”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were standing, close enough to catch the faint, masculine scent of his cologne mixed with clean sweat. “It’s because I take my clients’ wellbeing seriously, James. That’s all.”

He slipped the paper into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the movement slow and deliberate. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice softening just a fraction. “Thank you, Doc. Really. Not many people would offer that.”

You gave a small nod, trying to ignore the way your heart hammered against your ribs. “Take care of yourself tonight, James.”

He lingered for one more second, that crooked, dangerous smile tugging at his lips again. “You too.”

Then he turned and walked away, his heavy boots echoing down the hallway until the sound faded completely.

The second he disappeared around the corner, you rushed back into your office, closed the door, and leaned back against the cool wood, eyes wide.

What the fuck did you just do?

You paced the small space, heels clicking sharply against the hardwood. “Stupid. So fucking stupid,” you whispered under your breath. The lavender diffuser continued its calm hum, mocking you. Heat still throbbed insistently between your thighs, slick and demanding.

He’s your patient. You crossed a major line.

But even as guilt clawed at your chest, a darker thrill refused to die.

You opened your journal with shaking hands and scribbled:

Gave him my number. God help me.

The subway rattled beneath you, the steady metallic clatter vibrating up through the hard plastic seat and into your bones. The car was half-full with tired Brooklyn commuters, headphones in, eyes glazed, bodies swaying with the motion. You sat with your coat buttoned high despite the stuffy underground heat, your black turtleneck dress suddenly feeling too tight against your skin.

Your legs were tightly crossed, thighs pressed firmly together, but every jolt and sway of the train sent a fresh reminder of the slick, persistent ache between them. The dampness had only grown since James left your office. Each subtle shift caused the sheer fabric of your tights to slide against your sensitive skin, teasing you mercilessly and making it impossible to forget how badly your body was still wound up.

Your phone stayed glued to your hand, fingers wrapped around it like a lifeline. The screen had gone dark multiple times, but you kept waking it with your thumb, heart giving a stupid little jump every single time.

You checked again.

Nothing.

Just the same lock screen photo, you and Scott smiling at some rooftop bar last summer, a memory that now felt distant and fake. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the low throb pulsing in time with the train’s rhythm.

He’s not going to text you. It’s only been a couple of hours. Stop it.

But you checked again anyway, biting the inside of your lip. The glow of the screen lit up your face in the dim subway lights. Still nothing. No unknown number. No James.

You shifted in your seat once more, pressing your thighs even tighter together as another wave of frustrated heat rolled through you. The ache refused to fade. If anything, the memory of his low, gravelly voice and the way his gloved fingers had brushed yours only made it worse.

The train lurched around a corner, forcing your body to sway. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, trying to steady your breathing.

This is ridiculous. You’re a licensed therapist acting like a teenager with a crush.

Yet your thumb hovered over the screen once more.

You checked again.

And again.

The apartment smelled of greasy lo mein and sesame chicken, the heavy, oily aroma clinging to the air and mixing with the faint leftover scent of Scott’s citrus cologne. The takeout bags sat crumpled on the small kitchen table, condensation fogging the plastic lids. Scott was already seated, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt open to reveal a sliver of his chest. He scrolled through his phone with one hand, chopsticks in the other.

“Hey,” he said without looking up, voice flat. “Got your usual. Extra spring rolls.”

You paused in the doorway, surprised. “I thought you texted me not to wait up. You said you were stuck at the firm again.”

Scott finally glanced up, shrugging as he pushed a takeout container toward your usual seat. “Well, plans change. Sit down, I got us food.”

You forced a smile and sat down across from him, the wooden chair creaking under you. The smooth fabric of your black dress slid against your thighs as you crossed your legs, the persistent damp ache from earlier still throbbing softly between them. You smoothed the hem of your dress, trying to steady yourself.

The food tasted like cardboard.

“So how was work?” Scott asked, stabbing a piece of chicken a little too aggressively with his chopsticks. “Any interesting cases today?”

Your chopsticks paused mid-air. The memory of James Barnes filled your mind, his intense blue eyes, the low rumble of his voice, the brush of his gloved fingers.

“It was… fine,” you said carefully. “The usual. Though I did have a new client this afternoon.”

Scott finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who?”

You swallowed. “A man. James Barnes. He’s a veteran with severe trauma. Former Winter Soldier, actually. The session was… intense.”

Scott’s chopsticks stopped moving. He stared at you, jaw tightening. “And?”

You hesitated, fingers gripping your phone under the table. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “He has really bad nightmares. I gave him my personal number. In case things get overwhelming before our next session.”

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.

Scott set his chopsticks down slowly, the plastic clattering against the container. “You gave him your personal number? On the first fucking session?”

His voice was low at first, but you could hear the anger rising beneath it like steam building pressure.

You shifted in your seat, the heat of embarrassment and lingering arousal making your skin prickle. “It’s not like that, Scott. Clients with cases this severe sometimes need faster access. Calling the office and waiting for my assistant isn’t always helpful when they’re in the middle of a spiral-”

“Oh, bullshit,” Scott cut you off, his chair scraping harshly against the floor as he leaned forward. The sharp smell of sesame oil suddenly turned thick and nauseating.

“You keep doing this,” he said, voice low and edged with heat. “Every time a new male client shows up- ‘special,’ ‘intense,’ whatever the fuck- you start bending the rules. Handing out your personal number like you’re their personal savior.”

His eyes narrowed, jealousy burning plainly across his face. “You always do this shit with the men. What, they all get the special treatment? The ones who look at you like you’re their lifeline?”

He let out a bitter, mocking laugh and shook his head slowly. “It’s never the female clients, is it? Just the men. Always the fucking men.”

You felt your cheeks burn. “That’s not fair. I’ve given my number to women before when-”

“Bullshit,” he snapped again, louder this time. He pushed his plate away, the container nearly tipping over. The sharp scent of soy sauce filled the air between you. “I’m so tired of this. You come home distant as hell, checking your phone every five seconds like you’re waiting for one of them to text you. Meanwhile, I’ve been busting my ass at the firm all day and you can’t even pretend to be present.”

Scott stood up abruptly, his chair screeching back. The sound cut through the apartment like a knife. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard.

“I’m done with this conversation,” he muttered, voice tight with anger. “Enjoy your fucking lo mein.”

He stormed off toward the living room, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. A few seconds later, the TV clicked on loud and aggressive, clearly meant to drown out any chance of continuing the argument.

You sat there alone at the table, heart pounding, the greasy food growing cold in front of you. The apartment suddenly felt too small, too quiet except for the blaring television and the distant sound of Brooklyn traffic outside the cracked window. The slick heat between your thighs still lingered, now mixed with a sharp twist of guilt.

You glanced down at your phone again. The screen remained dark.

Scott passed out on the couch by 10:30, snoring loudly in front of a legal drama, the blue glow of the television flickering across his slack face. You stood in the doorway for a long moment, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the man you’d once been madly in love with. Now he felt like nothing more than background noise in your own life, distant, irrelevant and completely oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

You turned away and slipped into the bedroom, peeling off your black dress and tights. The cool air kissed your overheated skin as you pulled on an oversized t-shirt, the soft cotton brushing teasingly against your hardened nipples. The sheets still carried the faint, stale scent of last night’s disappointing sex, a faint musk of Scott’s release and your own unsatisfied arousal. It only made the ache between your thighs sharper.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

You lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, heart beating heavily in your chest. Your mind wouldn’t stop replaying the session on an endless loop: the low, gravelly rumble of James Barnes’ voice, the way his storm-blue eyes had devoured you, the electric spark when your fingers brushed his gloved hand. The memory made your core clench with fresh need.

The ache quickly became unbearable.

One hand slowly slid down your stomach, slipping under the hem of your oversized t-shirt and into your panties. Your fingers met slick, swollen folds, you were soaked, obscenely wet, your arousal coating your inner thighs. A soft, shaky exhale left your lips as you dragged two fingers through your dripping slit, spreading the wetness up to your throbbing clit.

You bit your lip hard as you began circling the sensitive bud, slow and deliberate at first. In your mind, it wasn’t your hand. It was his. A large, strong hand, one warm flesh, the other cool black vibranium, sliding between your thighs. You imagined the contrast: the feeling of his vibranium fingers pressing against your slick pussy while his real fingers sank deep inside you.

A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat.

You spread your legs wider, knees falling open, the sheets rustling beneath you. Your fingers moved faster, slipping down to tease your entrance before plunging two fingers inside your tight, dripping heat. The wet, obscene sound of your fingers thrusting into your soaked cunt filled the quiet room. You fucked yourself harder, hips rolling up to meet each thrust, imagining it was Bucky’s thick fingers stretching you open.

“You feel trapped too, don’t you, Doc?” you imagined his rough Brooklyn voice growling in your ear.

Your free hand moved up, squeezing your breast roughly, pinching and rolling your stiff nipple between your fingers. The pleasure built fast and filthy, a hot coiling tension low in your belly. Your breathing grew ragged, soft gasps and quiet moans slipping out as your fingers pumped faster, curling to hit that perfect spot inside you.

You were dripping down onto the sheets now, your pussy making wet, squelching sounds with every thrust. The scent of your arousal was thick in the air, sweet and musky. Your clit pulsed desperately as you rubbed tight, frantic circles over it, chasing the edge.

Your phone buzzed on the pillow beside you.

Your eyes flew open, heart slamming against your ribs. You snatched it up with your free hand, chest heaving.

Unknown Number 10:48pm

This is James. Just making sure this number works. Thanks again for today, Doc.

Seeing his name, even just “James”, sent a fresh gush of wetness over your fingers. Guilt crashed over you like ice water, sharp and cold, but it only made you wetter. Your fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they moved faster, plunging deeper, more desperately.

You stared at the text, lips parted, breathing ragged as you fucked yourself harder to the thought of him. Your hips bucked off the bed, thighs trembling. The slick sounds grew louder, filthier. You imagined him watching you right now, those intense blue eyes dark with hunger, his vibranium hand wrapped around his cock while he told you exactly how to touch yourself.

A broken moan slipped from your lips as the orgasm finally hit you, hard, blinding and devastating. Your pussy clenched violently around your fingers, waves of hot pleasure ripping through your body. You came with his name silent on your tongue, soaking your hand and the sheets beneath you, hips jerking uncontrollably as you rode it out.

Even after the last tremor faded, you lay there flushed, panting, and still aching for more.

Scott was still snoring loudly on the couch, the distant drone of the legal drama murmuring in the background, when you finally came.

You buried your face into the pillow to muffle the broken moan that tore from your throat as James Barnes’s name echoed silently in your mind like a forbidden prayer. Your pussy clenched violently around your fingers, hot, rhythmic pulses squeezing tight as fresh slick gushed over your hand and soaked into the sheets beneath you. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, hips jerking in tiny, desperate thrusts as the orgasm ripped through every nerve in your body.

Even as the pleasure crested and slowly began to fade, you kept rubbing your swollen, oversensitive clit in lazy circles, drawing out every last tremor until your legs felt like jelly.

Afterward, you lay there flushed and ashamed, chest heaving, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Your oversized t-shirt was bunched up around your waist, panties shoved to the side, and your fingers were still buried deep inside your dripping cunt. You felt filthy. Guilty. And somehow, still painfully unsatisfied.

The ache hadn’t gone away. If anything, coming while thinking of him had only made it deeper, a hollow, craving need that your own fingers could never fully satisfy.

With trembling fingers, slick with your own arousal, you reached for your phone. The screen’s bright glow lit up your flushed face in the dark bedroom. You stared at his text for a long moment, heart hammering against your ribs, before typing back with shaky thumbs.

You 10:54pm

Glad it worked. Remember the grounding exercise if the nightmares hit hard. Take care, James.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately turned the phone face-down on the pillow beside you, as if hiding it would somehow lessen what you’d just done.

This is dangerous.

The thought repeated in your head like a warning bell, but your body betrayed you. Your pussy gave another lazy, needy flutter at the memory of his low, gravelly voice. You bit your lip, fighting the urge to slide your hand between your thighs again.

But you couldn’t resist.

You picked the phone back up, opened the new contact, and saved his number under “JB”, innocent enough that if Scott ever glanced at your phone, it might not raise immediate suspicion. You stared at the simple letters for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. The contact felt heavy. Permanent. Like another line crossed that you couldn’t uncross.

You finally locked the phone and set it down, rolling onto your back. The ceiling fan spun lazily above you, cooling the sweat on your skin. Your thighs were sticky, your core still throbbing with residual heat. Guilt sat heavy in your chest, twisting with something far more addictive, excitement.

As sleep finally began to pull you under, slow and reluctant, the last thought wasn’t guilt.

It was his voice, low and rough, brushing against your ear like a promise:

“You ever catch yourself wondering what it would take to break out of it?”

For the first time in months, lying there in the dark with another man’s name still lingering on your tongue and between your soaked thighs, you felt truly awake.

James Barnes sat on the fire escape of his cramped Brooklyn apartment, the cold October night air biting at the exposed skin of his neck and forearms. The metal railing pressed uncomfortably against his back, but he barely noticed. Below him the city pulsed with life, distant car horns, the low hum of traffic, the occasional siren cutting through the night like a blade. A faint smell of rain and street food drifted up from the alley.

He pulled the folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, unfolding it slowly. Your neat, careful handwriting stared back at him. He’d already memorized the number, but he still traced it with his eyes like it was something sacred.

Doc gave me her personal cell on the first fucking day, he thought, a low, rough chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. Either she’s the most trusting woman alive… or she felt it too. That spark. That hunger.

He wasn’t naive. Not after decades of being Hydra’s weapon. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford, and yet here he was, sitting in the cold with your number burning a hole in his pocket.

Old habits died hard.

He pulled out the encrypted burner phone Sam had forced on him and started digging. Nothing too invasive at first, just surface-level stuff. Professional license. Clean record. Excellent reviews from past clients. A few articles about trauma therapy workshops you’d spoken at, always looking professional and composed in those photos. But Bucky kept scrolling. Deeper.

He found your public social media accounts before you’d locked them down tighter. And that’s when he hit the goldmine.

An older album from years ago. Summer vacation. You, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, glowing under bright sunlight on a tropical beach in that deep red bikini that looked like it had been painted onto your body. The top strained against your full, heavy breasts, the thin fabric doing almost nothing to hide the outline of your nipples. The bottoms sat dangerously low on your hips, framing the soft curve of your belly and the generous, mouth-watering swell of your ass.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

“Well… fuck me,” he muttered, voice gravelly and dark.

He zoomed in, eyes devouring every detail. The way the sun glistened on your wet skin. Water droplets sliding down between your tits. The plush thickness of your thighs pressed together as you laughed at the camera. His cock twitched violently in his jeans, thickening fast.

But he kept scrolling, hungry for more. And then he found it.

A much more recent photo, posted only a few months ago. You were sitting on the floor of what looked like a cozy living room, wearing a soft sweater that dipped low in the front. Two baby bunnies were in your lap, tiny, fluffy things. One was nestled right between your breasts, its little head and ears peeking out from the warm, deep valley of your cleavage. The sweater hugged your tits perfectly, the soft fabric stretched across their full weight, and the bunny looked completely content, burrowed into that plush, pillowy warmth like it belonged there.

It was innocent. Sweet. The kind of wholesome photo that would make most people smile.

But it made Bucky go fucking feral.

“Jesus Christ…” he growled, voice dropping into something animalistic. His metal hand gripped the railing so hard the metal screeched and bent under his fingers.

The sight of that tiny creature tucked so perfectly between your tits triggered something primal and vicious in him. All he could think about was replacing that bunny with his own face. Shoving his head between those soft, heavy breasts, motorboating them, sucking dark marks into the sensitive skin while you whimpered and arched into his mouth. He imagined grabbing fistfuls of your tits, squeezing them around his thick cock and fucking your cleavage until he painted your neck and chin with his cum. How soft and warm they’d feel. How they’d bounce while he railed you.

His cock surged painfully hard, throbbing against his zipper, leaking steadily now. He palmed himself roughly through his jeans, squeezing the thick length as his hips twitched involuntarily.

That should be my face buried there. My hands. My cock. Not some soft little animal getting what I want.

The wholesome image only made it worse, the contrast of your gentle, caring nature with the filthy things he wanted to do to you. He wanted to ruin that sweetness. Bend you over and fuck you until you were drooling and cock-drunk, then let you cuddle against his chest afterward like the good girl you were.

“Fuck, doll… you have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He zoomed in closer, staring at the way your breasts pressed together around the bunny, the soft swell threatening to spill out of the sweater. His mind spiraled into darker territory: pinning you down, shoving your sweater up, and burying his face between your tits while fingering your soaked pussy. He’d make you come just like that, tits in his mouth, his metal fingers curling inside you, then flip you over and take you from behind while those same tits swayed heavily beneath you.

He was breathing hard now, almost panting, his flesh hand stroking himself more deliberately through his jeans.

But then curiosity twisted into something darker. You had a boyfriend. Some clean-cut prick named Scott.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he typed the name into the search bar. The deep dive began, and the hatred hit him like a freight train.

Scott fucking Huffman. Thirty-four. Corporate lawyer

He worked at a mid-sized firm downtown. Perfect LinkedIn profile, tailored suits, fake smiles, charity golf tournaments. Dark hair, blue eyes, the kind of generic, polished face that screamed “I’ve never had to fight for anything in my life.” Instagram was even worse. Pictures of him at rooftop bars with overpriced whiskey, posing with his arm around you like he owned you. In one, his hand rested possessively on your waist, but his touch looked weak. Soft. Like he didn’t know how to really hold a woman.

Bucky’s lip curled in immediate disgust.

This is who she’s wasting her time on?

He kept digging. Scott’s social media history showed a string of exes, all pretty, professional, forgettable. Recent posts with you were curated and sterile. Brunch dates. Weekend getaways to boring wine country. Not a single photo that looked like he’d ever fucked you properly. No marks on your neck. No flush in your cheeks like you’d just been railed within an inch of your life. No evidence he made you scream.

Bucky hated him instantly. Viscerally.

Look at this soft-handed little shit. He imagined Scott’s weak, manicured hands on your body and it made his blood boil. That man didn’t deserve to touch you. He couldn’t handle the kind of hunger Bucky had seen flickering behind your eyes today, that deep, aching need to be claimed, dominated, and taken care of so thoroughly you couldn’t walk straight afterward.

Scott probably fucked you in missionary with the lights off. Maybe lasted six minutes if he was lucky. Called it “making love” while you lay there unsatisfied, faking it so you wouldn’t hurt his fragile ego. Probably cried after arguments and bought you flowers instead of bending you over the kitchen counter and fucking the frustration out of you like you deserved.

Bucky’s hatred burned hotter with every new photo and post he found. Scott had never been in a real fight. Never had blood on his hands. Never carried the kind of darkness that made a man dangerous… and useful. He was everything Bucky wasn’t, safe, privileged, ordinary. And the thought of that boring, inadequate asshole kissing you, touching you, sliding his pathetic dick inside the woman Bucky already wanted to ruin made him want to put a bullet through Scott’s skull.

She’s starving, Bucky thought, eyes narrowing. And this motherfucker is feeding her crumbs.

His cock was still painfully hard, throbbing against his zipper as dark, possessive thoughts flooded him. He wanted to message you right now. Tell you to leave that worthless prick and come sit on his face instead. He’d show you what a real man could do, tongue-fucking your cunt until you squirted down his throat, then wrecking you with his cock for hours until you forgot Scott’s name entirely.

He forced himself to close the tabs on Scott before he spiraled further, but the hatred had already rooted deep. That man was an obstacle. Temporary. And Bucky had torn through far worse in his time.

James leaned his head back against the rough brick wall, eyes closed, letting the cold night air try to cool his heated skin. His metal fingers flexed, servos humming. His flesh hand was still absently palming his aching cock, mind replaying those red bikini photos mixed with violent fantasies of removing Scott from the picture.

You’re playing with fire, Barnes. She’s your therapist. She’s trying to fix you… and you’re sitting here fantasizing about destroying her boyfriend’s face and claiming her on every surface of her apartment.

But the pull was undeniable. Something in you had awakened the predator in him, the part that wanted to protect you, ruin you, own you, and make sure no weak, unworthy man like Scott ever laid hands on you again.

He saved your number under “Doc” and stared at the contact for a long time. Thumb hovering. He didn’t type anything. Not yet.

Instead, he slipped the phone away, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The flame lit up the sharp lines of his stubbled jaw and the dangerous mix of lust and violence etched into his face. He took a long drag, smoke curling into the night.

“Shit,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is gonna get so fucking complicated.”

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

He ate in silence, listening to Her heartbeat upstairs, and thought once more about Butcher’s offer. Homelander’s offer. He’d wanted to tell Her, ask for whatever inevitable fucking opinion she would have about how he should answer. She was good at it, this planning and thinking shit, and Ben had yet to see her falter at any useless moral hurdles. He’d figured out Her hard line—no innocents—but when it came to the opposition, she didn’t pull punches. Metaphorical punches. Despite Ben’s best efforts, She was still far more fucking bark than bite.

He hadn’t mentioned it though, because she’d shut down and it suddenly hadn’t felt that fucking important anymore. And now, after the shitshow last night, Ben wasn’t going to. He could make the fucking call himself, because he was a grown ass fucking man. Because Ben was more than damn capable of meeting with Homelander and coming out unscathed.

It wasn’t because Ben fucking knew She’d tell him to do it, and then bitch at him until she’d weaseled her way into the meeting.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want Her anywhere fucking near the meeting and the star-spangled pussy in attendance.

So—when he heard Her start to shuffle in her room, moving around for a few minutes before the door opened and she made her way downstairs—Ben decided he’d figure it out, call Butcher by his own goddamn self, and She wouldn’t have to know anything about it until well fucking after.

“Morning, Pretty Boy.” She mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen and trying to blink herself awake.

“Mornin’ Sunshine,” Ben tried—and failed—not to smile at her less-than-ladylike demeanor and let out a low chuckle as She ran fully into the counter with a yelp. “Sleep well?” He knew She had, but he enjoyed her still-sleepy scowl too much not to ask.

“Fuck off.” She grumbled, and he laughed.

“Welcome back, bitch.”

“Cunt,” she mumbled half-heartedly, rubbing her eyes. “Coffee?”

Ben pointed to the pot, and She let out a satisfied noise that made the Thing in his chest fucking whine like a pussy.

“All for me?” She asked with a slack smile at Ben.

“All for you,” he grumbled. “But it’s getting cold, and I’m not making you fucking more.”

She shrugged, grabbing a mug from the shelves. “Any news from the Boys?”

“Nope,” Ben watched Her pour the coffee, and something squeezed around his ribs as the lie left him. “They fucking benched us until they figure out what to do with the news.”

“About what Firecracker said?” She said softly, staring down at her now full mug.

Ben grunted an affirmation, She let out a sad little sigh, and the damn fucking Thing wanted to grab her again. “Maybe Butcher will finally fucking use the information the red-haired broad gave him, and it’ll get shit moving again.”

She frowned at him, and her heart skipped a single beat. “You mean Ashley?”

“Sure,” Ben said with an eye roll. “There’s a lot of fucking people, Sunshine. I can’t be expected to remember every pussy idiot I meet.”

She let out a low laugh, and the Thing was insufferably fucking pleased. “Fair enough.”

Ben waited for Her to share whatever thoughts he’d been certain she’d have about Ashley and the information, but She only sat at his side, looking up at him with a small smile. The Thing in Ben’s chest was starting to be fucking problem, because it was so goddamn satisfied that She was talking to him again it didn’t want to push her for answers. Ben only barely managed to overpower it and ask, “The fuck you think is taking that pussy so long?”

She raised her brows. “Which pussy are we talking about now?”

“Butcher. And the information.” He didn’t miss the slightest increase in Her heart rate, despite her bored shrug.

“Dunno.” Before Ben could ask more questions, she continued. “Does everyone know I’m awake?”

“No,” Ben scowled. “How would I have fucking told them?”

She let out a hum. “Touché.” She stood once more, taking her mug with her. “I’m gonna go call Annie and get changed, I’ll meet you back here after.”

“Get changed?” Ben grabbed Her arm before she could leave his side. “For fucking what?”

“Training.” She grinned down at him. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass for calling me a ‘goddamn idiot’ while I was crying.”

“I got you to stop fucking wallowing. And fucking stayed with you all goddamn night like you begged me to.” Ben jabbed, and Her smile grew.

She leaned forward, holding his gaze with her own.

“I’ve never begged you for anything, Pretty Boy. It’s going to take a fucking miracle for me to start now.” The Thing roared so loud at her words that Ben’s grip grew slack, and She pulled her arm away. “This will take twenty minutes, and then I’m going to wipe the floor with your fucking face.”

She left the room, leaving Ben in the kitchen, alone, trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened. He almost stood from the counter, ready to march after Her and demand some sort of fucking elaboration—he wasn’t even sure for what, just that She wasn’t fucking allowed to say shit like that and walk away—but Ben had barely shifted before he realized his dick was fucking hard, and chasing after Her was no longer an option.

Ben had twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to take care of his boner, figure out how to smother the Thing for good, and get his fucking shit in order. She was just another woman, just another pretty face. He’d gotten hard-ons from a lot less and jerked himself off a lot faster. This was no fucking different. She was no fucking different. Just another fucking pretty face.

Beautiful, the Thing reminded him. She’s not just pretty. She’s beautiful.

If his boner wasn’t starting to be fucking painful, Ben would’ve spent the entire twenty minutes trying to figure out how to make the Thing shut the fuck up.

He made his way upstairs, steps faltering outside Her door as he listened to her move around inside like a fucking creep.

“I’m fine,” she was saying to someone, probably fucking Starlight or Cocksucker. It hadn’t escaped Ben how they were the only fuckers who really ever asked Her. “I promise. Don’t worry about me, Annie, I’m really okay.”

Ben scowled at the door, almost forgetting about his angry hard-on as the memory of Her curled up, shaking with despair less than twelve hours ago, flashed in his head.

“Are you sure?” Starlight’s voice was slightly static. “Because if you need a break from Soldier Boy to deal with this we can figure something out.”

Ben was going to kill the bitch, consequences be fucking damned. He was only fucking seconds away from barging into the room, from giving Starlight a descriptive warning of how he was going to fuck her face up so much Cocksucker left her, when he heard Her sharp, quick answer.

“No.” Her voice sounded almost panicked. “I’m staying here. I don’t need a break from Ben. Please, I’m good, he’s good, everything is fine. I don’t want-“ She cut herself off slightly, and Ben heard the flutter of her heart. “It’s good here. Ben’s good. Don’t worry about us.”

Ben’s good, Her voice echoed in his head, and the Thing was pounding against him. Ben’s good.

He needed to fucking move before he barged into Her room and demanded to know what the fuck she meant by Ben’s good. He needed to take care of himself before She saw him, and he had to come up with a lie about why he was standing outside her door with a boner.

Ben barely managed not to slam his door behind him—an action he knew She’d hear and barge in to demand what was making him so pissy—and dropped onto his bed, practically ripping his own pants and underwear off. He closed his eyes, took a strong breath, and began to fucking his fist with rough abandon. It just had to be fucking fast, he just had to find fucking relief before She came looking for him.

The Thing had other plans. The Thing wanted to take its time, to listen to Her heartbeat only doors away, and to imagine her there, how her heartbeat would race as he fucked her. The Thing was offering Ben countless fantasies to choose from. Her under him as he fucked her stupid. Her on his lap, tits bouncing as he slammed up into her. Her on her knees, mouth wide open, drool falling down her chin, his hand in her hair. In every one She moaned and whined, but the one that made him almost feral, made his hand move faster along his length than Ben had thought possible, was the one where She was up against his wall, legs around his waist, begging.

Ben, a phantom of Her voice moaned into his ear. Please.

This feel like a fucking miracle, Sunshine? Ben’s own voice growled through his head. I feel fucking good?

“Ben?” Her voice, her real voice, sounded from outside his door, and Ben bucked up into his fist. “You in there?”

“I’m-“ He bit down a groan. “I’m busy, Sunshine.” Then, just to keep Her there, maybe hear her voice again, he called out again. “What?”

“Can I come in?”

“No!” He shouted, struggling to come up with a fucking reason for Her not to come in, an effort not made any damn easier by the Thing practically straining for Her. “I’m- fuck. ” Ben swore under his breath, feeling real damn thankful she didn’t have supe-hearing. “I’m fucking changing!”

“Oh,” Her voice had an edge Ben didn’t understand, but her heart stammered into a faster pace, and the Thing grabbed onto the sound and dragged him closer to the edge. “The call went faster than I thought. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.” Even as her tone returned to its usual amused droll, her heart didn’t slow. “Get fucking ready, Pretty Boy. I’m going to make you regret being born.”

Ben bit down another groan. He was so fucking close, just a little fucking further- “I’ll make you fucking beg, Sunshine.” The words were low, through gritted teeth as he hovered on that edge- He didn’t even fully mean for Her to hear-

“I’d like to see you try, Ben.” She said, and that fucking did it. Her words, her heartbeat, her tone as she drawled his name, the smug grin Ben could see fucking perfectly in his head—they all grabbed him and yanked him over.

“ Brat,” he grunted as his relief burst from him, finding every fucking surface in the room.

“Cunt,” She pushed back, and Ben wasn’t sure if it was the Thing simply making him a fucking idiot or not, but the edge in her voice sounded fucking breathy. Her heart fucking faltered. For a very long second, Ben waited fucking pathetically for her to say something more, praying like a goddamn pussy for Her to burst into the room and fulfill all those fantasies still lingering in his head, but her heart faded down the hall with her steps, and Ben was left with only himself and his mess.

It took Ben ten minutes to clean up and change, but it felt like a fucking hour. Though his body was satiated, the Thing was hungry. He had given it a taste of something he didn’t want to fucking think about, and now it wanted more. Ben didn’t fucking get it, couldn’t fucking understand why it was—he was—being so fucking pathetic about this. He wasn’t a fucking uptight choir boy, he’d jerked off probably more times than She’d even had sex. He’d had sex more times than any other fucker in history. He’d done things that would make Butcher blush, and those memories had fueled his drive more than enough since he’d been awake. He wouldn’t fucking lie and say She’d never made appearances in theses types of thoughts before—Ben was a red-blooded man with eyes, and he wasn’t going to feel fucking guilty about it—but they’d been brief, and they hadn’t left him reeling like a goddamn fucking pussy. Like he was now.

He had to fucking get it together.

When he arrived down in the kitchen, having done a very careful inspection of himself for any lingering evidence, Ben found Her stuffing her face with the bagel he’d left behind, looking up with wide eyes as he entered the room.

“Sorry-“ She roughly swallowed, and that didn’t fucking help Ben at all. “But you should know better than to leave food just out.”

“There’s a whole fucking fridge full of the stuff behind you, Sunshine,” he grunted, moving around the counter. “Could’ve fucking used it.”

She shrugged, licking her fingers clean, and there was no fucking way she wasn’t doing this to him on purpose. “You’ll get over it.” She gave him a toothy smile. “Ready to have your ass handed to you on a silver fucking platter?”

Ben smirked, leaning down to Her eye level. “I’m going to fucking make you cry, brat.”

There it was again. That fucking falter. And something flashed in Her eyes, barely fast enough for Ben to catch before she blinked and it was gone, Her gaze holding his with a steel glare.

“Fucking bring it, Pretty Boy.”

He laughed, rising to his full height as she stood from the counter. “Aren’t you mighty fucking cocky for someone who’s only hit me twice.”

“Thrice. I’ve hit you thrice.” Her words were muttered with a pretty frown as she walked toward the dining room—they had long repurposed it into a mock training area—and Ben grinned as he followed her.

“Twice, Sunshine. I don’t count the hit where you fucking cheated.”

She snorted. “Oh, shove it up your ass, Pretty Boy. Like you’ve never cheated before.”

“I’ve never gotten caught,” Ben said smugly. “Big fucking difference.”

She turned as they stopped in the center of the room, raising her fists to the defensive stance he’d taught her. “Somehow,” She smirked. “I really doubt that.”

Ben moved to match Her, shrugging as he did so. “Doesn’t matter what you believe, Sunshine. Truths the truth.”

“I’m going to burn your whole beard off this time, cunt.”

“Fucking try it, brat.” Her heart faltered again, and Ben decided—as long as She kept up that fucking reaction—he was going to keep calling her that until she physically made him stop. “I’ll put the TV on that fucking reality channel you hate and break the damn remote.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You hate E! more than I do. I just hate the ads, you hate everything about it.”

“All the tits are fucking fake,” Ben muttered and She snorted. “And so are the fucking-“

“Asses?” She finished his sentence with an eye roll. “Yeah, I’m sure fake tits and BBLs really hurt your refined, feminist sensibilities.”

“What the fuck is a BBL?”

“Brazilian Butt Lift.”

“You can’t just fucking say shit-“

“Jesus, it’s a plastic surgery, and it’s pretty self-descriptive. Actually, you’d probably like them.”

“Fuck no, I like it fucking natural, I have no interest in fucking something that’s not-“

“Totally real and able to enjoy it. I’ve heard the sales pitch, Pretty Boy.” She gave him a slack, taunting smile. “Are you going to keep stalling, or put your money where your mouth is?”

Ben winked at Her. “I’ll put my mouth and my money wherever I fucking want, Sunshine.”

She met his cocky smirk with one of her own. “Prove it.”

By the end of it, both of them agreeing after two grueling hours to shower, fucking eat something, and spend the remainder of the night at the TV—She had made some amazingly graphic threats about what she’d do if he broke the remote while she heated dinner—Ben was more torn by his goddamn fucking feelings then he’d ever been in his life. There was pride coursing through him, She’d hit him five more times and only two of the punches had been cheating, there was the Thing in his chest, pounding in excitement like a fucking pussy at the simple goddamn idea of sitting next to her while they ate, and there was the hunger, low in his gut and straining against his pants, looping the image of Her all sweaty and flushed from exertion around and around his head.

He was very fucking thankful that Her own eagerness to get into the shower made her leave the room fast enough not to notice anything, and decided to take a very long, very cold shower himself to get a goddamn fucking grip before this became a problem.

It worked well—Ben made it through their returned ritual of dinner and TV without even a fucking hiccup, even fucking managed to sling his arm over the back of the couch without thinking about it was coincidentally hanging over Her—until a little after midnight when She’d fucking asked him to stay in her room again.

“I- um,” Her voice had started quieter than usual, not fully looking at Ben as she spoke. “I’m feeling better, really. But, uh, if you’d be okay with it-”

“Sunshine,” he’d nudged Her with his shoulder, and when she’d turned her pretty face, cast in only the glow of the TV light, towards him, the Thing rumbled. “Stop pussyfooting and-”

“Say what I mean?” She’d finished his sentence with a small smile. That was something she really needed to stop fucking doing. “Stay in my room tonight. Just until I fall asleep. If you want.” She’d watched him carefully as she tacked on the end.

Ben had given Her a smirk, and decided to feed the Thing just a little. “Beg.”

“Fuck you,” She’d snorted, but there was no anger in her words, so Ben pushed a little further.

“I’m serious, Sunshine. You really want me there? Beg. ”

“I’ll cut off your dick, cunt.” She’d glowered.

He’d shrugged. “Have it your way, brat.”

“ Fucking asshole,” She’d muttered under her breath, heart stumbling for only a second before she’d fully turning her body towards Ben. She’d fluttered her eyelashes sarcastically, giving him a simpering smile, her voice sickly sweet. “Please, Ben. Please, grace me with your holy presence so that I may have six hours of sleep that are not plagued by nightmares. Please, sir, do me the kindness of not making me wake up screaming from memories of being fucking tortured.”

Ben grunted, forcing a smile onto his face as the Thing howled. “Of course, Sunshine. All you had to do was ask.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling herself off the couch. “I need to shit, I’ll see you in my room in five.”

Ben let himself dwell for a second after She left, trying to push the sound of her voice, however mocking, say please, Ben and sir and the image of her fake pouting at him as light flickered across her face. Through an inhuman—even for Ben—amount of self-restraint, he managed to pull his shit all the way together and push it deep, deep down for the Thing to follow before making his way up the stairs.

When he entered Her room, she was already sitting on the bed, covers pulled over her body, on the same side as the previous night. Ben started to walk carefully over to the empty half of the mattress, but she sat up a little, pointing behind him.

“Lights.” She explained, a slightly apologetic look on her face. “Please.”

“Only because you fucking said please,” Ben grumbled, and flicked the little switch on the wall before making his way to Her side. He’d barely kicked his legs up onto the mattress when She closed her eyes, and her heartbeat began to slow into a peaceful steady rate.

He wasn’t sure how, but Ben slept as well, and when the nightmare—one of his more frequent ones about a man in a lab coat tears out his heart, holding it up for the world to see, and echoes of laughter carving into Ben’s head—caught him, he woke in a cold sweat and felt Her curled fully into his side, his arm holding her there. His breathing steadied quickly, and it dawned on him that there hadn’t been any drums. There still weren’t. He looked down at Her, tucked against his torso, and didn’t move until sunrise.

Another week passed, and Ben was getting a lot fucking worse at controlling the Thing in his chest. She still had no idea—Ben was an amazing fucking actor like that—and he had no fucking intention of clueing her in. Because there wasn’t anything for Her to know. He wasn’t keeping it a secret, because the Thing wasn’t anything, not really, so he’d just be telling her he thought she was pretty. Which was a fucking stupid thing to do, because Ben wasn’t a pussy teenager who’d just discovered what women were. She was pretty, but he’d met hundreds, thousands, of pretty women.

Not pretty, the Thing would grumble. Beautiful.

Ben had met fucking beautiful women too. This wasn’t something important.

Was Ben jerking off more times than he had since maybe even before Russia? Sure. But it was just a fucking coincidence. His sex drive was back, fucking alert the media and call the cops. Was he not using porn, just the Thing and its conjured images? Yes, but nobody would fucking give him internet access and he’d suck Butcher to completion before he asked Her to give him porn. Because he’d never fucking hear the end of it, not because She’d probably know how to see what he’d watch, and have questions about why all the models looked like her. The images were getting Ben’s engine going just fine, and delivering him to where he needed to be goddamn well. Images that were of soft bodies that looked like hers and sharp eyes that were always amused. Images that went hand in hand with imagined sounds of a familiar voice moaning and whimpering his name, his real name, as he muttered filth to his empty room. Nobody had even called him Ben during sex in almost 75 years. Everyone, from Crimson Countess to long-faceless supes at Herogasm, had called him Soldier Boy. But She always called him Ben and his mind had, against his fucking will, decided that She would probably call him Ben if he got to have her how he wanted.

And fuck, had his fucking brain taken that and ran with it. Ben had run through so many fucking fantasies he had favorites. There was the one where he knelt before her on his bed and She gripped his hair as she begged, the one where he pinned Her hands above her head during training with one hand and used the other to make her moan, the one where She walked into his room and dropped to her knees for him with that taunting smile, and the one where they were on the couch and he pulled Her onto his lap and fucked her until she burst into flames.

None of this was helped by their new habit of him sleeping in Her bed, or the fact that he was actually sleeping when he did so. It wasn’t helped by her being more insistent on training than ever before, making their usual physical contact increase by fucking tenfold. It wasn’t helped by how Ben couldn’t stop talking to Her because she was still insufferably fucking open and stupidly fucking funny and he wanted an excuse make Her call him a cunt so he could call her a brat, and he got to listen to the little sound her heart made every fucking time.

The worst part, though, was that he’d been fucking wrong. Really fucking wrong. She wasn’t pretty or beautiful, she was fucking perfect, and it was going to make him go insane. Lately, when he looked at her, it was like staring at the goddamn sun. It made the Thing reel just to fucking see Her now, and he was too much of a fucking pussy to fight it because She was perfect.

You’ve never met a perfect woman before , the Thing whispered smugly. You’ve never met a perfect anything.

Fine. That was fucking true. But it didn’t change that the Thing didn’t fucking mean jack fucking shit. So he didn’t have to tell her.

In the mess of the Thing and Her and trying to kill the Thing before it made him a fucking pussy who could only think about Her, Ben still hadn’t given Butcher an answer about Homelander’s offer. He didn’t even really fucking have one yet. There had been no improvement in the cycle of Homelander can fuck right off to Homelander had hurt Her and Ben wanted to hurt him to She would tell Ben to go all the way back to Homelander can fuck right off. If anything it had worsened, leaving Ben right in the same shit position he’d started.

He was wading around in that very loop now, having woken up two hours before Her and made his way downstairs. Though, once again against his will, Ben had spent the first hour watching Her sleep, dragged into a trance by her heartbeat and her relaxed, beautiful face.

Perfect. The Thing had reminded Ben. Her perfect face.

He’d told it to shut the fuck up, and stomped—quietly, Ben had no interest in waking Her up—out of Her room and down the hall to his own. He’d made himself cum quickly, a fantasy of Her bent over and whining into a pillow fueling him, before moving downstairs to watch TV and wait for Her to wake up like a fucking lost puppy dog.

But Ben did wait—reminding himself that it didn’t mean anything because what else could he even fucking do—as one of the better sitcoms She’d shown him playing in a forgotten buzz as Ben’s thoughts began the useless fucking loop. Ben was so fucking focused on the Homelander had hurt Her and Ben wanted to hurt Him part that he missed the sounds of Her waking up, only barely noticing when her heartbeat grew closer as she walked down the stairs.

“Morning, Sunshine.” Ben called over his shoulder just as She reached the bottom, padding over to drop on the couch next to him.

“Hi.” She mumbled, squinting at the TV. “Oh, this is a good one.”

He glanced back at the screen, where two of the characters were screaming into a walkie talkie in a closet. Ben only grunted, watching Her lean back from the corner of his eye.

 “What’s wrong with you?” She asked so casually, Ben wasn’t sure he heard her right.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“You’re being weird. You didn’t make coffee, and when I came down the stairs you looked deep in thought. It’s concerning.”

Ben rolled his eyes and swatted at Her arm. “Fuck off, brat.” Her heart did the thing, and he had to fight a smile. “I was just watching the fucking show.”

She hummed, giving him an unconvinced look. “Fine, you cunt. Don’t tell me.”

“If this is about you wanting coffee, Sunshine, you’ve got a pair of working arms and a matching set of fucking legs. Do it your goddamn self.”

“It’s not about coffee,” She mumbled, though Ben didn’t miss her slight pout. “I just wanted to…” She trailed off, and Ben looked at her fully.

What a fucking lapse in his quickly vanishing judgment that was.

The morning light through the room made all of Her perfect features fucking glow, and her stupid lips that had been haunting Ben’s every damn thought were puffy from sleep. He wanted to touch them.

“Ben?” Her voice jarred him out of his stupid fucking brain. “Why are you holding Butcher’s sunglasses?”

Ben glanced down and realized that he’d been turning the cheap, knock-off, Soldier Boy sunglass that were the wrong fucking color around in his hand. He’d forgotten to give them to Her completely when she’d first woken up and been all sad, as fucking sunglasses had been lower on his priority list than the fucking Homelander offer. Then, when She had finally started fucking talking to him again, he had found himself rarely in his room—Ben had been keeping the sunglasses on his dresser—except to quickly pull his dick in any spare time he could find. When he’d cleaned up his mess from that very activity this morning, Ben had noticed them collecting dust and shoved them into his pocket to finally fucking move them from his room. One less thing to do a shitty job of cleaning.

“Butcher told me these were yours.” Ben frowned at her. “Asshole said you dropped them on your way to Firecracker’s stage.”

She gave the sunglasses a dirty look. “Of course he did. Fucking asshole.”

“What, are they fucking modern sunglasses that are going to start telling me all your deepest secrets?” Ben looked between the accessory to where She sat, still glowering at it. “Is it a damn bomb?”

“No, Butcher’s just a dick.”” She muttered, though the bitterness was gone from her tone and her lips twitched as her eyes returned to his. “He was going to use them as a part of his dogshit disguise and I told him not to. Because it would blow our cover. Your cover. Then I blew the whole fucking plan, and he’s fucking rubbing it my face.”

“You didn’t blow it, your stupid plan fucking worked, Sunshine. It’s not a great insult.”

“It didn’t work. Not well enough.” The sadness was creeping back into Her eyes, and the Thing was clawing at him.

“Butcher’s an ass,” Ben tossed the sunglasses into Her lap, and she scrambled to catch them. “That tea-rimming dick couldn’t have done any fucking better than you did.”

“Thanks, Ben.” She gave him a small smile, her voice so painfully fucking genuine it made Ben want to throw himself off a cliff. The Thing was whining, fucking whining like a little fucking bitch, as She held the sunglasses up to the light. “Thoughts on the change of your color scheme.”

Ben snorted. “Fucking blue. The weak pussy man’s fucking green.”

She laughed, a real laugh that made the Thing slam against Ben’s lungs. “That’s a much stronger and more negative opinion about blue than I expected from America’s Number One Patriot.”

“If I had any fucking say in it,” Ben grumbled. “Our flag would be red, white, and green.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Like Italy?”

“Fuck no, not like fucking Italy-“ He shot Her a glare as she started to giggle. “Shut the fuck up, Sunshine. Blue is fucking stupid, green is a lot fucking better, and you fucking know it.”

“Hm,” She smothered her laughter and gave him a smirk. “You do look very good in it.”

The Thing loved that. Fuck, Ben loved that too. He did look fucking good in green, he looked good all the damn time. That didn’t stop the Thing—and him, if someone wanted to be a real fucking asshole about specifics—from wanting to, needing to, know what other colors She thought he looked good in. But she had moved on, rubbing the lenses with her shirt before placing the sunglasses on her nose and giving Ben a wide, unrestrained smile.

“How do I look? Like a douchebag?” She asked, pushing them down her nose to look at him over the rim.

Ben snorted. “I don’t think you could look like a douchebag if you fucking tried, Sunshine.”

She giggled, and relaxed fully into the cushions, turning to lean against the armrests and kicking her feet up so they pressed against Ben’s leg. “Jury’s out on that, Pretty Boy.”

Ben watched her settle, watching the TV through the sunglasses and mouthing along to the lines of the show with a comfortable smile, and his brain flashed back to the place he’d left the cycle. Homelander had hurt Her, and Ben wanted to hurt him.

He had his fucking answer for Butcher.

That night, sitting at Her side and moving more carefully he had ever bothered to in his fucking life, Ben reached across Her body and took the small, weird phone from her bed stand. 

The next half hour involved a lot of cursing under his breath, rage building bigger and bigger into Ben until he almost threw the fucking “phone” across the room. In almost any other circumstance he would’ve shoved the damned thing before Her, and she would’ve showed him all the stupid fucking ways in which it worked. But he couldn’t for this, because She’d have fucking questions about what he wanted her phone for, and he’d try and refuse to answer them, and then She’d figure out a fucking way to trick him into telling her. The whole point of his careful movements and silent anger was that he could fire the gun himself before She could insist on doing it with him.

Eventually Ben figured out what open with Face ID meant, leading to him spending another two minutes trying to hold the phone in front of Her face in a way that the stupid fucking thing deemed acceptable. By the grace of a god Ben didn’t believe in, he was saved from another grueling endeavor of trying to figure out how to call someone on a flat piece of fucking glass by the phone buzzing in his hand—something that made him almost crack it in half out of pure vigilance—and the screen showing a weird fucking banner that top that read:

William Butcher: Worst Boss Ever

Need a week.

Ben tapped on the banner, and felt immense satisfaction as it brought him to a screen of little bubbles, a keyboard sitting readily at the bottom. One letter at a time, Ben typed out call me, before pausing and adding Her name at the end.

The phone began to buzz angrily as the words Call From, William Butcher: Worst Boss Ever paired with a photo of an old Wanted photo of Butcher consumed the screen. Ben was incredibly grateful She was asleep, as he dropped the fucking thing onto the his lap in shock—though he’d recovered quickly and any sane motherfucker would’ve done the same if a block of metal started fucking buzzing—and She would certainly not have let him hear the end of it had she seen. He stood carefully but quickly from the bed, looking back as She shuffled slightly. When he saw her settled once more, heartbeat just as steady as when She always slept, he pushed out into the hall and hit the little green button that better fucking do what he thought it would.

“Oi,” Butcher’s voice sounded quietly from the phone, saying Her name with a tone of annoyance. “Soldier Boy rub off on you so hard you forgot how bloody phones work?” The man made a sound like he was laughing to himself. “Actually, don’t fucking answer that. I don’t want to know what freaky shit you two get up to.”

“Guess again,” Ben spoke against the screen, trying at the same time to figure out how to make Butcher louder. He noticed a button labeled speaker, slammed his thumb against it, and almost dropped the phone as Butcher’s voice blasted against his ears.

“Well, if it ain’t the ancient cunt himself. Does the missus know you took her phone?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Ben froze, swearing under his breath, as Her voice sounded from behind him. Ignoring Butcher’s mocking laughter echoing in the hall, he turned slowly to find Her right at his chest, eyes bleary but still managing to glare with all her usual, sharp venom. “Hello, Sunshine. Good fucking morning to you too.”

“You as well.” She snapped, and Ben scoffed, silently enjoying the way Her nose scrunched as she corrected him and hating the way he didn’t want to throw Her against a wall. “And it’s fucking 3am.” She yanked her phone from Ben’s grip, scowling at him as she spoke. “Butcher, I’m going to put you on hold for a second, Ben and I need to talk.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Butcher’s voice sneered, and She rolled her eyes before pressing something on the screen. “I’ll just bloody wait here then, not like I have anything important to do.”

“I can still hear him.” Ben pointed out as Butcher began to hum through the speakers.

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t worry about it, Pretty Boy. He won’t hear it when I beat your fucking ass.”

“I stay with you all night, again, and this is how you show me fucking gratitude?”

“You fucking stole my phone to call Butcher.” She said flatly. “You don’t even know how to use it.”

“I figured it out, Sunshine. I’m not a fucking idiot pussy.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular fucking Einstein, using a smartphone in 21st century.” She jeered. “Now tell me why you needed to call Butcher so bad you decided to steal my phone about it, before I melt your fucking face. ”

“Take your best fucking shot, Sunshine, this is between me and the brit.”

She sighed. “Have it your way. Butcher?” She tapped the phone, holding Ben’s glare. “Any ideas about what Ben was calling you for?”

“Why do you ask, Love? Soldier Boy not willing to share his intentions with me to his Sunshine? ” Butcher mocked, and Her scowled turned down to the phone.

“Butcher.” Her voice was cool, and Ben could see the gnawing of her lip just as well as he could hear it. “You and Ben get one minute to grow bigger balls and tell me right now, or I will cut off the tiny ones you have.”

“Sorry, but Ben -“ Butcher’s voice said his name in a way that made Ben want to cut out the man’s tongue. “Didn’t get round to telling me his bloody self, so I ain’t got a clue.”

“Give me a guess.” She said coldly.

“Can’t, Love. I don’t have the faintest idea.”

A sound of frustration escaped Her throat, and Ben watched her grip on the phone tighten. “Butcher, I don’t know where this sudden loyalty to Ben came from, but you better lose it and find an idea real fucking fast before I leave Ben here so I can come and kill you.”

Any sleep was gone from Her eyes, smoke had begun to curl off of her body, and Ben was starting to worry she was going to break the skin in her mouth. Maybe She’d let us look at it if she does, the Thing whispered. And we could touch her lips.

Ben had to get himself under fucking control. If he wasn’t so focused on Her mouth like a whipped pussy, he would’ve been able to grab the phone back and break it before Butcher caved and told Her.

“Well, it might have something to do with our little chat while you were taking bloody five. That it, Gov? You finally got a fucking answer for me?”

She looked up at Ben, eyes flaring. “What little chat? ” 

“None of your business, Sunshine,” Ben snapped, and Butcher made a huffed laugh through the phone.

“Don’t think she sees it that way, Mate.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Butcher.” Ben growled, and Her glare somehow grew so sharp Ben could feel it.

“What little chat, Butcher. What answer does Ben need to give you.” She hissed.

“Homelander and Sage gave us a little offer to have a nice and peaceful chat.” Butcher drawled, and Her eyes shot down to the phone, mouth falling open. “I’ve been waitin two bloody weeks for Soldier Boy to let me know if he’ll grace us with his presence.”

Her eyes returned to Ben, jaw clenched, and the carpet at her feet started to blacken. “I’m going to have to call you back, Butcher.”

“If you two have angry sex, tell me, because Hughie will owe me a tenner and-“ Butcher’s voice was cut off as She hung up, not once looking away from Ben.

“Homelander and Sage offered us a meeting? And you didn’t think that was important enough to share with the class?” Her voice was level, words measured, and heart steady. Ben hadn’t seen Her like this since those first weeks, and he hadn’t missed it one fucking bit.

“They offered me a meeting, Sunshine.” Ben snapped. “You’re not invited.”

“I go where you go, Pretty Boy.” Her words pushed through gritted teeth. “So unless they’re coming here, I’m going with you.”

“You seem real confident I wasn’t about to tell Butcher to shove the offer up where the sun don’t fucking shine.” Ben glared down at her, and She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You would’ve woken me up so you could have an audience. You didn’t want me to know.”

“Not everything is about you, Sunshine.” Ben growled, most of his anger now angled at how fucking correct she was.

“Really? Because you stealing my phone and very purposefully not telling me about the meeting feels like it might be about me just a little!”

 “Well, if you would give me a fucking phone of my own-“

“That not the fucking point, Ben! Why didn’t you fucking tell me about this!” She yelled, the room becoming thick with smoke.

“I don’t have to fucking tell you everything! You’re not my goddamn partner!”

Her heart stuttered, face dropping into a scowl, and Ben felt something start to eat at him in his chest.

“Fine.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, and it made the Thing turn his blood to lead and squeeze his chest tightly. “Whatever.” She threw the phone at him, and Ben had hardly caught it when She turned and walked back into the room, door slamming behind her.

Ben almost moved to follow Her, lurching forward to push after her and insist she fucking listen to him, that he hadn’t fucking told her for a damn good fucking reason, but the phone started to buzz again, this time displaying Call From, Marvin Milk: Holder of Incorrect Dr. Dre Opinions along with a photo of MM flipping off the camera. Ben glanced to the door, hearing Her heart moving faster by the second as her breath became short and shaky, and hit the red button.

He’d barely made it a step when the phone started buzzing again, MM calling once more. Growling in frustration, Ben pressed the red button again, only from it to buzz with a series of those fucking banners.

Marvin Milk: Holder of Incorrect Dr. Dre Opinions

Fucking pick up.

Butcher said you and Soldier Boy were fighting.

If you don’t fucking pick up right now I’m driving over and yelling at you.

Or I’m sending Annie.

Ben glowered in disbelief at the phone, stone-like, hot rage filling through him. How fucking dare they even fucking think that Ben might fucking hurt her like fucking Homelander when that’s exactly what he was trying to fucking avoid- 

This time, when the phone rang, Ben slammed the green button.

MM’s voice, sharp with relief, said Her name through the speaker. “Fucking hell, pick up the first time, you were going to give me a goddamn heart attack-“

“What the fuck is your problem.” Ben snapped, and the line fell so silent Ben thought it had dropped.“

After what must have been a fucking eternity, MM spoke, his voice firm and cold. “Soldier Boy, put Her on the phone right fucking now.”

“She’s not talking to me,” Ben said, ignoring the way the Thing became pained at his words.

“I swear to fucking God, if you don’t put her on right fucking now I’ll knock out myself and ship you back to Russia. If you fucking laid one disgusting hand on her-“

“I didn’t fucking touch her.“ Ben growled, the drums falling into rhythm with his fury. “I am not fucking Homelander.”

 “You think I’m just going to fucking trust you about that? Butcher said you had a fight, and now you’re picking up her phone. If it walks like a Soldier Boy, talks like a Soldier Boy, then you fucking hurt her.”

“ I didn’t fucking hurt her! ” Ben roared at the phone, and Butcher’s voice came, muffled, through the speaker.

“Is that him? Give me the fucking phone, I need to talk to the cunt.”

“No,” MM’s voice was distant now, shouting at Butcher. “I need to make sure this motherfucker didn’t-“

“She can’t die Mate, she’s bloody fine. Give me the fucking phone.” There were sounds of shuffling, and when Butcher spoke again his voice was loud and crisp. “Stuck in the rotten bloody dog house, eh Gov?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Ben snapped. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

“I mean, if you start to hurt her might as well fucking be-“

“Fucking watch it, Butcher.” Ben hissed. “The only person in danger right now is your fucking pussy ass.”

“Well, aren’t we touchy.” Butcher sneered.

“You want your fucking answer or not?” Ben glanced back at the door, where She had become suspiciously quiet. The only sign of life Ben had to grasp was her uneven heartbeat, and even that was soft.

Butcher sighed dramatically through the phone. “If you want to suck all the bleedin fun out of it, fine. What’s it gonna be, Soldier Boy? Am I telling Homelander and Sage to find a wood chipper to stick their asses and heads in?”

“I’m in.” Ben said shortly, firmly. “Come and get me when it’s ready.”

“That’ll be in,” there was a slight pause before Butcher continued. “Eight hours.”

 “Eight hours?” Ben repeated with a frown. “You pussies think you can get everything ready in eight fucking hours?”

“We’ve been ready for a week, Gov.” Butcher’s voice sounded fucking smug, and Ben wished he could punch the man through the phone. “Let’s just say I had a good feeling about your answer.”

“Fine. Eight hours. But if you’re not here on time, I’m not fucking going.” Ben didn’t wait for Butcher’s snarking, bitch-mouthed questions or mockery before he hung up, finally marching over to Her door and pushing it open.

She wasn’t on the bed. Or the floor. Or on the tacky armchair. Or at the shitty desk. She wasn’t in the room at all, and Ben’s heart fucking stopped, the drums building and building. He was fucking seconds away from tearing the whole damn room apart when he noticed the bathroom door hanging open, the lights off but the fans humming filling the room in time with taps of Moon River, both covering her already faint heartbeat.

“Sunshine?” He grunted, and heard Her heart stutter. “I have your phone.”

She didn’t answer, and Ben took a few steps closer to the door, abandoning the phone on Her bed.

“I know you’re in there,” he said Her name carefully. “I can fucking hear you.”

Still nothing. The Thing was grabbing Ben so tight he had to think to breathe.

“Are you still fucking pissed at me about the meeting?” He snapped, trying to fight the Thing and get Her just fucking acknowledge him. “Because if that’s what the fucking silent treatment is about, I don’t-“

Something cluttered in the bathroom, and She appeared at the door. Her eyes were red, face drawn in an angry scowl, and even from his place a few feet away, Ben could feel the heat off of her. But what made the Thing start to claw, feral and fucking desperate, at Ben’s ribs, was that She didn’t look angry or violent. She didn’t even look sad and broken. She just looked empty.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” She said flatly, watching Ben with hollow eyes. “I’m not giving you the silent treatment. I just don’t want to talk to you.”

“You’re being fucking dramatic-“

“Am I?” She shrugged. “What a fucking inconvenience.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Ben’s voice was rising, and he couldn’t fucking stop it, especially as She didn’t even flinch. “It’s not like I fucking laid hands on you!”

She let out a low, humorless laugh. “Yeah, sure. Good work, Ben. Real white horse moment, you didn’t beat me up.”

“That’s not what I fucking meant and you damn know it.”

“Maybe.” She sighed again. “Are you done?” 

“Not until you fucking tell me what you’re fucking problem is-“

“Why should I?” She said flatly, looking away from him. “We don’t have to tell each other everything.”

Ben stared at Her as she still didn’t meet his eyes, her words—his words—echoing through his head, the Thing twisting in his throat. “Is that what you’re being so fucking bitchy about? That I didn’t fucking tell you about one goddamn thing?”

Something flashed in Her eyes, and even though it was a bone-chilling rage, Ben felt something unwind deep in his gut that she wasn’t just fucking vacant.

“You didn’t just not tell me about one thing, you fucking lied to me.” Something in Her voice snapped. “You said you hadn’t heard from Butcher! You said we were fucking benched, when it was just fucking me! When Butcher had told you about Homelander’s stupid fucking offer and not me!” Her voice was climbing to a raw, broken scream. “You said you wouldn’t fucking lie.” Her words were choked. “ You fucking lied, Ben. ”

In his life, Ben had been an asshole a damn lot, and though he’d never managed to be bothered by it—he wasn’t a fucking emotional pussy and it wasn’t his goddamn fault that everyone else was—it hadn’t stopped people from screaming at him, calling him every foul name in the English language, and wishing pain upon him both to his face and behind closed doors. This was, for some fucking reason Ben didn’t want to even spare a thought to, worse then all of that in every fucking way imaginable. Her silent sobs that she seemed to be trying to push down her throat, Her refusal to fully look at him for more than a second, Her voice as she screamed at him so fucking shattered and anguished.

He shouldn’t fucking care. It wasn’t a big fucking deal, it had been one little lie. Fuck, it hadn't even been a damn lie, just an omission. She was being fucking dramatic.

You hurt Her. The Thing hissed at him. You promised you wouldn’t hurt Her, and you did.

No, he fucking didn’t. He hadn’t laid a single finger on her.

People don’t act like that if they’re not hurt.

He hadn’t fucking hurt Her. If anything, She was fucking hurting him with her broken eyes and sobs.

The Thing was trying to burst out of him. She’s broken because you hurt her. Because she trusted you, and you lied.

It was her own damn fault, then. Ben wouldn’t even fucking trust himself, and he certainly hadn’t forced Her to.

But she did. The Thing growled. For some fucking reason, She trusted you. And you fucking hurt her. Like fucking Homelander.

That was it. Ben wasn’t like fucking Homelander. He hadn’t fucking hurt her. But she was still fucking crying, backing away from him into the shadows as he just stood there like a fucking dickless asshole.

So, against all of his better judgment, Ben let the Thing win. Once. Never fucking again, but right now he just needed Her to stop fucking hurting, and if the Thing could make him fix this, then Ben would let it win just fucking once.

He took a step towards Her, and something wrapped around his lungs released as She let Ben wrap her shaking body into his arms, let him pull her head against his chest and keep her there. They stood there, Ben holding Her until her breathing steadied and body cooled. When—after what was either a second or a year—she whispered, her voice carried into and through Ben’s body. 

“I’m sorry-“ She started, but he pulled back to look down at her, and she cut herself off as she met his gaze. 

“Don’t be. You were…” the words struggled out of him, the Thing pushing them up. “Not wrong.”

She gave a shaky laugh, and that carried through Ben too. “I was still being a bitch. You’re right, we don’t have to tell each other everything-“ 

“No.” He cut Her off fully this time, and she blinked up at him, eyes wide and pretty. Ben swallowed, forcing himself to stop starting like a pathetic asshole and just fucking talk. “I told you I had nothing to hide. I fucking meant it.”

She tilted her head at him, watching him with a look he didn’t understand. “Then why did you lie?”

Her voice was soft, and the Thing was making an awfully fucking convincing argument to never let her go.

“I didn’t lie.” Ben grunted, and was met with a flat look and a pinch on his arm.

“Ben.”

He rolled his eyes, grip around Her tightening. “I didn’t fucking lie, Sunshine. I just-“

“Omitted the truth?” She gave him a small smile, and the Thing jumped. “That’s a form of lying, Pretty Boy.”

 “Well, I knew you’d have a fucking opinion about this like you do for every damn thing, and maybe I just didn’t want fucking to hear it.”

“Hm,” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you think I’d say?”

“To go.” He stared ahead as he spoke, silently hoping She’d, for once in her fucking life, be satisfied with his answer.

He should’ve known a lot damn better by now.

“That it?”

Ben’s gaze dropped back down to Her, loathing how the light of the dawn was pushing through the curtains, casting her face in soft light that fit her stupid fucking perfect face so well. Ben loathed even more that she wasn’t scowling at him, wasn’t even glaring, just watching with an amused, gentle look of I don’t believe you, Ben. You’re a fucking shit liar, and it’s funny you think you’re not.

Ben wanted to tell Her that, no, he was actually an amazing fucking liar. He’d managed to jerk himself off multiple times a day for the past week and she had no fucking clue.

Instead, he rolled his eyes at Her, trying to imitate that boring, amused tone of Hers that always made him fucking insane. “You would’ve fucking tried to go as well. And that’s only happening over my dead fucking body.”

She gave a small, fake annoyed huff. “That’s not fair. You can’t die.”

“I’m serious.” Ben frowned. “Homelander’s going to be there. You’re not fucking going, Sunshine.”

She blinked at him with that same look from before, confusing the fucking hell out him. “But-“

“No.” Ben forced himself to pull away from Her, snarling in his head at the Thing’s whining as he did so. “End of fucking discussion. This isn’t like Firecracker, where Homelander might be there. He will be. You’re not fucking going.”

She frowned, arms folding across her chest in a way that pushed her tits forward-

Ben swore at himself. This was getting fucking ridiculous.

“You’re not my boss, Ben. If I want to go, I’m going.”

“Sunshine, I don’t know if you recently went deaf-“ Ben ignored her scoff. “Or are just suddenly very fucking stupid, but you keep somehow missing the part where Homelander is going to be there.”

“I can fucking hear you, cunt, I just-“

“Are being a fucking brat on purpose? I don’t even think you fucking want to go, I think you just don’t like me being fucking right.”

Her lips pursed and the gnawing began, but She remained silent as she glared up at him. Ben felt both a rush of triumph and a breath of weird fucking relief from the Thing.

“How about this, Sunshine. They’ll be here in a little more than seven hours. You convince them to let you go, I won’t fight it. But-“ Ben lowered his tone, making it clear as fucking day that he was being goddamn serious. “If they say no, you stay here without any fucking dramatics.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded, and extended her hand. “Deal.”

Ben snorted. “You want to fucking shake on it?”

“Want to prove you’re the noble fucking asshole gentleman you’re always bragging about being?” She nodded down to her hand. “Fucking shake on it, Pretty Boy.”

Ben winked at Her. “I’m no fucking gentleman, Sunshine. Thought your pretty little head would’ve figured that out by now.”

She only glared. “If you don’t shake my hand right fucking now, I’m fulfilling my promise about melting off your face and then going to the meeting by myself.”

“Brat,” Ben muttered, and the Thing fucking purred in goddamn satisfaction as he heard her heart did that little roll. It still didn’t fucking mean anything worth mentioning, Ben decided. It just meant She wasn’t that mad at him anymore, and that was why the relief was fucking consuming him. Because She was back to her normal self, getting on every last fucking nerve of his without any damn tears.

“Cunt.” She flexed her hand, and, frowning, Ben gave Her a firm shake. A smile split across Her face, and though her eyes were still red and tired, there was no hint of that emptiness remaining. “Lovely. I look forward to attending the meeting.”

Ben found it adorable that She believed he would’ve even fucking offered the deal if he thought a single goddamn member of her team would let her go. They had trained like normal, Ben changing into his suit afterward—because there was no fucking way Butcher was making him go in goddamn sweats—and they had spent the remaining hours leading up to the meeting on the couch, watching TV in what would have been uneasy silence, had it not been for Her leaning into his side with an ease of someone who had done it a million times. Ben somehow managed to stay still, both shutting the Thing up with inner, vulgar threats, and exerting an impressive amount of stealth in concealing his boner, which had returned with a vengeance Ben didn’t fucking appreciate. And—as he had predicted—when Butcher arrived with the French Prick and Kimiko, there was universal agreement that She wasn’t allowed to be in attendance.

“This is fucking bullshit!” She yelled at Butcher, giving his chest a firm shove. Ben was a little impressed the man didn’t topple over or cower in fear, but Butcher would never get to fucking know it.

“Sorry, Love, but Soldier Boy’s right. You’d just be a bloody problem that we ain’t got time to deal with.” Butcher turned to Ben, giving a sweeping gesture to the door. “After you, Gov.”

“How are you going to control Ben, huh?!” Her voice was desperate, and the Thing wanted to hold her again, despite Ben’s annoyance at Her apparent lack of fucking faith in him. “What if he goes rogue? And I’m not there to stop him?!”

“Fuck you too, Sunshine.” Ben muttered, and She shot him a glare.

“Shut up, this isn’t about you.”

He snorted, and She stuck her tongue out at him.

“You cunts can stand here and eye-fuck each other as long as you bloody please, but when Soldier Boy finally gets off and we go, you’re staying here, Love.”

“But what if-“

The French Prick said Her name smoothly. “Do not worry, madame. The CIA gave me enough of their gas to knock out all of Espagne, and I mixed with my own cocktail of fun, so if the connard goes nuclear-“ The French Prick gave Ben a smirk. “I will knock his arse to sleep before he can even say oops.”

Ben glowered at the French Prick, the drums sounding distantly. He could fucking control himself, this was goddamn unnecessary, and he fucking doubted their pussy fucking gas would even damn work on him. But She was starting to look like she might just run out door and chase the van they’d brought all the way to wherever Butcher had planned the meeting, so Ben clenched his fists and ignored the approaching rhythm.

“Let’s just get this fucking over it.” He grunted, pushing around Butcher to the door.

“That’s more bloody like it,” Butcher smirked. “Let get this fucking show on the damn road, Gov.”

Ben glanced back once before he stepped outside, half hoping to see Her watching him—even if it was with an angry glare of when you get back I’m going to cut your dick off—but found Her exchanging those weird fucking gestures with Kimiko, her face cast in a shadow so he couldn’t read it.

Kimiko eventually turned, walking past Ben and through the door, and his eyes met Hers.

Don’t fucking die, Pretty Boy. Her frown told him.

The Thing wanted to stay there. It didn’t want to bring Her, even it wasn’t that fucking stupid. But it was roaring around in him just the fucking anticipation of leaving Her.

“Don’t fucking miss me too much, Sunshine.” Ben said, adding a wink before he turned.

He didn’t miss her sharp exhale, or her mumbled words, before the door closed between them. “I’ll try.”

Because Butcher was out to fucking get him, the something that had been set up to hold Ben was just the van—improved by a deadbolt Ben was pretty fucking sure he could snap in half without a thought—along Kimiko glaring at him and the French Prick holding a can of gas. For the first half hour, Butcher humming something Ben didn’t recognize—but was still certain was off-key and tempo—was the only sound aside from the engine. Ben broke after deciding that, if Kimiko and the French Prick kept doing those fucking gestures at each other, he’d have to take his bets with the gas and kill them both.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ben grunted, and they both turned to look at him.

“ Que? ” The French Prick looked him up and down wearily.

Ben mimed their gestures. “The fuck is that.”

“Monsieur Soldier Boy-“ The French Prick was cut off as Kimiko hit his arm, gesturing aggressively when his attention turned to her. “ Mon Coeur, there is no harm in him knowing.”

“Knowing what?” Ben scowled, and Kimiko glared at him, continuing her movements as the French Prick shook his head.

“She does not want me to tell you,” the French Prick frowned, beginning to gesture himself. “Although, Madame Anomaly-“

 “Don’t call her that.” Ben snapped.

The French Prick blinked, and Kimiko, frowned, doing more gestures that involved a lot of fucking pointing at Ben.

“ Mon Coeur, please, it’ll make it easier.” Kimiko rolled her eyes, but sat back with a huff. The French Pricks attention returned to Ben. “This is how she speaks.”

“Yeah, I fucking figured that out myself.” Ben said with an eye roll. “Why is she a fucking mute?”

Kimiko flipped Ben off, and he glared at her as the French Prick sighed. “Her parents were killed, right before her eyes. She has said no words since.”

“Oh.” Ben frowned, narrowing his eyes as he looked between them. “Fine.”

Kimiko let out another huff, gesturing to the French Prick once more.

“ Non, she could not come instead. Homelander is too big of a threat to her.” The Thing started to push against him as Ben realized they were talking about Her. “Mon Couer, she would not have just stayed in the van -“

Ben cut the French Prick off, saying Her name harshly. “Does she know?” He mimed the gestures again, and decided to pretend for Kimiko’s sake he didn’t see her eye roll. “I’ve seen her fucking waving her hands at you, so don’t fucking lie to me.”

“ Oui,” the French Prick said, sounding more tired by the fucking second. “When she joined us, she insisted we teach her.”

“Of course she did.” Ben grumbled. She was too damn kind for her own fucking good. One day it was going to get Her fucking killed.

The Thing didn’t like that thought, rearing against his throat, and Ben could almost fucking hear her response.

Me being kind is a lot less likely to get me killed than being a dick to everyone all the fucking time is, Pretty Boy. You should follow my example.

Maybe he would, Ben smiled to himself. Not to be kind, that was fucking stupid, but because if he followed Her he would be able to save her dumbass when he was proven right. Plus, he liked watching Her walk. She always moved with such fucking purpose, her hips doing a little sway and her hair bouncing, it was really fucking hot.

The French Prick coughed, opening his mouth to say something and snapping Ben out of his thoughts.

“How much longer until we’re there?” Ben said before the French Prick had gotten a syllable out, having no interest in whatever had been about to be said, especially—if his suspicion was correct—about Her.

“Almost there, Gov.” Butcher called from the front.

“And there fucking is?”

“FBSA HQ.”

Ben was going to take Butcher’s asshole and bend him until it was next to his mouth, and Butcher had to swallow his own fucking shit forever. “Fucking words, you dickfaced pussy.”

Butcher snorted. “Federal Bureau of Supe Affairs. You ain’t thick enough to not get HQ by your bloody self.”

“You let them choose it?” Ben scowled at the back of Butcher’s head. “Or man the fuck up and this is your fucking pick?”

“Compromise, Mate.” Butcher grinned, toothy and mocking, in the rearview mirror. “We wanted somewhere public, they wanted somewhere private. Government property is the middle ground.”

“Fucking pussy.” Ben muttered under his breath, and as Butcher laughed coldly, the van came to a halt.

“Let’s get a bloody move on.” Butcher stood from his seat. “Lot of shit to do and not much fuckin time to get it done.” 

At the request of the building’s security—some fucking pussy shit about not inciting a panic by having Soldier Boy walk into the lobby of a government building—Ben was herded through a back entrance, Butcher leading them through the flickering halls and up the elevator as the French Prick and Kimiko walked a pace behind, the French Prick gripping the gas like a pussy with a fucking lifeline.

When they entered the meeting room, a fucking insane amount of floors up and through a goddamn stupid amount of doors, Homelander was pacing back and forth before a floor-to-ceiling window as Sage and another woman—one Ben didn’t recognize in shiny fucking pantsuit with long black hair—sat on the far side of a conference table.

“Oi!” Butcher reached to his back, pulling out a gun and aiming it at the pantsuit lady. “She wasn’t on the fucking guess list.”

“Neither were they,” Sage said cooly, inclining her head towards Kimiko and the French Prick. “So we all broke a promise, and it’s even.”

“And put that away, William.” Homelander said, giving Butcher a large smile and a dismissive wave. “You look ridiculous. Vicky here will pop your brains before you even switch off the safety.”

“Don’t call me Vicky,” the woman’s voice was tense, giving Homelander weary side-eye. “But he is right, Butcher. You know that won’t hurt any of us.”

“Maybe.” Butcher sneered. “But I’m a man of science, I’d like to bloody see for myself.”

“Just sit down so we can get this over with,” Sage ordered, looking over her shoulder to where Homelander still stood, chest puffed and hands on hips. “Homelander, that means you as well.”

Homelander glared down at Sage before turning his gaze to Butcher, and then Ben.

He looked fucking pathetic, just as fucking weak as Ben remembered. Still wearing a fucking cape like a pussy, still strutting around like a goddamn toddler, looking fucking desperate for fucking approval. The only difference—something Ben wasn’t sure was new from their last meeting or something he saw because of Her—was the edge in Homelander’s eyes. The pussyfucker had looked psychotic, eyes too fucking blue and smile too fucking wide, but there was something crazed behind his movements. Something a lot more fucking careless. A lot more fucking dangerous.

“Soldier Boy.” Homelander said, voice level as that same insanity glinted in his eyes.

Ben kept his voice level as he responded, fighting every instinct to slam the weak pussies head into the glass of the window. “Homelander.” 

“Can you both just sit down?” Sage said, exasperated as she looked between them. “The longer you measure your dicks at each other, the longer this goes.”

Homelander didn’t move, so Ben didn’t either.

“Fine,” Sage rolled her eyes. “Stand the whole time for all I fucking care.” She leaned forwards, clasping her hands on the table. “We asked you here to-“

“Who the fuck is she.“ Ben pointed at the pantsuit lady, who nobody had thought to fucking clue him in on the identity of.

“Victoria Neuman, Vice President of the United States.” The woman said, giving Ben a cool smile. “I believe you tried to kill me a month ago.”

Ben frowned. “Head-popper.”

Neuman sighed. “Yeah, sure. Head-popper.”

"How’d you even get away from your security cunts?” Butcher mused, eyeing Neuman. “Vought put them on payroll?”

She turned her frown to Butcher. “As you know, the secret service is a lot more inept than the public is led to believe. They think I ate bad seafood last night, and am pushing it out in a restroom three floors down.”

“Well, don’t I feel just peachy about having them protecting this great nation against threats.” Butcher jeered, and Neuman narrowed her eyes.

“You blew up my rally, Butcher. That was literally political terrorism.”

Butcher shrugged. “That particular firework show wasn’t mine, Popper.”

Homelander gave a toothy grin, walking forward to stand at the edge of the table. “It was her, wasn’t it?” He looked down at Sage. “I fucking told you, didn’t I? I said that it reminded me of her, and you said it wasn’t. Well I was fucking right.” The last words came out hissed through teeth, his smile never breaking.

Ben wanted to tear it off his face. The Thing was in favor of that plan.

“I said it wasn’t because, at the time, I thought she was dead. Like you’d told me she was.” Sage frowned.

Homelander shrugged, dropping into one of the seats and gripping the armrests. “How was I supposed to know she survived the fire? Those fucking scientists didn’t put down that she’d developed fire powers.”

“You said she combusted.”

“And caused the fire!” Homelander rolled his eyes. “It was a perfectly rational train of thought! She takes the fourth V shot, fire starts, she’s gone!” His face fell, body tensing as his eyes narrowed at Butcher across the table. “I didn’t think William had stooped to kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” Butcher laughed in disbelief. “You think I kidnapped her?”

Homelander sighed dramatically, gesturing his gloved hands as he spoke. “You kidnapped Soldier Boy! Twice!”

 “Nobody kidnaps me.” Ben growled, taking the seat next to Butcher. “I’m here because I fucking want to be.”

“Yeah,” Sage interjected. “And the can of gas is just… decoration?” Her attention turned to the French Prick. “Enflurane?” 

“ Oui,” the French Prick looked fucking proud of himself as he answered. “Combined with Agent Orange and mustard gas.”

Neuman gave the French prick a stare of shocked disgust. “Frenchie, how did you get your hands on Agent Orange?!“

“I made my own, Madame Neuman. With a little extra kick.”

Ben glared at Butcher. “That shit better staying in the fucking can.”

“You stay in line, and we’ll all pretend it’s not even bloody there.”

“ Stay in line? ” Homelander scoffed. “You let them talk to you like that? When you could squash each one like a fly? ”

“Stay on topic.” Sage warned. “We have an actual reason for being here, and I would like to get to it.”

“I second that,” Neuman raised her hand. “I want to go home.”

“Nobody’s fucking making you be here, Popper.” Butcher sneered at her. “You can leave whenever you bloody feel like it.”

Neuman ignored him with an ease, and Ben liked her a little more.

“We asked you here,” Sage began. “To talk. About the Anomaly. And Soldier Boy.”

“Yeah, I bloody figured.” Butcher said casually, face painfully bored. “What about them?”

“Your plans. Specifically with her. I want to know them.” Sage watched Butcher carefully as she spoke, gaze flicking to Ben only once.

Butcher laughed, loudly. “Oh, that all? Could this not have been a damn email I’d fucking delete?”

“I’m serious, Butcher.” Sage didn’t waver, pressing forward. “I’m curious what your plans are with the Anomaly. She’s not exactly stable. I want to know exactly how you plan on keeping her under control, especially after Firecracker.”

The Thing roared, and Ben didn’t fucking mind it at all. Images of Her curled on her bed, of Her sobbing in arms, of Her looking fucking afraid and hopeless flashed in Ben’s eyes. Her screams, broken and painful, longing for fucking death, echoed in his ears. Ben’s own hands had become fists under the table, and the only thing keeping him from slamming them across Sage’s face was Her voice in his head. Fucking diplomacy, Ben. This is why you needed me here.

Homelander started to speak, and Ben remained fully fucking confident in not bringing Her. Damn ghost of her voice could whine all it wanted, but the real Her was miles away, and fucking safe.

“You know not to touch her, right?” Homelander asked, looking between Butcher, Ben, the French Prick, and Kimiko. “She’ll tell you to, say it’s to heal you, but she’s actually poking around in your fucking brains. Well,” his eyes stopped on Kimiko with a frown. “If you have a functional one.”

Kimiko glared at him, and the French Prick rested a hand atop her leg. “I would not make her mad,” the French Prick said carefully. “She has a remarkably functional brain, and has grown quite fond of the Anomaly.”

Homelander let out laugh, strained and forceful. “Of course she has,” he said Her name with a lilting, bright tone, and the Thing started clawing and bellowing inside Ben. “A lot more than just a pretty face, isn’t she? Crafty little thing, could charm a slug.” His attention returned to Butcher. “She sang for you yet? That’s how she works her little fucking spell. Sinks her claws into you until to giving her fucking everything. ” The last words were spat out, and Homelander wasn’t smiling anymore.

The Thing was howling, but Ben pushed it down, teeth were grinding so tightly he might break them.

“You think you gave her everything? ” Butcher sneered at Homelander, giving a taunting chuckle. “Mate, she goes cuckoo at just the mention of your name.”

“So, you know she can’t control herself?” Sage ignored Homelander’s glare—his mouth had opened to respond to Butcher—as she cut him off. “And yet you enable her anyways? Why?”

“Listen, Sister. If you brought us here just to ask questions about the Anomaly, you’ve only wasted your own bloody time. We ain’t ‘sharing our plans’ with you.” Butcher scoffed. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“I am smart,” Sage’s voice remained level. “I can’t be blamed for you not cooperating.”

“You just asked us for our fucking plans, Lady. If that had been our war strategy against the Nazi’s, we’d have fucking lost.” Ben interjected, and Sage raised her brows at him.

“Maybe.” Was all Sage said, and a chill ran through Ben.

“That it, then? Cause we’ll be on our fucking way.” Butcher started to stand, and Sage raised her hand to stop him.

“What about Soldier Boy, then,” Sage asked as if Ben wasn’t right fucking there. “He has debilitating PTSD, and has proven to be a liability. Even if you get a shot, there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to fully control his blast.”

“Who says that’s what we’re planning?” Butcher snapped. “If it was, we’d just fucking do it now, wouldn’t we?”

“No.” Sage smiled. “Because you’re smarter than that, Butcher. Not by much, but you are.”

“Is she healthy?” Homelander said suddenly, leaning forward. “Is she eating? Or still starving herself just to fucking spite me?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ben growled, the Thing was roaring inside him.

Homelander rolled his eyes. “When she’d get all mournful about her old, stupid, boring life that I saved her from, she’d starve herself. Wouldn’t fucking eat anything I brought her, even cake! Just to make me mad!” He sighed. “I used to have to force her to eat, cause she was fucking useless when she would throw those little tantrums. When we started V, she was doing it so much the third shot didn’t take! She made me waste it! ”

Ben wasn’t sure if it was the Thing or just his own rage coursing through him. It was like steel, burning steel through his blood that wanted to kill Homelander, moving into Ben’s head and blinding him to any possible issues with that idea. He didn’t fucking care. All Ben could feel was fucking fury, white and cold fury at Homelander’s words. All that was in his head were thoughts of Her carefree and bloodless, of the life she’d told him about, and of Her shrinking into nothing as it was pulled away from Her. 

She hadn’t fucking told Ben about the food. She’d eaten less after Firecracker, but she’d still eaten. Homelander said he’d had to force food into Her. 

Looking at Butcher, the French Prick, and Kimiko—all wearing similar expressions of horrified, shocked anger—Ben had a feeling She hadn’t told them about it either.

“I thought I’d wasted the fourth shot too,” Homelander continued, and Ben didn’t know if he hadn’t noticed the cold shift in the room, or just didn’t give a shit. “Oh, I was mad about that. Wasn’t I?” He turned to Neuman and Sage, but pressed on before they could speak. “I mean, neither of you were there, but I was. I was so mad. I thought I’d lost her, too. It was awful.”

“I’m sure it was really bloody hard for you,” Butcher grunted, and Homelander rolled his eyes.

“I know you’re being sarcastic William, but it was. You have no clue what it’s like to lose someone like that!”

Butcher’s jaw clenched. “I might have a fucking idea.”

“Oh, because of Becca? She was fun, believe me, I know.” Homelander laughed, and Ben had never seen Butcher’s knuckles so white before, heard his heart beat so fast. “But she was mortal. Human.” Homelander said the word with disgust, face twisting in a sneer.

“The Anomaly was human too,” Neuman said softy, and Homelander scowled at her.

“I fixed that. Now she’s almost as strong as me. Almost as strong as you!” Homelander gestured at Ben, and Ben started fantasizing about ripping his hand off. “I would be open to a custody agreement, you know. You get Ryan for a week, I get her at the same time, we switch back.” 

“Not a fucking chance in hell,” Ben growled, and Homelander sighed.

“She’ll come back to me eventually. She needs me to help her, and when she realizes that I’m the only one who can, she’ll come back.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath, cunt.” Butcher said coldly. “She might have a slightly different memory of your time together. Are we fuckin done here?” Butcher turned to Sage, who hummed.

“Sure.” Sage didn’t look at Butcher, and Ben realized she was watching him. Her eyes were scanning Ben, sending a crawling feeling along his skin. “Good luck controlling him,” Sage nodded towards Ben. “And the Anomaly.”

“We’ll manage.” Butcher stood, the French Prick and Kimiko following his lead.

“I look forward to seeing whatever terrible plans you’ve made.” Sage smiled, still watching Ben.

 “I’m sure you fuckin are.” Butcher sneered, kicking the legs of Ben’s chair. “Up and at ‘em, Gov. Waste of our bloody time.”

Ben stood, moving from the table. Butcher was, for once in his damn life, right. This had been a complete waste of their fucking time, Sage had asked them here just to fuck with their heads, and all these fucking pussies hadn’t even given Ben an opportunity to get any blood on his suit-

“You know,” Homelander said, just before Butcher could open the door. “I never really understood Helen of Troy. I mean, launching a thousand ships with a face?” He laughed. “Fucking ridiculous. Then, I met her, and I got it.”

The Thing was scraping against Ben’s ribs, and his vision was lined with red as Homelander continued.

“She may have betrayed me, like Helen betrayed Menelaus, letting Paris take her, but I forgive her. I want her to come home.” He gave Butcher a wide, toothy, chilling smile. “Tell her I’m going to make sure she comes home soon.”

Ben was going to kill him. Now. The French Prick’s gas wouldn’t fucking stop him, because nothing fucking could. He was going to rip Homelander’s spine from his back and bash his head against the table until his brains leaked from his ears. He didn’t have his shield, or a gun, and there were no drums, but Ben didn’t fucking need any of it. He was going to kill Homelander with his bare fucking hands.

The only thing that saved Homelander were the next words he spoke. “And, like Menelaus, I’ll do anything to bring her back to me.”

Ben had left Her at the safe house. Alone. The Thing had told him not to and he’d ignored it and now she was alone all by her fucking self and there was no one there to keep her safe-

I’m a grown ass woman, Ben, Her voice echoed in his head. I will handle my goddamn self.

Doesn’t fucking matter, the Thing snapped. She’s alone. They called you here so she’d fucking be alone.

Ben turned, almost pulling the door off its hinges as he opened it. “Let’s fucking go.” He grunted to Butcher, and if the man was surprised by Ben’s sudden movement, he didn’t show it.

“Aye aye, Gov.” Butcher shrugged, and as Ben marched down the hall he heard Butcher say one last thing before following. “We’ll see you all in bloody hell.”

Ben’s body was rigid. His hand had dropped into his suits’ pocket, gripping the crumpled piece of paper in it might suddenly make Her fucking appear. Nobody spoke until they returned to the van, and the Thing wouldn’t stop hissing in his ear.

She’s alone. She’s not safe. Homelander might already know where she is, and she’ll freeze. She’ll see him and freeze and he’ll lock her up again.

“Frenchie,” Butcher’s terse words were barely audible over the ringing in Ben’s ears. “Check the cams.”

That got Ben’s attention, the Thing falling silent as he asked, “Cams?”

“Monitors,” Butcher grunted. “All around the house.” He raised his brows at Ben, the smirk on his face slightly strained. “You didn’t think we just left you two alone together with blind fuckin faith?”

“Butcher,” the French Prick held up a flat piece of glass that reminded Ben of Her phone. “She is in the kitchen, all is well.”

Ben didn’t bother to ask before he grabbed the fucking thing out of the French Prick’s hands. He narrowed his eyes as he examined it, the display filled with high angled videos of the safe house. The living room, completely empty and the TV off. The dining room, furniture shoved to the side with a few scorch marks on the floor. The entrance hall, lights off and Her boots near the door.

The kitchen, where She was moving around in the same clothes he’d left her in. Talking to someone they couldn't see. 

Ben’s blood ran cold, and the Thing was spinning in his gut. 

“I can’t fucking hear her.” Ben snapped, looking up at the French Prick. “She’s talking to someone. Who the fuck is she talking to.”

“The audio’s off, Mate.” Butcher rolled his eyes, giving Ben an amused look that, in any other scenario, would’ve resulted in a loss of his sight privileges.

“Turn it on.” Ben ordered, and the French Prick glanced at Butcher uncertainty. Butcher only shrugged.

“Don’t make no bloody difference to me. Whatever keeps the cunt from exploding.”

The French Prick nodded, and tried to grab the device from Ben with no success.

“Fucking watch it,” Ben growled, gripping the glass block—Her—tightly.

“I cannot give you sound if you will not let me touch the screen, Soldier Boy. S’il te plaît.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“He’s fucking saying please, Gov.” Butcher gave Ben a bored look. “Give Frenchie the damn tablet, or you don’t get to fucking hear Sunshine.”

Ben hated the way Butcher said Sunshine, drawling with a snipe in his voice. But he hated—the Thing hated—not knowing what She was saying just a fucking fraction more, so Ben shoved the “tablet” into the French Pricks hands.

“Fix it.” He glared at French Prick, who nodded nervously and started tapping the glass in quick movements.

The audio sounded suddenly through the van, a lot louder than Ben had expected. Even Butcher’s heart stuttered as Her voice filled the small space. The Thing fell quiet, desperate to hear what She was saying, who she was saying it to, if she sounded afraid or in pain.

She didn’t. She wasn’t even talking to anyone. Ben watched Butcher’s jaw drop, the French Prick’s eyes widen, and Kimiko’s head shoot up as they all realized what they were hearing at the same time he did.

She was singing. 

Her voice was clear, and controlled, and powerful. It rolled like wind, hitting every high and dipping to every low, holding long notes with a vengeful strength. It moved into Ben’s bones, ran through his blood. The Thing sighed in fucking content at the sound, and Ben didn’t fucking blame it. It sounded like honey and silk and the sun. It felt good.

“She said she couldn’t bloody sing.” Ben looked up at Butcher, whose voice was cold and face was drawn into frown. “That sounds like she can fucking sing.”

Ben grunted. She had said she couldn’t sing. She’d described her singing as hell-like. This wasn’t fucking hell-like by a million goddamn miles.

“Maybe she had a reason,” the French Prick reasoned, but his voice was unsteady, unsure. “It would be a very strange thing to lie about, non? ”

Kimiko slapped the French Prick, gesturing something that made his eyes grow even fucking wider.

“ Mon Coeur, why wouldn’t she tell us though?”

More fucking silent gestures. Ben’s patience snapped.

“What the fuck is she saying?” He demanded, and the French Prick looked back at him wearily.

“She remembers something Homelander said.” The French Prick glanced back at Kimiko. “He, ah, he asked if she had sung for us. Said that was how she ‘worked her spell’. Kimiko believes that she does not sing because of Homelander.”

“Mate, she’s singing right bloody now.” Butcher sneered, and Kimiko glared at him, making more aggressive gestures.

“She says that she does not know people are watching.” The French Prick said carefully. “And that it does not matter, because it is not our business anyway. Because we are spying on her, and she would tell us if it really mattered.”

She would, the Thing rumbled inside of Ben, still satiated by Her voice. She doesn’t lie to us.

She fucking might have, though. As strange a lie as it was, it was still a goddamn lie she had told him, countless times, that she couldn’t sing. Ben glanced down at the tablet, trying to see Her face, figure out what she was fucking thinking.

She wasn’t in the kitchen, and something sharp tore through Ben.

“Where the fuck did she go?” He snapped at the French Prick, who looked down with a frown and began to press the screen once more.

 “Ah,” his eyes narrowed, flitting across the display. “Likely the bathroom? She is not gone, as we can still hear her. She has just moved.”

Something occurred to Ben, tearing through his brain as it settled between torn comfort at Her safety and anger at her lie. “Are there cameras all over the house?” He asked, suddenly aware of his own heartbeat.

“Nah, Gov.” Butcher gave him another amused look. “We got audio everywhere, but no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms. We ain’t fucking creeps.”

Ben grunted in acknowledgement, his own heart fading into the background once more. They hadn’t seen his new habits. They didn’t know, and they wouldn’t tell Her.

You should tell Her, the Thing mumbled, somehow being less fucking helpful than ever before.

He wasn’t going to fucking tell Her. He didn’t fucking have to. In fact, as Her voice continued to flow like goddamn wine through the van, he was going to have a fucking chat with her when they got back. It didn't matter that her voice was just one more way in which she was perfect. She’d fucking lied.

But what made Ben even angrier than Her lie was that, no matter how fucking hard he tried, he wasn’t able to stop wanting to get back to her. That the Thing wasn’t angry, but had started to imagine how She’d sound if he had her singing and moaning at the same time. Ben couldn’t force the image of Her, using this same smooth voice against his ear as his fucked her, stopping every time her voice faltered, until she was a perfect mess of beautiful sounds under him

He wasn’t able to stop the feeling creeping through him that, even if She had lied, even if her reasoning was fucking shit, he wouldn’t stop sleeping peacefully in her bed.

———-

You hated Ben. You hated his smug smile and perfect face. You hated his strong body and pretty eyes. You hated his stupid deep voice that rumbled through you and his laugh that echoed in your head. You hated how he wasn’t here right now, so you could yell at him and not have this worry eating you alive. You hated that he’d left you for his own, fucked up, noble reasons, because when you’d hugged him you’d felt that concrete resolve running through him, and realized it was protectiveness. You hated how that revelation made you miss him more. 

You hated that, if he wasn’t back by nightfall, you weren’t certain you’d fucking sleep. Because you’d made a huge mistake, let the desperate feeling in your head win, and asked Ben to sleep in your bed. It had felt so important at the time, because everything had been loud and your mind had been shattering, and he’d been quiet and firm. You had felt like a hurricane was eating you, and Ben had been an island that wrapped around your heart and chased away the storm. One night, you had told yourself. One night to chase away the screams.

Then he’d started calling you brat, and it made you feel warm and soft. He’d laughed when you’d punch his jaw with a fist wrapped in flames, and you’d felt his pride rush through you. He’d draped his arm around your shoulders, and you’d felt safe. And you’d started to get sleepy, and his hand had brushed your arm, and the feeling in your head had started singing. So you had caved to it again, and asked him to sit with you again. You’d even given him an out, just until you fell asleep, because the feeling in your head had been desperate. So desperate that when Ben told you to beg, you had. You had sucked it up—ignored how the request also made you feel warm—and begged. When he’d agreed, the feeling in your head had let out a long sigh of relief, even though you’d reminded yourself he’d probably return to his room once you were soundly under.

But he hadn’t. He’d stayed. He’d slept. You had woken up, feeling something heavy on around you. Your heart had felt so peaceful, so calm, and when you’d opened your eyes you’d realized Ben’s were closed. After you’d decided that he was actually asleep, you’d noticed that the heavy thing was his arm, holding you against him. And that made the feeling in your head start to ache. Then you’d noticed that Ben snored. Loudly. It was a deep, lulling sound that had wrapped around you, and pulled you right back into sleep’s hold.

The next night, you’d been tearing your insides apart, trying to fight the feeling in your head from grabbing your tongue and making you ask him to sleep in your bed again, when he’d look at you in the glow of the TV and solved the problem for you.

“It’s late.” He’d said, and you’d scoffed.

“Really?” Your voice had been sarcastic, and you’d given him a fake, wide-eyed look of disbelief. “I thought the Sun had just decided to take fifteen.” “Shut up, brat.” He’d smirked back at you, and your whole body had done a little flip under your skin, the feeling in your head spreading everywhere. “You’re tired.” 

He hadn’t been asking. He’d been telling. And been entirely correct in a way that made the Feeling very happy and you very annoyed. “No, I’m not. Cunt.” Your protest had sounded weak, especially given that you’d almost immediately yawned after saying it. 

“Sunshine, you look like shit.” You’d frowned at him, and he’d rolled his eyes as he continued. “Pretty shit, but shit.”

The Feeling liked being called pretty. You were caught up on the shit aspect. “You don’t look any better,” you’d grumbled. It wasn’t true, he looked so good it made you violent, but he didn’t have to know that.

Ben had winked. “Sure, Sunshine. Just try not to pass out on the couch. I don’t want sit here all night, but there’s no fucking way I’m carrying you up the stairs.”

It had taken a moment to notice his implication, and when you had the Feeling become heavy. “You’re sleeping in my bed again?”

He hadn’t looked at you when he’d answered with a shrug. “Sure.”

And that was that. He’d started to spend the night in your bed, you’d started to sleep eight hours instead of four, and he’d started to sleep three instead of zero.

Overall it might not have been a mistake, just a very productive arrangement, if it hadn’t made the feeling big. If it hadn’t started to feel so instinctual and easy that, now that there was even the prospect of him not being here by nightfall, you felt wired. The Feeling was electric, and was making you miss him, and you were going to go insane.

Don’t fucking miss me too much, Sunshine. Ben’s last words before he’d left mocked you, and you wanted him to come back so you could punch him for jinxing you like that. He’d been gone for barely an hour, and the Feeling was all across you, missing him.

You were alone, without him for the first time in almost two months, and all you could do was miss his stupid face and safe touch. This was not a long-term, sustainable way of life. You’re still productive—You do laundry, yours and Ben’s, and you wash dishes, and you swap out Ben’s empty, pine-scented body wash for a full one that was under the cupboard—but the whole time you’re just missing him.

You reasoned that it wasn’t actually Ben himself that was clawing at you. You just hadn’t really been alone—or at least alone without fearing for your life every waking second—since before Homelander took you. And at that point, if you had felt this antsy, jumping feeling of uselessness, you’d been able to go for a walk. Call a friend. Go to a coffee shop.

Now it was just you, the safe house, and plague-like thoughts of Ben.

Just you. Nobody else. Nobody even near you.

You could sing. Nobody was here, so you could sing.

It started slow. You hummed Moon River, feeling out what happened.

Fractured memories began to surround you. The kitchen of the safe house faded into the background, and you were standing in a hazy version of your childhood bedroom. You felt something soft in your hands, and looked down to see your baby blanket your hands. When you looked back up, your mother was before you. Smiling, her face so much softer than it ever was outside of hazy, warped fantasies of childhood. You could feel a breeze coming from somewhere, and when you turned your gaze to the ceiling, it was gone. Instead a vast night sky hung over your head, complete with stars and a moon that was far too large, glowing brightly. By the time you reached the end of the song, soft instrumentals had begun to fill the space.

You’d never done that before. Though you’d also never really tried. You hadn’t test yourself since you’d realized what singing did, right after the third shot of V.

You chose a different song. Another one your mother had loved, another one she used to make you sing at chandelier light and champagne filled parties. Then, suddenly, you were there. In a gaudy, marble ballroom, your skin itching from lace that was too revealing, your mother smiling, the senator on her arm, visible through the faceless crowd. When you turned your head, Violet was at your side, and you could feel your baby sister’s grip on your hand. She wasn’t looking at you though. Violet was watching one of the senator's largest donors through the crowd, frowning as he moved toward your mother. As he pointed at you.

Suddenly Violet was gone, and you were on a stage. Velvet carpet below you, light’s blinding your view of the crowd’s vulture-like gaze. Your skin itched—just like it had at thirteen—but you realized you could hear the instrumentals.

What else could you do? A little voice asked. This might be your only chance to find out. 

So you sang. For the whole day.

You sang an older rock song your Dad loved, one that took you to a mold-filled apartment in Boston where the paint on the walls peeled and the bricks around the code-breaking fireplace cracked. You learned you could do drums.

You hummed a classical piece that your nerdy brother, Henry, used to make you listen to. That took you to your grandparent’s house, an old film with a now-familiar playing in the background as thin, old faces that always scowled watched you from far, far above. You learned you just do full orchestral, from woodwinds to strings to the cannon at the end.

You sang a pop song that Alexa, your other sister, had made you learn the choreography to, and that made you feel light and bubbly, the world around you turning into a glittery fever dream and the ground vanishing from your feet. You learned it didn’t have to be memories.

You still couldn’t control it, not in the slightest. You tried to see how small you could make the effects, but the most you could figure out was that the shorter the song, the less appeared. A fast run through of some nursery rhymes resulted in only brief aberrations of sheep and rain, gone in seconds. A full run through of an album threw you into a dreamscape, and by the end of it you realized it was less the song, and more you. If the song made you think of grand things, grand things surrounded you. If the song reminded you of the past, memories flooded the world.

If the song reminded you of Ben, he was there.

That one was an accidental discovery. You’d gotten tired, realized you’d become sweaty from dancing with the music, and gotten in the shower. You’d started to hum a slower song, a romantic song with long notes and soft piano, and expected the water to fill with phantom rose petals and hearts to draw on steamed glass.

You’d frozen in surprise when you’d felt hands on your body, resting on your hips, and turned to find Ben standing above you, watching you with a smirk. Looking—feeling—very, very real.

Your voice had died in your throat, heat creeping through your body, and Ben had vanished before you. That would have been bad enough, and mortification covering you might stay there for the rest of your life. Unfortunately for you, the Feeling wasn’t embarrassed. The Feeling was needy, and just an absolute bitch that grabbed your jaw, and made you start singing again. 

Ben reappeared, and this time his hands didn’t just rest on your hips. They moved. Everywhere. Along your breasts, taunting, down to your ass, squeezing, and against your waist, hold you firmly as his head dropped to yours. Fake-Ben kissed you, and you were reduced to desperate humming to keep him intact. Had it not been for the Feeling, forcefully keeping your voice alive, you’d have moaned and the whole thing would’ve disappeared. By some miracle, you keep your voice semi-steady, and Fake-Ben stayed. He kissed you deeper, beard soft against your skin, grip growing tighter as your hands wrapped around his neck. His mouth dropped from your own to rest at your neck, still kissing as one hand started to knead against your skin, the other dropping between your legs. Resting his palm right against you, drawing back to his full height with a smug, crooked smile as he started to rub. Smile growing as one finger teased your folds, the pushed into you, the base of his hand still grinding against that sensitive spot. Going and going and going-

You learned that, in both a gift and very cruel twist of fate, Fake-Ben could give you very real orgasms. 

This was a very unproductive discovery for the Feeling, who wanted you to sing forever. The Feeling didn’t care about who heard, the Feeling just wanted that to happen over and over again until you died. You, still aching, desperate, and dazed, were a very susceptible subject to the Feeling, who was making a lot of very good points.

Right up until you heard the door slam downstairs, and Ben—real Ben—was roaring your name.

You heard his heavy steps move up the stairs, and there was a pounding at your bedroom door. Ben yelled your name again, his voice sharp and angry. “I know you’re in there, Sunshine! I can hear your fucking heart!”

Swearing under your breath, you scrambled out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body as you stumbled to open the door. Not once had Ben’s banging ceased, meaning that when you finally twisted the knob, he almost fell onto you from momentum. Though you managed to dodge his body, your shoulder brushed and a bolt of molten anger twisted through your gut and into your chest.

You stared at each for a second after Ben regained his balance.

“You’re back.” You said stupidly.

“You were showering.” He responded. Stupidity seemed to be going around.

“Uh, I didn’t think you’d be back for another few hours.” You mumbled, unsure if the guilt in your voice was from your misestimation of time or the Feeling pushing you to lean forward and touch him.

Ben’s eyes narrowed, and his voice turned harsh. “Clearly.”

“Clearly?” You repeated with a frown. “It’s just a shower-“

“Did you know, Sunshine, that Butcher filled the house with cameras?” Ben asked with a scowl.

You could feel yourself pale. “What?”

“Cameras. Everywhere but the bedrooms and bathrooms. To keep an eye on us. With audio.”

“Audio…” Your eyes widened, and something heavy dropped on your chest. “ Audio?”

Ben was watching you with that dissecting gaze, one you hadn’t been on the receiving end of since the beginning. “Audio.” His face twisted into a sneer. “I was under the impression, Sunshine, that you couldn’t fucking sing.”

There were two options here. One, double down. Lie through your teeth and stand your ground until it was pulled from under you. Two, come clean. Apologize a lot, try and feel out what Ben knew and what he didn’t, and apologize some more.

You were in favor of the first. The Feeling was in favor of the second.

“I- um, I didn’t mean- whatever you saw-”

“Why did you lie?” Ben cut you off before you could even figure out what you had been trying to say. “About singing? Was it because of Homelander?”

The heavy thing was sitting in your lungs. The Feeling was spinning through you, and fire was crawling under your skin. “Homelander?”

“Did he make you sing for him? Is that why you don’t?”

You stared at him with a slack jaw, the fire filling up in your ears. “What- How-“ Your eyes narrowed as the fire drowned out the Feeling. “I’ve never told anyone that, Ben. Not Butcher, not Annie or MM. Definitely not you.”

“Well,” he spat. “That's two fucking lies then.”

Stand your ground it was. “That’s not a fucking lie, dick-for-brains. It’s a goddamn-“

“ Omission?” He gave you a mocking, taut smile. “An omission is a lie, Sunshine.”

The Feeling was loud again, spinning at the fact that he actually listened to your words. Fortunately your fury at him using those words against you was bigger. “Shut the fuck up, Pretty Boy. This isn’t the same as you purposefully hiding something important.”

“How the fuck not?” Ben snapped. “If this is because of Homelander, I need to fucking know-“

“ Why?!” You shout, pushing his chest. “How the fuck is this something you need to know?”

“So I can fix-“

“Fix it?” You laugh. “We agreed not to fucking fix each other, remember? You don’t get to come in a heal my music hangup when you won’t let me anywhere fucking near your PTSD!”

“I don’t fucking have shell shock, like some fucking-” He growled, and you rolled your eyes.

“For fucks sake, you do! Any fucking idiot would take one look at you and go ‘yeah, that cunt has PTSD’! You’re just too much of a fucking pussy to do anything about it!”

“Well, any fucking idiot you look at you and know that Homelander fucking twisted your brains, Sunshine.” He roared. “You know what he fucking told us?!”

“What, that I’m an ungrateful slut who doesn’t deserve him, but he’ll love me anyways?” You hiss, echoing words long locked away in the back of your head. “That he’ll keep me close, because nobody else gets to have me? That he’d rather I die than leave him?”

Something very deep inside you was pulling apart. Something became frayed when Ben started at you with that one fucking look you can’t read as he spoke.

“That you fucking starved yourself. That he had to force you to eat.” Ben’s fists curled. “You didn’t fucking share that, Sunshine.”

You stumbled back like he’d punched you. It was hard to breathe, and all you could see was white light. The thing deep inside you snapped, and your legs gave out, falling back onto the mattress. Bright lights. Cold eyes. Fire and pain. Pain and exhaustion and hunger. So much hunger, but you couldn’t break. You’d let the hunger kill you before you broke. This was all you had, one last, desperate protest to keep yourself somewhat intact.

But you were so tired. And a cold hand was gripping your jaw, tugging it open until mush began to fall into your throat. No, no, no, you can’t lose, you can’t. This hunger is the last thing standing in his path-

Something wrapped around you, firm and warm, and that tugging on your heart returned.

He can’t win, if he wins then you’ll never leave. You’ll never leave anyway, but at least you’ll fall by your own hand and not his-

Something deep and soothing was in your ear, a voice edged with bloody concern. Almost desperate. Saying your name, again and again.

You can’t break, you can’t break -

The voice was humming. Moon River. Reaching into your head and slowing it, grounding the fire running through you, pulling the flames back into you. You blinked, breathing still quick and short but no longer impossible, and saw Ben staring at you. Felt his hands rubbing against your skin in small circles.

“Back with me, Sunshine?” Ben asked quietly, and you nodded.

“I burned your face.” You mumbled.

He just shrugged. “You burn, I burn.”

The Feeling was back, and with the soothing of his touch, you managed to speak. “Mini-Homelanders.” The words caught in your throat, only a little, but Ben frowned at you all the same.

“Mini-Homelanders?” 

You nodded. “I told you he wanted to make mini-homelanders. That was the reason he took me in the first place.” 

Ben said your name firmly. “You don’t have to do this right fucking now-“

“No, I do.” You take a deep breath. “Or I won’t do it at all.”

“Sunshine-“

You pushed on, the words falling out of you once you’d gained a pace. “He found out about Ryan, and wanted more children. I was just in the worst place at the worst time, singing at a Vought fundraiser, and that was it. I woke up in a cell the next day. When I realized what was happening, I fought, but this was a year before he started the V experiments so I didn’t stand a fucking chance. I tried to find smaller ways to fuck with him. I tried to kill myself so many times they started chaining my hands to the wall. I remembered for a psych class in college that eating disorders can lead to infertility, so I did that. Eventually Homelander noticed, and didn’t take kindly to it.” You take a full, stuttering inhale. “I haven’t done it since I escaped.”

You felt something deep and wailful against your heart as Ben spoke careful words. “What about-“ he coughed slightly, and the thing against your heart grew strained. “Suicide. Has that-“

“Once,” you whisper. “Right after.”

“Oh.” He took a deep sigh of his own. “Sunshine I-“

“Don’t apologize,” you say as something desperate runs through you. “Please.”

He frowns, but nods. “Ok.”

You’re silent, sitting on your bed and watching each other from long minutes before you speak.

“You’re getting better at this.” You attempt a smile.

His brows furrow. “Better at what?”

“Dealing with me.”

“I’m not ‘dealing with you’, Sunshine.” Ben grumbled. “I’m-“

“Fixing me?” Your smile feels a bit more real. “Does that mean I get to fix you?”

He’s silent, and you’re prepared to back track. It had been a shitty joke, and you didn’t want to keep fighting. You didn’t think you could. The Feeling was keeping you on the ground by a thread, and your heart was flipping and stretching in ways that hurt-

“What would you do?” Ben grunted, and you blinked at him.

“Wha-”

“ If I had Shell Shock. PTSD. What would you do.”

“I’d heal it,” you say softly. “It would probably just be us sitting together, and I’d hold your arm, and heal it.” You frown to yourself. “It might take time, I’ve never used this power like this before, not for something this intense. I’d essentially be re-writing the neuron pathways of your brain, so depending on how deep they go it could take just one day or… a lot longer.”

“Would it hurt you.” Ben frowns at you, saying his question in that way where he’s not really asking. 

You answer anyway. “I don’t think so. It’s not like I can take your memories, I’d just be fixing how they are in your head. How they affect you now.”

Ben stares at you, and you can feel that resolve running over something louder and strained you don’t really understand. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finally speaks.

“Fine.”

“Fine? Fine like you’ll let me-“

“Yeah, Sunshine. Fine.” Ben looks you up and down, and you feel a weird flash of heat and hunger. “You’re tired.”

He’s doing the question that’s not a question thing again, but you are tired, you’re exhausted, so you can’t even be that mad at him.

You nod, humming in affirmation, and Ben stands suddenly, not looking at you as he moves out of your view.

“Go to the bathroom.” He says, and when turn his back is to yours.

“What? Why?”

“You burned off your towel.” Heat rushes through as you realize he’s right. “You always keep your clothes in the bathroom when you shower. Go change.”

Another wave of heat settles into you, the Feeling rolling around in it as it does. You stand and shuffle to the bathroom, Ben remaining in his spot, and you change into the shirt and shorts you had indeed left by the sink.

When you exit, now fully decent, Ben’s suit is laying on your dresser—traded for a pair of sweats and shirt he must have found in the laundry basket—and he’s still staring at your wall like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. You lay a hand on his arm, and are almost knocked over by the sudden thirst that runs through you. The Feeling is whining and insatiable. Then Ben looks down at you, and you think you might fall over. The Feeling wanted to grab him, your heart was howling, and his eyes were like a drug -

 “We ready for bed?” Ben says, and you have to swallow to be able to answer.

“Uh, yeah.” You blink at Ben, his words echoing in your head, and realize that the hot fury in your stomach—his stomach—is gone. “You’re not mad at me? Even after I-“

“Omitted a truth?” Ben gave you a loose smile, and the Feeling squirmed. “I’m calling it even, Sunshine. Now let’s get you bed, you look like you’re about to fucking collapse.”

You were, but not because of fatigue. And Ben didn’t have to know that, especially because he would probably just laugh and you’d be left alone with the Feeling.

 “I might have those kinds of nightmares,” you whisper, touching his chest. Offering another out. “If I do, I’ll burn you, Pretty Boy. Badly.”

“I’ll get over it.” He says, and that’s it. You both move to the bed, taking your unspoken places on each side of the mattress, and you’re ready to go through the motions. You fall asleep and he moves you against him, he falls asleep second and you wake up to watch him for a while before returning to sleep once more.

But Ben doesn’t remain tensely upright at your side. When you lie down, he does as well. Then, before you’ve even really processed the first new thing, Ben pulls you fully against him, arms around your body as your head rests on his chest. You don’t say anything—the Feeling is pleased and you’re a little afraid he’ll vanish if you even speak—so you take the folds of his shirt in your hands, and press your face deep into his shirt. He smells like coffee and gunpowder and pine trees, his heart is steady, and he’s warm.

You decided it—the Feeling, the shower, the grip on your heart when he touches you—was because he was safe. From you. You could not hurt him, he was the only person in the world you really couldn’t hurt, so that’s why you caved, and let him hold you. Nothing more, nothing less.

You felt alive with Ben because, by completely coincidental fate, you could be.

 You had no nightmares when you slept in his arms because Ben wasn’t having any, and his own peace ran into yours.

The Feeling was quiet because your heart was beating in time with the world, and it felt good.

This felt… good.

He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.

But then he’d just… Left.

You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.

There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.

But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.

You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.

“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.

“You talking to me?”

“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”

The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.

“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”

“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“

“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“

“You said that already.”

You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”

His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.

Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.

In the store, you’d hadn’t  been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.

He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.

And he’d laughed.

That night, he’d just laughed.

“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”

“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”

The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.

He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.

“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.

He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.

“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.

He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“

“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”

“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”

You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.

“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I.”

“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“

“And why should I trust that?”

He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I swear I won’t.”

“Promises mean nothing.”

“My promises mean something-“

“Not to me, they don’t.”

He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.

The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.

He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.

“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”

And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”

“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“

“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“

“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“

“I am not going to shoot you-“

“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“

“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.

And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.

But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.

Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.

“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.

Ben had followed.

And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.

Then it had been gone.

Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.

So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.

It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.

And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.

Now, you’re careful.

After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.

Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.

No one could know who you are. What you were to him.

Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.

Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.

Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.

But still.

You’d hoped he would.

“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.

And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.

“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.

“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.

“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“

“You liked Paddington 2-“

“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”

You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.

“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”

And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.

“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.

Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.

“You got no idea.”

And you wish you had.

You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.

If you had, he might still be next to you today.

You broke a cup.   

The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.

Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.

I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.

That he had been everything.

You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.

And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.

Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.

It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.

There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.

This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.

No.

This is new.

Which means Ben- He’s alive.

He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.

He left you.

It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.

He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.

You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.

He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.

Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.

And then he left.

Just left.

Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.

But not back with you.

Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.

He didn’t come back.

Ben couldn’t fucking find you.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.

Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here. 

But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.

He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.

Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.  

It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.

Although he had always listened.

But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.

Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.

He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.

And then you’d smiled at him.

He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.

There were things to be angry about now, though.

You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.

Hollow.

Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.

Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.

If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.

And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.

He just had to find you first.

Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.

All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.

The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“

“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.

“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“

He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“

“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes. Yes- Sir-“

“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.

He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.

“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”

Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.

“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”

Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”

“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.

Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.

You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.

And Ben had known. 

“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.

That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.

Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.

You still worked there. You weren’t gone.

Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.

“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”

Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.

He had to go find you.

You get home, and you feel like nothing.

It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.

You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.

Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.

You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.

You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.

You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.

This is just always going to hurt.

“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”

You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.

Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.

“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”

You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.

Or you’d just pass right through thin air.

And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.

You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.

Then he left.

And you’re not anyone’s anymore.

Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.

“Ben?” You whisper.

A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.

“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”

He takes a step forward.

You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.

Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.

You shrink away.

“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“

He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.

You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.

“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.

He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.

Ben sees you. You can see him.

And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…

“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”

Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.

“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”

“You left.”

And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.

“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”

Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.

“I saw you on TV.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“

“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”

The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.

“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“

“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“

“You left.” 

“No, I didn’t-“

“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.

It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.

“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“

Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.

Weak.

“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”

Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.

But Ben doesn’t leave.

He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.

His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.

Still calls it yours.

“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”

You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.

“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”

Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.

Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.

“Why should I believe you?”

Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.

Just focused.

“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“

“Swear it?”

Ben nods, and you tilt your head.

“You swore you’d come back.”

“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”

You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.

“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.

“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

“Prove that you are.”

A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.

You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Be- Ben-“

He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.

“Ben-“

“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”

God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.

Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.

He doesn’t even come up for air.

“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“

He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest. 

“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”

“I- Ooooh-“

You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.

“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”

“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“

“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”

You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”

Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.

“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“

“You- Benjamin-“

“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”

The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.

“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”

“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.

Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.

“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”

“Ben-“

“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”

Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.

“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”

“Mmmh.”

“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.

“Ben-“

“Say it.”

“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“

Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.

It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.

“How- How big is your dick?”

He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.

“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”

You pout slightly. “I am being good.”

Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.

“Ben-“

“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“

“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“

You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Then you realize.

Shit.

“Ben, I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.

“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“

Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“

He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.

Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.

“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”

His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.

“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”

You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.

“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“

“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”

“Oh- Okay.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.

“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.

You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“

You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.

“Good girl.”

The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.

He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.

Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.

“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”

Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”

And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.

You still might cry.

Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway. 

“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“

“I love you.”

You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.

Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.

You both will.

“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“

You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.

Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.

Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.

“Say it again.” He mutters.

“I love you.”

You offer it easily. It’s his to have.

And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.

It means he’s on a fucking mission.

“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”

You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.

“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.

It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.

“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”

You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.

“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.

Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.

“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”

“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.

His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.

“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“

He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.

“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.

He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.

Another warning.

“That’s- Fuck-“

He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.

“More, Ben, more-“

A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.

He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.

Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.

You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.

And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.

Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.

Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.

Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.

Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.

“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.

“Be- Ben-“

“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”

Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.

Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.

And again, Ben stops.

You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.

“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“

He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.

“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“

Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.

But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.

Take it. He’d said.

You don’t think you have a choice.

“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.

The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.

“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”

You glare at him, and he just grins.

“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”

He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.

“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”

Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.

And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.

“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”

You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.

“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”

You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.

Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.

But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.

“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”

He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.

Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.

“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”

You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”

“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ben- Oooooh-“

He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.

“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“

You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”

You had a smart, sharp retort.

It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.

Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.

“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.

“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”

You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.

Ben laughs, prowling up over you.

“You’re fucking drooling.”

“You’re pretty.”

“I am not fucking pretty.”

“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”

He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”

“You are a show pony.”

That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.

“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“

You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.

That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.

You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.

Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”

You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”

A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.

“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”

His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”

Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.

“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”

You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.

“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”

He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.

“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“

He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“

Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.

It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.

“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“

You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.

Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.

“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”

You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.

After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.

Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.

You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.

You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.

He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.

“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.

No pants. Unhelpful.

“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”

“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”

“I am not slobbering-“

“Yeah, you fucking are.”

You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.

“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my boss-“

“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”

You blink at him.

And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.

“You love me?” You whisper.

He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.

“Of course I do-“

“Say it.”

He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“

“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.

This time, it’s going to work.

“Please?” You add.

Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.

You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.

“I love you.” He grunts.

You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.

Meant to remind you that you have time.

“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.

“You’re real lucky-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.

He always lets you. Because he loves you.

“I am.”

✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.

“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.

Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”

“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.

Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.

And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.

You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.

Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.

Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.

He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.

Cute, he thinks immediately.

Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.

But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.

Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.

“Those your favorite?”

You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.

And there it is.

That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”

Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.

Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”

Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”

“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”

He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.

“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”

Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.

Well. That’s new.

“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”

Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.

“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.

Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”

“Too late.”

He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.

“You really got this for me?” you ask.

“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”

You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.

Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.

Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.

You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.

“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”

Bucky looks at you.

At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.

His brain stops functioning.

“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.

“I just—”

“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”

That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.

You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”

“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”

But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.

Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.

You take it without hesitation.

“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”

Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.

Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.

“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.

You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”

Bucky chokes on air.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

“Nothin’, doll.”

Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.

The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.

And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.

He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.

“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.

Bucky nearly trips over the curb.

“Nice?”

“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”

Handsome too. Mostly nice.

Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.

Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”

You blink.

“…Laying it on?”

Silence.

Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”

“I assumed you were being friendly.”

“I am bein’ friendly.”

“That seems normal.”

“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”

“Well… yes.”

“And?”

“You seemed very determined about it.”

Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.

This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.

“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.

“Not really.”

The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.

“What d’you mean not really?”

You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”

Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.

“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.

You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.

Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.

And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.

Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.

They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.

“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”

Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.

“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”

Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”

Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”

Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.

“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”

The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”

Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.

He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.

The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.

All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.

Just being kind to me.

That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.

Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”

“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.

You glance up at him and his words die immediately.

“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.

“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”

Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.

You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.

The walk to your building takes longer than it should.

Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.

Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.

“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.

Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”

“You’re very kind.”

That word again.

It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.

“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.

You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course,” you answer immediately.

He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.

He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.

“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”

You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.

“Can I do this properly?”

You blink. “Properly?”

He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“…Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”

You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.

“I think I’d like that very much.”

Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.

You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.

He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.

The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.

“Oh no.”

Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.

“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.

He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.

“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.

But the problem is… he is together.

That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.

He decides to do it properly.

No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.

A real date.

Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.

“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.

Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”

Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”

“Yes.”

“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”

“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”

“That’s not the point.”

Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”

Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.

Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”

Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”

But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.

By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.

He hopes they’re enough.

Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.

When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

“Hi,” he manages back.

Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.

“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.

“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.

You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”

Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.

“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”

You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.

Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.

Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.

“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.

He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looks him over once then turns to you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You hesitate. “Of course.”

She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.

“Be careful." She says.

You blink. “What?”

“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”

Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.

When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.

Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.

It’s quiet.

Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.

And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.

Just you.

You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.

Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.

You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”

Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It was emotionally damaging.”

That makes him laugh for real.

And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.

You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.

Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.

He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.

Impossible things.

And yet they come anyway.

After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.

“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then you’re goin’.”

You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”

“Absolutely.”

You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.

Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.

Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.

You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.

You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.

The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.

You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.

Bucky notices.

He glances down at you. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”

“Yeah?”

You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”

That word again.

Kind.

It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.

“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.

He turns toward you fully.

You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”

Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”

You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”

Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.

Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.

“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.

You realize instantly something is wrong.

“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”

He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.

“You think I do this with every girl?”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.

“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”

You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”

That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.

“But everyone says—” you start.

“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."

The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.

Bucky doesn’t look away from you.

I don’t do this unless I mean it.

It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.

Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.

It only makes everything quieter.

“I don’t like that,” he says finally.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.

“What they say. About me.”

You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.

“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”

That lands differently in the air between you.

“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.

Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.

“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”

His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.

“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”

That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.

“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.

That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.

You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.

“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”

Bucky stills.

That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.

And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.

“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”

Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.

Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.

He’s just waiting.

For you.

"I think I'd like that."

Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.

They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.

He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.

“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”

He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”

“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”

You’d just laugh and let him in.

And that’s the problem. You always let him in.

Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.

You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.

Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.

Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.

“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.

“I always smile.”

“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”

Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?

He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.

Tonight, he’s early.

Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.

He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.

“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.

Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”

“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”

“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m busy.”

The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.

The teasing starts almost immediately.

“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”

“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”

“You finally settle down?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.

“Knock it off.”

The laughter builds.

“What’s the catch, Barnes?”

“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”

“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”

Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.

“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”

The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Someone nearly chokes on their drink.

Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.

“I like her.”

That shuts them up for half a second longer.

“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”

And just like that, the teasing explodes again.

“Look at him.”

“He’s gone.”

“Man’s fighting for his life.”

“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”

Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”

And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.

Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.

His smile fades immediately.

“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.

But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.

“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.

But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.

“Doll?” he calls.

Nothing.

“Hi.”

He turns.

You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.

Not really.

Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.

He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”

Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.

“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”

But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.

Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.

And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”

A pause.

“…Yeah.”

That’s it.

No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.

It's all wrong.

That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.

Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.

He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.

Maybe your sister was right.

Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.

Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.

And maybe you’re already disappointing him.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.

By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.

You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.

“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.

“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.

You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.

“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.

You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.

“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.

That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”

You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.

“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”

Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”

You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.

You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.

“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”

Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.

The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”

The way he says it now is different.

“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”

Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.

“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”

You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.

Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.

“Your parents home?” he asks softly.

You blink, thrown slightly by the question.

“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”

Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”

Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.

Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.

“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”

Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.

“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”

You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.

He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”

You blink. “Bucky.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“That’s my mother’s.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.

You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”

He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is tonight.”

You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.

“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”

“Deal.”

You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.

You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.

Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.

You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”

Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.

“And you were my first kiss.”

Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.

“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”

“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You don’t.

“Look at me,” he says gently.

You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.

"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."

“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.

Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”

Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.

“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”

You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”

A beat, then, softer:

“Can I kiss you again?”

You hesitate only a second then nod.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.

And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.

“That okay?” he asks softly.

You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” he says gently.

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”

“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”

And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.

"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."

"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."

When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.

“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”

Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.

“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”

You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”

You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?" 

You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.

Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.

Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.

His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”

You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”

“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”

You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”

You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”

You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.

“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”

Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.

He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.

“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”

Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.

"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."

The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.

"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.

"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"

You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."

You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.

When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."

He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.

"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.

You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."

"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"

"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."

He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."

Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."

A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.

"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.

You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.

Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.

Then he stops.

You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.

"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."

Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat. 

"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again.  "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."

You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.

"Harder."

Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts. 

"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?" 

He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"

"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"

He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?" 

His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."

You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.

"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."

Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.

"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."

You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.

Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.

"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.

The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.

The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.

“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.

You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.

He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.

“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.

He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.

He sets the water beside you first.

“Here,” he says gently.

You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.

You blink at him. “What’s that?”

“For you,” he says simply.

And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”

He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.

You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”

You smile faintly. “You are.”

That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.

“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.

This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.

“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”

“A probably no.”

He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.

He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.

“That smells… strong,” you say.

Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”

That makes him turn fully now.

“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.

You just look at him expectantly.

He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.

“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”

You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.

“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”

You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”

But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.

“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.

You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.

After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.

Bucky notices immediately. “What?”

You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”

Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.

“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”

You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”

That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”

You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.

“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.

He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.

You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The ER noise swells and recedes around you. Monitors, distant voices, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Jack watches the department the way you do when you’re exhausted but still responsible for everything, alert, present and steady. 

He reaches for the coffee cup he must have abandoned on the counter earlier in the night, frowns at it. It’s cold by now. He knows that, and so do you, warm coffee is a rare luxury when working in the ER.  

“How’s it been tonight?” you ask, eyes on the chaos down the hall.

He exhales slowly. “Busy, like always.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Like fucking always.”

“You’re off after tonight, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Four days.”

“Good,” he says, immediate. “You need it.”

You give him a deadpanned look. One eyebrow lifts, unimpressed, exhausted, painfully aware of the irony. “Wow,” you say flatly. “What gave it away? The bags under my eyes, or the fact that I just almost began to chart on the wrong patient?”

He smiles, just a little, the kind of expression that makes him dangerous in the way he can break your focus with nothing more than a look. You are mature enough to admit to yourself that you have a crush on him, as immature as it feels, and as impractical as it definitely is. 

“You deserve it, is what I meant,” he adds, softer than before, like he’s correcting himself for your sake.

The words land differently. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no easy smirk to hide behind. Just that steady, unreadable look he gets when he means something and isn’t sure how it’ll be received.

You swallow, because somehow that is the thing that almost cracks you, the gentleness of it. Not you’re tired, not you look like hell, but you deserve a break. Like rest is something you’ve earned instead of something you have to justify.

“So do you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t answer that, he just studies you for a long moment, something unguarded flickering across his face before he reins it in.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Maybe.” It’s not dismissal, though it’s not agreement either.  

The moment stretches, at least as long as a moment can stretch in a place that never really allows stillness. 

You really are looking forward to a break from this place, four days for just you and your little girl. Four days of pancakes shaped vaguely like hearts. Of bedtime stories read twice because she insists she wants to hear it again. Four days where the world shrinks down to something soft and manageable. 

Your parents have been wonderful, they have her on the nights you work. The perks of working at night is that she is sleeping when you’re working, and you are sleeping when she is at daycare, and you get more control to pick your shifts, so some weeks you work a lot and others you have more days off, you guard those days like treasure. You can keep her home on those days and give her all the attention in the world.

It’s not the life you pictured once, but it’s a life that fits. Mostly.

Jack shifts beside you again, subtle, like he doesn’t want to startle you out of wherever you’ve gone. Then, with a faint tilt of his head toward the board, “You see bed twelve? They finally cleared it.”

“Thank God,” you mutter. “That guy was ringing his call bell every two minutes.”

Jack lets out a low breath that might almost be a laugh. “I swear, if one more patient tells me they ‘never wait this long at other hospitals’.” 

“I would start telling them to keep to that hospital,” you say dryly. “Sounds magical.”

That gets a real smile from him, brief but relieving. The spell breaks when the automatic doors slide open with a sharp hiss. The sound cuts clean through the noise. You both turn instinctively.

A little girl, dwarfed by the fluorescent lights is being rolled in, she is sitting up and is alert, which should mean it isn’t that serious, but the look of her still makes all the air leave your lungs for a second.  

Your heart stutters. She looks so small on the gurney, in her pink and white striped pajamas, a spot of dried blood on the breast pocket. She holds a butter yellow hand towel to her left brow like someone had told her to and she’s now taken it very seriously. She holds her other arm close to her body, like she is instinctively trying to prevent it from bumping into anything, like it’s hurting.  

You call out her name and her head turns, she peeks out from behind the towel. “Mommy,” she exclaims, voice breaking on the word like she’d been holding it in her chest the entire ride over.

You’re at her side in an instant. Your own mom is already right behind the gurney, her voice cuts through the noise before you even fully register her presence.

“She fell on the stairs,” she says breathlessly, one hand still gripping the rail like she’s afraid letting go might mean she loses sight of her granddaughter. “I woke up to the thud and her crying. She was supposed to be asleep—”

“Mom,” you say gently but firmly, the word grounding both of you. “It’s okay. She’s here, we’ve got her.”

Your daughter’s fingers tighten around yours the moment she recognizes you fully, relief flooding her face now that the pieces have connected. Grandma, hospital, you.

“I didn’t mean to fall,” she blurts out immediately. “I was trying to get my water.”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, brushing hair back from her damp forehead. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody did.”

Jack is there without announcing himself. Of course he is. He steps in close enough that you can feel him at your back, steady and calm, his presence like an extra set of hands holding everything together. 

“Peds is clear,” Jack says quietly, already reaching for the side rail. Not rushed, not loud. He says it almost like this is just another patient, except the way his voice dips careful, betrays that he knows it isn’t. 

Your daughter looks up at him with wet lashes, half her face still covered with the tower, and her voice wobbles. “Hello,” she says, both a little shy and a little wary, her small voice barely audible over the hum of the ER, still clutching the towel like a shield.

Jack smiles at her and crouches slightly, bringing himself to her level. His voice is soft, steady, and deliberate. “Hey there, kiddo. I’m Jack. You took a pretty good tumble, huh?”

​​Your daughter glances at him, her wary melting away, though the shyness still lingers around the edges. You notice that he introduces himself as Jack, not Dr. Abbot, the casual warmth of it settles the room, as well as something within yourself. 

“Yeah,” your little girl says, her voice quieter now, the edge of fear softened by the calm way Jack crouches to meet her eye level.

“Can I see your forehead for a second?” Jack’s voice is gentle, and your daughter hesitates only for a heartbeat before slowly lowering the towel. 

Your heart twists as you see the blood on her little face. 

“Alright,” Jack says as he takes a look at her split brow, the soft hospital light catching the worry lines on his face in a way that makes you realize how present he is, how focused, without being overwhelming. “Thank you for the look,” he then says before he straightens up again. “We are gonna take you to your own room now, so we can fix you up, is that okay?” Jack continues, his voice still soft, calm, like he’s guiding her through a storm she didn’t want to be in.

She nods with all the bravery a four and a half year old can muster, clutching your hand a little tighter. The gurney starts rolling. You walk alongside it, one hand never leaving your daughter’s. Your mom falls in step just behind. 

Your mom, who is usually a calming presence, seems just as tense as you are, her brow furrowed slightly. “I should have heard that she had gotten out of bed,” she says, and you know that she is just worried, and that she is blaming herself for an accident that isn’t really her fault, but her worry is slightly stressing you out. 

When the door to the pediatric room closes you feel it then, the way the room tilts just slightly. The collision of roles. Nurse, mom, daughter. All stacked too tightly inside your chest.

Jack notices immediately, of course he does. “Why don’t you sit with her,” he says quietly to you, though not really as a question. “Then I’ll run the exam.”

You hesitate, instinct fighting training, but he meets your eyes with that steady look that says I’ve got this. You don’t have to be everything right now. So you nod.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, Jack lifts your daughter from the gurney, very mindful of her hurt arm, and places her on your lap. 

Your little girl practically melts into you, she settles against you like she’s been wound too tight and is finally allowed to loosen, her cheek pressing into your chest. You instinctively brace her with one hand at her back, the other cradling her carefully away from the injured arm. She’s warm, solid and here.

“She didn’t lose consciousness,” your mom says again, like she needs to say it out loud. “She cried right away.”

“That’s good,” Jack replies. “You did exactly what you should’ve,” he then says, his words now directed at your daughter. That makes her smile, and you feel your chest tighten with a rush of pride so sharp it almost hurts.

Your moms phone begins to ring in her bag, your mom startles, trying to find it with shaking hands. “Sorry, that’s probably your father, he dropped us off at the entrance,” she says, voice unsteady, already halfway apologizing for answering it.

“It’s okay, you can go find him,” you tell her gently. “I’ve got her.”

Your mom hesitates, eyes flicking between you and your daughter, guilt written all over her face. 

You soften your voice even more, the way you do when you need someone else to borrow your calm for a second. “Mom,” you say quietly. “She’s okay. I’m right here. Go find dad, he’s probably pacing a groove into the sidewalk.”

That earns a fragile, breathy laugh out of her. She exhales, shaky, then leans in and presses a kiss into your daughter’s hair, lingering there like she’s imprinting the moment.

“See you later, love,” your mom whispers, half to you, half to her. 

Your daughter nods against your chest, already half-burrowed into you again. 

The door closes softly behind her, and the room exhales. The silence that settles afterward feels earned.

Your daughter’s breathing evens out against you, small and warm and real, her weight anchoring you to the bed. One socked foot dangles, slowly swinging, the adrenaline ebbing out of her system now that the danger has been named and contained. She smells like sleep and soap and that faint metallic tang of blood that makes your stomach tighten if you think about it too long. Not because you aren’t used to blood, but because it’s hers. 

Jack stays quiet for a moment, giving the room time to steady itself while he gloves up. 

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I need to get a better look at your eyebrow now.” 

She nods again, trusting him with the kind of trust that feels enormous when you witness it. She shifts slightly in your lap but doesn’t pull away. One small hand fists into the fabric of your scrub top. The other stays tucked protectively against her side.

“I’ll be really gentle,” Jack adds. He leans in, gloved fingers steady as he cleans the dried blood away. He talks the whole time, narrating just enough to keep your daughter engaged, not scared.

Jack keeps his voice low and even as he works, like he’s smoothing the edges off the moment rather than rushing through it.

“This is just a little cold,” he tells her as the saline touches her skin. 

Your daughter huffs a tiny, indignant sound against your chest. “I don’t like cold things.”

“You know what?” Jack says solemnly. “Neither do I. Except for ice cream, of course.” 

Your daughter lets out a small, incredulous giggle against your chest, the sound soft but precious, and you feel it ripple through you like sunlight cutting through fog. “I like ice cream too.” Her little voice trembles a little with excitement and relief, and you feel a soft tug at your chest. 

She winces, just barely, at the saline and you murmur sweet nonsense into her hair. Soft sounds, familiar rhythms, the kind of reassurance that comes from instinct more than thought.

“That’s my brave girl,” you whisper.

Jack’s calm demeanor doesn’t waver as he glances at the now clean cut, more carefully. He kneels slightly to get a better look, his gloved fingers gently parting the edges of the gash.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice steady but soft, “this cut is a little deeper than I first thought. We’re going to need a couple of stitches to make sure it heals properly.”

Your daughter tenses, her small body stiff against you. She presses her face into your chest.

Jack glances at you over her head, a subtle question in his eyes, you okay? You nod, almost imperceptibly. He accepts that answer without pressing.

Then he refocuses on your daughter again. His voice drops even lower, gentle and steady.

“I’m going to be super gentle, and you get to hold your Mommy’s hand the whole time. I’m also gonna give you some numbing medicine, so your eyebrow won’t feel much of anything.”  

“Okay, then I think I dare,” she says,with a determined whisper, burrowing her face back into your chest. 

You can’t help but smile at her choice of language. You and Jack catch each other’s gaze for just a second and in that brief moment, it’s almost like the world outside the room disappears. 

She gets two small stitches. Jack moves with a quiet precision, each motion deliberate and measured. He listens, explains, lets her keep her dignity, in a way that makes something in your chest ache, sharp and reverent all at once.

Jack keeps his voice low as he works, steady enough that it becomes part of the room’s rhythm. He isn’t rushing, or indulgent, just present.

“Alright,” he murmurs as he finishes prepping. “I’m going to start now. You don’t have to do anything except keep sitting still and holding mom’s hand, okay?”

Your daughter nods once against you, solemn. Her fingers curl tighter into your scrub top, the fabric bunching under her fist. You feel the tiny tremor in her body before she stills again, trusting you to hold the fear for her. Hearing Jack mentioning you so naturally, so without hesitation, does something quiet and seismic inside you.

You are a mom, her mom. It’s a role he hasn’t seen you in before, up close, unguarded, instinctive. Something in your chest gives way at that. 

The first stitch goes in cleanly. She makes a small sound, more surprise than pain, and you immediately murmur reassurance, pressing your cheek to the crown of her head. Your hand moves in slow, familiar circles along her back, grounding both of you.

“That’s one,” Jack says softly. “You’re doing really well.”

Your daughter stiffens for half a second at the sensation, then exhales against you when nothing terrible follows. Her body loosens again, trusting the pattern now. Jack’s calm voice, your steady hold, the quiet truth that she is not alone in this.

You feel it in your bones, that trust. The way she gives the fear to you without ceremony, like it’s always been yours to carry.

“I’m gonna do the other now,” Jack sys gently, more for her than for himself. “Still doing great.”

She nods into your chest, a small, solemn movement, like she’s taking the job seriously. Her fingers flex once in your scrub top, then relax.

Jack works with the same careful precision, his hands steady, unhurried. He narrates just enough to keep her grounded, not enough to overwhelm her. The second stitch goes in as smoothly as the first.

She flinches, just a breath of movement, and then it’s over.

“And two,” Jack says quietly. “All done with the stitches.”

There’s a beat of silence where the words don’t quite register for her yet. Then. “Really?” she asks, muffled, the same way she always asks when she’s braced for more.

“Really,” Jack says, smiling. “You were incredibly brave.” 

He holds a hand up for a high five. She peeks up at him at that, lashes still clumped just a little, eyes wide and searching his face for confirmation. Then she lifts her hand on her noninjured arm and gives him a careful, deliberate high five. It lands soft, more ceremonial than forceful, but Jack treats it like it’s the most solid thing in the world.

“There it is,” he says, warmth unmistakable now. “Perfect form.”

A smile breaks fully across her face, crooked and proud and still a little wobbly at the edges, accompanied with the sweetest little giggle. She immediately turns and buries it against your chest again, as if embarrassed by her own bravery now that it’s been witnessed.

You meet his eyes. You mouth a thank you. Jack nods. It’s small, almost nothing, but it carries weight. He understands what you’re thanking him for. There’s no swell of music, no cinematic pause. Just the quiet aftermath of something tender having happened in front of both of you, something neither of you pretended not to see.

You realize, with a strange clarity, that this is the first time he’s really seen you like this. Not the competent nurse who can anticipate orders before they’re spoken, not the colleague who trades dry humor at the station to survive another night shift. But with your heart wide open and bleeding quietly behind your ribs while you hold your child together with instinct and love. 

He looks back to your daughter, instinctively, the way you do when you want to keep the center of gravity where it belongs.

“Alright, superstar,” he says softly. “I’m just going to clean this up and put a little bandage on. Then you get to keep sitting right here.” 

Your daughter hums sleepily in approval, cheek pressed to your chest, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles into your scrub top. The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving only that heavy, boneless calm that comes after fear has burned itself out.

Jack finishes quietly. Gauze, a careful strip of tape, hands that never tug more than necessary. He peels off his gloves and disposes of them, movements efficient but unhurried, like he’s deliberately resisting the ER’s constant pull to rush. 

The calm doesn’t last long. Her arm still needs to be looked at. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and kiss the top of her head. “You did so good, baby,” you whisper, voice low and steady even as something inside you braces again.

Your daughter hums faintly in response, eyes fluttering but not quite closing. When she shifts, the movement is careful, instinctive, but the moment her hurt arm bumps against your side, she makes a small whimper. 

Your chest tightens. Jack catches it immediately.

“Can I see?” she asks, voice small, tentative, like she’s not sure she wants the answer but needs to ask anyway.

“Of course,” you say, even though a part of you would prefer her not to, in case it will scare her. But you also believe that pretending something isn’t there is worse than letting her face it with you beside her. 

You take your phone from your pocket and turn on the front camera. You angle it so she can see without having to move much, your hands steady despite the faint tremor still humming under your skin. 

She studies the screen seriously, brow furrowed in concentration. Her free hand lifts, hovering over the bandage, before lowering it again. 

“You might get a little battle scar,” Jack says gently, finishing the thought with care. “But it’ll fade. And until then, it’s proof you were very brave.”

Her eyes flick from the screen to him, weighing that idea. “Battle scar?” she repeats, testing the words like she’s rolling them around to see how they feel.

Jack nods, solemn as if this is a matter of record. “Yep.”  

Then she nods once, solemn acceptance settling in like a decision she’s proud of. “Okay,” she says quietly. 

You watch the exchange with a tender kind of awareness that sits low and quiet in your chest. There’s a tenderness in the way he frames it, like he understands intimately that scars are not just marks left behind, but proof of surviving something that could have taken more. 

And of course he does. Because Jack knows what it means to carry proof on your body. 

“Okay,” he says softly, already moving back toward you. No urgency in his tone, but no delay either. “Let’s take a look at that arm now.” 

Jack pulls the stool closer again and sinks down in front of you, movements measured and familiar. He doesn’t rush the moment your daughter whimpers, but waits for her to settle first, for her breathing to even back out against your chest. 

When she finally feels ready, she sticks her arm out for him to look at. He examines her arm the same way he did everything else, slow and deliberate, hands light. He watches her face more than the arm, catching every flicker of discomfort. When she stiffens near her wrist, he stops immediately.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve seen this pattern a thousand times. Knowing it doesn’t make your chest feel any less tight.

“I want to get an x-ray,” Jack says softly, glancing up at you. Not alarmist, but not minimizing it either, just honesty.

The word lands quietly but solidly. You nod before he even finishes the sentence. There’s no debate in you about it, just that familiar, steady click of yes, of course, do what we need to do. You’ve lived on this side of decisions long enough to trust the rhythm.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I figured.” 

Your daughter lifts her head a little, eyes heavy-lidded but alert at the word she doesn’t recognise. “What’s an x-way?”

Jack shifts closer again, keeping his voice gentle, explanatory without being scary. “It’s like taking a picture of the inside of your arm,” he says. “So we can see if the bone got a little bend when you fell.”

She frowns, processing. “Does it hurt?”

“Nope,” he says immediately. “It doesn’t hurt, you just need to sit still for a minute.”

She seems to accept that, then adds, very seriously, “I can sit still.”

You smile despite the tightness in your chest. “Yeah, you’re very good at that.” 

Jack’s mouth curves, at that. Not a full smile, it’s something quieter. Respectful. Like he’s clocking the truth of it.

“Right,” he tells her. “You’ve been proving that all night.”

She looks absurdly proud of that, chin lifting a fraction before the exhaustion pulls her back down. Her forehead finds its place against your collarbone again, like gravity has finally remembered its job.

Jack straightens and looks at you, really looks this time. “I’ll have radiology come down here,”  he says quietly. “No reason to move her if we don’t have to,” he finishes.

Relief loosens something in your chest you hadn’t realized you were bracing. You nod once. “Thank you.”

Jack holds your gaze a fraction longer than necessary, like he’s checking that you’re still upright on the inside too, not just by habit. You offer him a tired smile and he returns it, subtle but real. 

“I need to go check on a patient,” he finishes quietly, already half-turning toward the door. Then he pauses, like something pulls him back. “I will call radiology first. And I’ll be close,” he adds. Not dramatic. Not a promise that needs weight, just information, just enough.

You nod. “Okay. Thank you”

Jack slips out, the door closing softly behind him, and the room settles into that in-between quiet that only exists when something hard has already happened and the next thing hasn’t arrived yet.

Your daughter is fully boneless now, the last of her adrenaline spent. Her breathing evens out against you, slow and warm, her forehead tucked beneath your chin like she’s found the exact place she belongs. One small hand still fists your scrub top out of habit, even in sleep.

You adjust your hold minutely, careful of her arm, careful of everything. Your body knows how to do this without being told. You press a kiss into her hair and let your eyes close for half a second longer than you probably should. 

You can’t help but think about Jack. You don’t try to stop the thought. You’re too tired to police it, and honestly, it’s been hovering at the edges of you all night anyway. The way he made space for both versions of you without comment.

You don’t let yourself spin this into anything more than it is. You’re good at restraint. You’ve had to be. But still, there’s something different about the way Jack sees you. Not in a sweeping, romantic way, but in the way that matters when things fall apart at three in the morning.

Your daughter sighs softly in her sleep, a tiny sound of contentment, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. You tighten your arms around her just a fraction, grounding yourself in the weight of her.

The door opens quietly again, and you don’t even look up at first. You know his footsteps now. You feel them before you hear them.

Jack pauses just inside the room when he sees your daughter asleep against you. His expression softens in that unguarded way you’ve come to recognize, the one he doesn’t seem aware he’s wearing.

“She out?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Finally.”

He nods, like that tracks. Like he expected it. He steps closer, careful, glancing at her arm, the bandage on her eyebrow, the way she’s tucked into you like she’s claimed you as her anchor.

Radiology’s already on their way,” he says. “They’ll be quick.”

“Okay.”

There’s another pause. Not awkward, just full.

“I’ll come back when they get here.” Jack doesn’t move right away after he says it.

He stands there for a beat longer than necessary, weight settled into one side. His eyes flick once more to your daughter, then back to you. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t need to be. The understanding is already there, layered and solid from years of shared shifts and unspoken things.

Jack steps back out into the hall, leaving the door cracked just long enough that the sounds of the ER bleed softly into the room instead of crashing. Then the room exhales again.

You shift slightly on the bed, adjusting your daughter so her weight is more evenly supported. She makes a small noise in her sleep, a soft protest, then relaxes again. You get your phone out to text your parents, thumb hovering for a second before you type.

She needed a few stitches, she took it like a champ. Waiting for an x-ray on her arm just to be safe. She’s asleep now. I’ll update you soon. You add a heart you don’t usually bother with, then send it before you can overthink it.  

You tuck the phone back into your pocket, the bed creaks softly as you adjust again, instinctively shifting to keep her arm supported. 

The door opens again not long after, a soft knock, then the roll of equipment. Radiology, quiet and efficient. Jack is with them, of course. He catches your eye immediately, gives you a small nod that says I’ve got it, still.

Your daughter stirs a little in your arms.

“Hey, superstar,” Jack murmurs, keeping his voice low. “We’re just going to take that picture we talked about.”

Your daughter stirs more at the sound of his voice, blinks once, then burrows closer into you instead of pulling away. A sleepy whine ghosts out of her throat.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

The tech explains things gently, positioning the portable machine with practiced care. Jack helps guide your daughter’s arm into place, his hands steady, never rushing her, never forcing the moment. When she whimpers, he pauses instantly, waiting until her breathing smooths again before continuing.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Just like that.”

The image is taken quickly. The machine hums, then stills. The tech murmurs a quiet thank-you and slips out again, leaving the room with that same reverent quiet it entered with.

Jack stays where he is, eyes on the screen now, posture relaxed but intent. You don’t ask. You just watch his face, the way you always do. 

Jack studies the image for a long second, head tilted just slightly, the way it always is when he’s lining things up in his mind. The room feels very still around you, like everything has leaned in to listen.

“Okay,” he says quietly, turning back to you. “Good news.”

The words don’t hit all at once. They spread instead, slow and warm, loosening something deep in your chest that’s been clenched since the moment you saw her on the gurney.

“No fracture,” Jack continues, voice still low, still careful. “Just a sprain. It’s going to be sore for a bit, but nothing that won’t heal on its own.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your shoulders drop. You press your lips into your daughter’s hair, eyes closing for the briefest second as relief washes through you.

“You’ll get a splint to keep it comfortable for a few days,” Jack says, sitting back down in front of your little girl like he has all the time in the world. 

Her eyes widen with concern. “A splint?” 

You understand her concern immediately. “A splint, baby,” you murmur softly. “Not a splinter.”

Jack huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh, catching himself before it becomes one, but he smiles. “Yeah, no splinters,” he says gently. “I promise.”

Your daughter blinks at him, processing through the fog of exhaustion. “Splinters are mean,” she informs him solemnly.

“They really are,” Jack agrees, like this is serious medical consensus. “But this is more like a glove. It gives your wrist a little rest while it feels better.”

“Oh,” she says, the word soft and sleepy, like the worry has already started to loosen its grip. 

You catch Jack’s gaze over her head, and there’s that quiet, steady reassurance in his eyes again. It warms your chest in a way that’s both familiar and unsettlingly tender. 

He gets the splint, it looks so small in his hands. “Alright,” he says quietly. “This is going to help your arm rest for a few days.”

She watches him with heavy-lidded seriousness, trust intact even through the fog of sleep. When he reaches for her wrist, he does it slowly, giving her time to register the movement before it happens. His touch is careful, practiced in a way that comes from long familiarity with bodies that hurt.

“I’m gonna get discharge started so you can take her home,” Jack continues quietly, finishing the thought without urgency. “She’s earned her own bed tonight.”

“I’ll call my parents to come get her, I still have a few hours left of the shift.”

Jack huffs, something between a breath and a quiet laugh, and shakes his head once. “You take her home,” he says, gently but firmly, like this isn’t a suggestion. “Get your four days off started early.”

You open your mouth on instinct. It’s habit and training. A lifetime of swallowing your own needs before they inconvenience anyone else.

“Jack, I—”

“I know,” he says softly, already ahead of you. There’s no impatience in his voice, no edge. Just understanding. “You don’t want to leave the floor short. But we will be fine, there is someone who needs you more right now.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks, past the scrubs and the composure you wear so easily at work. His gaze drops briefly to your daughter, then comes back to your face, softer now.

He doesn’t need to say anything, you feel it all the way into the marrow of your bones. The weight of his regard settles low in your chest, steady and grounding, just like the way his hands have been all night. It’s the look of someone who understands exactly what it means to keep showing up even when it costs you, someone who has learned, painfully, how to put other people first and live with what’s left over.

Something in your throat tightens.

He clears his own, subtle, like he’s catching himself before he says too much. “She needs you,” he repeats, quieter now. Not as an argument, but as a truth.

Your daughter shifts slightly, her forehead pressing more firmly into the hollow of your neck, her injured arm tucked safely between you. The instinct to stay with her flares so bright it almost hurts.

You nod once. “Yeah… I’ll take her home.”

“Good,” he says quietly. 

Something in your chest melts at the simplicity of it. No bravado, no dramatics. Just him, presentn and steady. 

He leaves to finish the discharge paperwork. You watch him go, the soft click of the door closing behind him lingering in the air. You call your parents to update them, your voice soft, careful not to wake the now sleeping girl in your arms. 

You agree that they should just drive home and that you take your daughter home with you. They will come over tomorrow afternoon to visit her. 

You thank them quietly for always taking so good care of her, keeping your tone low so it won’t stir your daughter. Tonight was not their fault, and you don’t want them to blame themself. And you really do appreciate them so much.  “I’ll text you when we’re home safe.”  you murmur as a last goodbye.

After hanging up, you pause for a moment, just holding her. Her little chest rises and falls against you, and the steady rhythm feels like the only thing that matters in the world right now. You press a soft kiss to her hair, brushing a loose strand from her forehead. 

A little while later, there is a knock on the door and Bridget peeks her head in. “Hey, I should say from Abbot that you’re cleared for takeoff.” 

You smile softly, careful not to wake your daughter, and whisper, “Thanks, Bridge.” 

“How’s she doing?”

You shift slightly, adjusting your daughter in your arms so she’s more comfortable, and glance up at Bridget. “Sleeping,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Everything’s fine now. Just tired from the excitement.”

Bridget nods, smiling as she glances at the little girl curled against you. “Good. Dr. Abbot said she handled everything really well.”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the mention of his name. You brush another loose strand of hair from your daughter’s forehead. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice soft. “She did. And he… he was really great with her.” 

Bridget gives a small, knowing smile. “I can see why,” she says quietly, almost to herself, before slipping out and closing the door gently behind her.

You stay for a moment longer, just holding your daughter, feeling the quiet steadiness of the night around you. When you finally shift to leave the room, you move slowly, carefully, like the world might crack if you rush it. You slide off the bed, adjust your grip on the sleeping girl in your arms, and ease the door open with your shoulder.

The hallway is dimmer now, the night shift easing into that early-morning calm where everything finally slows. Fewer voices, fewer alarms, just the low hum of the hospital breathing around you.

When you turn down the hallway heading towards the staff lockers, your steps are unhurried, instinctively measured to the rhythm of her breathing. 

A few coworkers pass you with gentle smiles and words, but no one stops you. The night seems to understand what you’re carrying.

Your shoulder brushes the wall as you adjust your grip again, careful of her arm, and you feel the weight of the last few hours finally settling into your muscles. Exhaustion, but also relief. The kind that leaves you hollow and light all at once.

When you pass a patient room, Jack steps out into the hallway, lifting his stethoscope back around back around his neck as he leaves the room. He looks up and stops. For a split second, he just watches you.

The lights catch the tired lines around his eyes, the ones you usually pretend not to notice. His gaze moves instinctively to your daughter, her small body slack with sleep against you, then back to your face. Something softens in him, something unguarded.

“Hey,” he says quietly, already lowering his voice.

“Hey,” you answer, just as soft.

“She still out?” he asks, nodding toward her.

“Completely,” you murmur. “Didn’t even flinch when we moved.”

“Good,” he says, like it genuinely matters to him. He steps aside without thinking, clearing your path. “You heading to the lockers?”

You nod. “Yeah. Then home.”

“And you’re okay?”

You take a breath, feel it all the way down. “I think so. Just… tired.”

He gives a small nod, understanding written all over his face. “Let me help grab your stuff.”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue. He just falls into step beside you, matching your pace like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The locker area is quiet, Jack reaches your locker before you can even shift your weight to free a hand. You tell him your locker code without thinking twice, the numbers slipping out of you on instinct, like trust has already made the decision for you. 

He gets your jacket and your bag, the small, ordinary pieces of a life that feels anything but ordinary tonight. 

“Here,” he murmurs, holding the jacket open so you can slide an arm through. 

When you hesitate, balancing her weight, he steps closer, gently settling it around your shoulders. His fingers brush your collarbone for the briefest second before he pulls back, like he’s reminding himself where the line is.

“You’ve got it?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He slings your bag over his own shoulder without asking. “I’ll walk you out.” 

A part of you wants to protest, he has already spent more time than anyone could reasonably expect tonight, but the words never quite make it past your lips. You’re too tired to argue. Too grateful to try. And you know that he wouldn’t offer it if he couldn’t spare the time to do it. 

So you just nod, and let him. 

He doesn’t make a joke about favoritism or professionalism, or anything else that might fracture the quiet you’re carrying with you. He just stays beside you, steady and unshowy, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

He steps aside to hold the door of the employee exit open for you, then falls back in beside you as you head toward the parking lot. His gaze keeps drifting to your daughter, to the way her face is relaxed in sleep, her fingers curled lightly into your scrubs.

When you reach your car, he sets your bag down carefully and turns back to you. For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words feel too small for everything he’s done, but they’re the only ones you have.

He shakes his head a little, like he doesn’t want the weight of gratitude. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” you reply. “But I want to.”

His mouth curves into something soft at that. Tired, but real. He glances at your daughter again, then back to you.

He doesn’t have to utter a word. The way he looks at you is enough. Enough to say, I see you. I get you. I care.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself, then nods once. “She’s… incredible,” Jack says finally, voice low. His words are not clinical, nor polite, they are honest. “You’re doing a really good job.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you,” you say, voice even lower than his. “You were amazing with her. Never too late to shift to pediatrics,” you add quietly, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. It probably would be too late, and you would hate if he wasn’t exactly where he is. 

He huffs a soft breath at that, something close to a laugh but quieter, more private. “I think I’d miss the chaos too much,” he says, then, after a beat. 

You know what he means. “Yeah, some people just thrive in chaos,” you murmur, letting the words trail off.

He nods slowly. For a heartbeat, there’s just the two of you in that parking lot, the world holding its breath around you. He shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pants pockets. He looks down at the pavement for a second. When he looks back up, his eyes are softer again, and gives a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“You should get her home,” he says gently. Not a dismissal, but a kindness. “Get some rest,” he then adds. “Both of you.”

“We will.”

You settle your daughter carefully into her car seat in the back before closing the door. When you straighten up again, Jack is handing you your bag. You take it with a soft smile before stepping to the driver’s side.

You pause in the car doorway, hand still on the handle, and glance back at him. He meets your gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that look, something unspoken passes between you. Years of shared shifts, quiet understanding, the weight of your lives carried alongside one another, all of it rests there in that silent stretch. 

“She’s really lucky to have you,” he says finally, voice low, almost lost in the night air, but weighted with something that makes your chest tighten. Then, after a fraction of a second, like he’s correcting himself for your sake.

You swallow, the words settling in your chest like sunlight through fog. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, and the air between you hums with all the things you’ve never said aloud.

You manage a small, tired smile, fingers curling around the handle of the car door a little tighter. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely more than breath, but it carries more than you could ever fit into a longer sentence.

“Get home safe…” he adds, letting the words hang just long enough to be felt rather than rushed. His eyes meet yours again, soft and steady, holding a quiet weight that doesn’t need to be named.

You give a small nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite the fatigue. “We will,” you reply softly, fingers brushing the handle of the car door like a quiet tether to reality.

As you pull out of the lot, you glance once in the rearview mirror. He’s still there, watching until you’re gone.

On the backseat, your daughter stirs slightly in sleep. The road stretches ahead, quiet except for the hum of the tires, and for a moment, everything else falls away. And somewhere behind you, Jack is back inside the Pitt, bathed in fluorescent hospital lights. 

You glance back at the precious little girl behind you in the rearview mirror, her small chest rising and falling in soft rhythm, and your heart swells with a tenderness that feels too big for words. 

Then you look back at the road ahead, and let the weight of the night settle, heavy but gentle. There’s exhaustion, yes, but also a rare clarity.

jack exhales through his nose and sits up. there it is. just like clockwork the mattress dips, the air shifts, and suddenly you’re alone even though he’s still right there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, before reaching down to grab his boxers off the floor.

you watch him. you don’t even try not to. “where are you going?” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear. you don’t even need to ask anymore, yet, you still do.

“we’ve got a shift in a few hours,” he replies, already reaching for his pants. “probably should get a decent nap in.” he keeps his eyes on his clothes, focusing on getting dressed rather than facing you.

you push yourself up onto your elbows, sheet slipping down your naked torso without you noticing. “you could always nap here.” it comes out light, like you don’t care either way (you do).

he pauses, and you wonder if for the first time in forever, he’ll take you up on the offer. his hand stills where it’s halfway to his shirt. his shoulders tense just slightly before he keeps going, pulling it over his head. “i sleep better at my place.”

your stomach sinks. stupid, stupid girl. it’s such a normal answer. practical, logical, and very him. you nod anyway, even though he’s not really looking at you. “right. yeah. makes sense.”

he glances over then, like he’s checking your reaction without wanting it to look like that. you’re already reaching for the edge of the sheet, fixing it around yourself, pretending you didn’t just offer him something that felt a little too close to asking him to stay.

“i’ll see you tonight,” he adds, like it’s enough to lift your spirits.

you hum, nodding once. “yeah. see you.”

he grabs his watch off your nightstand, fastening it around his wrist. your eyes track the movement automatically. you notice stupid things about him. the way he’s always precise and controlled, especially now.

he steps closer to the bed again and your heart does something annoying in your chest. the feeling is something hopeful and something you immediately hate. he presses a kiss to your lips. it’s soft enough to distract you for the meantime. after a beat too long, he pulls away. “get some sleep,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair with his hand.

you nod again because what else are you supposed to do? he turns, grabs his keys, and heads for the door. there’s no hesitation. no looking back. he used to look upset he had to leave. that affection faded sometime between the last few months.

the door shuts with a quiet click, and just like that it’s over. you sit there staring at the spot where he was standing like he might walk back in and say just kidding, i’ll stay. but of course he doesn’t. you let out a slow breath and fall back against the mattress with a thud, staring up at the ceiling again. the fan is still spinning in its useless way.

your skin still feels warm where he touched you. your apartment still smells like him. which doesn’t soften the blow. you drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. “so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, voice muffled against your palm. this was your idea—you have to remind yourself that daily. well, you didn’t propose the idea officially, but you let it happen. days like this, no questions asked, no expectations, and absolutely no labels.

casual was the way he preferred to describe it. he said it to robby once after he asked what was going on between you two. you were standing right beside him, looking at him with both hope and curiosity. then he used that six letter word, and you deflated like a balloon. but you didn’t argue against it. so, you don’t have the right to feel like…this.

you turn onto your side, facing the empty space beside you. your fingers brush against the sheets, still faintly warm. you press your lips together, eyes stinging. “it’s casual,” you whisper, reminding yourself of the rules. you close your eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you already know he’s going to walk into the hospital tonight, look at you like nothing happened, joke with you like nothing happened, and you’re going to let him.

“fuck,” you curse, keeping your eyes up to stop the tears from falling. your fingers scrunch the sheets, gripping them hard enough to hurt. get it together. “you agreed to it,” you mutter, reminding yourself one more time before attempting to get some sleep.

~

stepping through the ambulance bay doors of the PTMC always feels like a fever dream. like stepping out of the hospital at the end of every shift leads you right back through those automatic doors. a coffee is tucked into your hand, hair pulled back, and a neutral smile gracing your lips. it’s become easy to pretend like you didn’t spend half your afternoon staring at your ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re fine. you tuck your bag under the desk and log in, fingers moving automatically across the keyboard.

“you’re early,” dana notes from beside you, not even glancing up from her screen.

you shrug, scanning the board. your leg bounces rapidly under the table. “couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie…just not the full truth.

“join the club,” she mutters.

you hum in response, already pulling up your first chart. “what’s the damage?”

“room four’s been waiting too long and is about to bite someone’s head off, six is chest pain, eight’s a disaster-”

“when is eight not a disaster?” you mumble, grabbing a pen and mentally preparing yourself.

dana snorts. “fair.”

you’re halfway through reading when the doors swing open. you don’t even have to look. your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulders tightening just slightly, grip on your pen shifting, something low in your stomach pulling tight.

jack abbot walks in like he always does. his strut is steady and grounded. the emergency department chaos bends around him instead of the other way around. he’s clad in a black scrub top, sleeves pushed up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. his hair is still a little damp. you hate that you notice that. his eyes sweep the department once, before landing on you. his face stays blank, but his eyes are intense as ever. he looks away before you can react.

“abbot,” dana calls, lifting her chin. she looks him up and down, not impressed (she never is).

“dana,” hearing his voice is like tasting water in a desert. he sounds normal. like maybe he spent his time outside of work alone, or doing something productive. like he didn’t leave your apartment a few hours ago with your taste still on his mouth.

you swallow, forcing your eyes back to the screen. don’t make it weird. he steps up to the station a second later, fingers drumming against the counter. “what’ve we got?”

you glance at his fingers, then at him. he’s already looking at you. he’s good at this. no tension. no hesitation. just that same slightly amused look he gives you every shift. you clear your throat. “room six. chest pain, fifty-eight year old male. ekg’s…not great.” you keep your eyes on the screen, a subtle way to evade eye contact. he leans in slightly to look at the computer, shoulder brushing yours for half a second.

“not great how?” he asks. you can smell his shampoo and conditioner, the same ones you use when you’re over his place.

you click through the results, pointing with your pen. “st elevation in the inferior leads. troponin’s pending but i’m not waiting on it.”

he nods once, focused now. “good.” your chest warms at that.

“cath lab?” you ask.

“yup. page cardiology,” he says, already straightening. “let’s not waste time.”

“on it.” you pick up the phone, dialing quickly, slipping into that rhythm you know too well. you don’t think about him. when you’re working, you have no time to think. that’s one perk of being apart of the medical field.

by the time you hang up, he’s already halfway down the hall, calling out orders, pulling a team together and teaching med students. you watch him go for a second longer than necessary.

“eyes forward, doctor,” dana murmurs under her breath. her eyes are narrow, looking you up and down like she did to abbot before.

you blink, snapping back to your screen. “i was looking at the board.”

“mmhmm.” she hums. you can’t get anything past dana. she’s seen it all, and knows it all too well. “well, i’m out of here. gotta go before i’m pulled back in.”

“sleep well,” you blow her a kiss as she shuffles out the doors. when the doors close, you watch her grab a cigarette. you chuckle, shaking your head.

the next hour moves fast. patients come in, patients go out. you send out orders, labs, reassessments. you’re moving constantly, barely sitting, barely breathing, exactly the way you like it. it drowns everything else out.

“hey.” you turn at the sound of his voice. jack’s standing a little too close again, tablet in hand, looking at you like he’s been talking for longer than you realized. “you with me?” he asks, brow lifting slightly.

you run a hand over your face. “yeah. sorry. what?”

his mouth twitches. “i asked your plan for room four.” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. the same broad chest that you littered with hickies just hours befor—

right.

focus.

“uh, probably gallbladder,” you say, pulling the chart up on the computer. “pain after eating, radiating to the back, she’s nauseous-” you list the symptoms on your fingers. he watches you as you talk. “i was thinking ultrasound to start,” you finish.

there’s a beat before he nods. “good call.” you exhale softly, tension easing just a little. “you look tired,” he adds, shifting seamlessly between work and personal. it catches you off guard.

you shrug, keeping your tone light. “couldn’t sleep.”

his gaze lingers on you. “join the club,” he mutters instead, echoing dana from earlier.

you huff out a small laugh. “original.”

“i try.” he smiles sweetly. his dimples poke out from his cheeks. ugh you love those dimples.

for a moment, you just stand there, staring at each other. then, someone calls his name from down the hall and the bubble bursts. “abbot!”

he glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “don’t let four crash on you,” he says, already stepping away.

you roll your eyes. “no promises.”

“that’s reassuring.” and he’s moving on to the next thing.

you stand there, staring at the chart in your hands. your chest feels…tight. not in a bad way either. you always react like this to him. this is what he does. he’s kind and attentive. he listens to you, trusts your judgment, jokes with you like you’re the easiest part of his day. and none of it is supposed to mean anything more than that. it’s starting to hurt.

“you good?” lena asks, glancing over her thin glasses. she tucks her red bangs behind her ear while the rest of her hair stays pulled back into a ponytail.

you nod quickly, already busying yourself with the nearest object. “yeah. just tired.” your hands land on a pen. you click it repeatedly.

she nods and hums, not convinced. you know she means well, but you can’t look at her. if she’s looking at you with that knowing look, you might just break down, and that’s the last thing you need. so, you don’t look at her. you don’t look down the hall where he disappeared. you just keep working.

~

central seven smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. burns always do that. you’re standing at the bedside, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning the injury while the patient talks a mile a minute. adrenaline will do that to you. she’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties. pretty in a put together way, even with her hair slightly frazzled and her voice pitched a little too high.

“it was the pan,” she’s saying, wincing as you gently adjust her arm. “i didn’t even realize how hot it was until—god, it hurts.”

“i know,” you murmur, voice steady. “you’re doing great. just keep your arm still for me, okay?”

she nods quickly, eyes flicking between you and him. jack stands on the other side of the bed, gloved hands resting lightly against the rail, watching you work. he’s quiet, letting you lead, only stepping in when needed. it’s natural when you work together.

“second-degree,” you say, glancing up at him briefly. “no blistering yet, but it’s heading there.”

he nods once. “agreed.”

your shoulder brushes his when you shift closer to the patient. you pretend it doesn’t register. the patient, unfortunately, does not. “are you two always this in sync?” she asks, a breathy little laugh slipping out despite the pain.

you offer a polite smile, already reaching for more gauze. “we try.”

jack huffs quietly, something amused in it. “she’s the one doing the work.” he praises and your warmth blooms in your chest.

“team effort,” you correct, not looking at him.

“sure,” he agrees, but there’s that low, teasing tone. the same one he uses in more private situations.

you clear your throat slightly. “i’m gonna grab the silvadene,” you say, stepping back. “be right back.”

he gives you a thumbs up. “i’ve got her.”

you slip out into the hallway, the noise of the department swallowing you up again. it takes maybe two minutes max to grab what you need, maybe a little longer because you stop to answer a quick question from a nurse, scribble an order, check a lab.

when you push the door back open with your hip, you pause. the patient is smiling. not the tight, pained smile from before. she has that admiration in her eyes. the same type you have when you look at him. jack’s standing a little closer than he was when you left. not inappropriate—never that—but closer. one hand braced near her arm, the other adjusting something on the tray.

“guess i’ll have a pretty good scar to show off, huh?” she’s saying, voice lilting.

jack glances up briefly, a small, smile tugging at his mouth. “we’ll try to keep it minimal.”

“mm,” she hums, eyes lingering on him a second too long. “well…if i need a follow-up, i wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

your stomach drops. he doesn’t react the way you do. of course he doesn’t. he just chuckles. “always happy to treat a patient again.”

you step further into the room, setting the supplies down a little harder than necessary. “okay,” you say, voice back to clinical and controlled. “let’s get this dressed.”

jack shifts back immediately, giving you space without question. you focus on the burn and the steps. on anything but the way the patient keeps glancing between you and him.

you finish quicker than usual. “i’m going to have someone else take over from here,” you say suddenly, pulling off your gloves and tossing them in the bin.

jack raises a brow. “you don’t have to-” he starts.

“dr. ellis is better with burn care,” you cut in smoothly, already stepping toward the door. “i’ve got a few things i need to catch up on anyway.”

jack isn’t the only one with oddly reasonable excuses. he studies you for a second longer, forehead creased from confusion. “ok.” he’s reluctant to say.

you ignore the weird twist in your chest at that and step out into the hallway, already scanning for parker. “ellis,” you call, waving her over. “can you take over nine? second-degree burn, i’ve started dressing it but-”

“yeah, of course,” she says easily, already snapping on gloves and heading in.

“thanks.” you don’t look back. you don’t look at jack. you just keep moving.

~

the rest of the shift blends together. you throw yourself into it harder than usual. you pick up more patients, more notes, more anything to keep your brain too busy to circle back to that room. to the way he didn’t-

you stop that thought before it finishes.

by the time things finally start to slow, the clock creeping toward the end of your shift, your shoulders ache and your eyes burn from staring at screens too long. you’re hunched over the computer, typing out your last note, when a familiar presence settles beside you.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

your fingers still for half a second. then keep typing. “have not,” you murmur, voice absent of its usual warmth.

jack leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “mm,” he taps his fingers next to your keyboard.

you finish the sentence you’re on before finally glancing up at him. “i’ve been busy.”

“you reassigned my patient.” there it is.

you shrug, turning back to the screen. “parker is better with that stuff.”

“since when?” he huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“since always,” you say a little harsher than you intend. you take a deep breath before continuing. “and i had to catch up on charting,” you add, clicking through another tab.

you can feel him looking at you. “everything alright?” he asks, leaning close enough that you can feel heat radiating him. that almost gets you.

you force a small smile, glancing up at him again. “yeah. why wouldn’t it be?”

his gaze lingers. searching for something. “just asking,” he says finally.

you nod once. “well, i’m good.”

no one talks for a moment. he shifts slightly, looming over you while you try to work. you swallow, skin burning from his gaze.

“you wanna come over tonight?” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “or…we could go out or something.”

your heart stutters. of course that’s what he follows it up with. he says it like it’s nothing. you should say no. you should say you’re tired. you should say you have plans. you should say literally anything that puts space between you and this thing that keeps pulling you back in.

instead, without thinking, you say, “uh, sure.” and the cycle continues.

his mouth twitches slightly, something satisfied flickering there before he looks away. “i’ll text you when i get home,” he smiles.

you nod, turning back to your computer before he can read anything on your face. “okay.”

he lingers. then pushes off the counter and walks away. after he’s out of sight, you sit there, staring at the screen without really seeing it. once again, you bring it onto yourself.

~

his couch dips under your weight. the leather is worn in just enough to feel lived in but still structured. everything in his place feels like that. modern decorations, muted colors, nothing unnecessary. you’re sprawled across it, back pressed into the armrest, one leg hooked loosely over his shoulder.

he’s between your legs, hands holding your thighs to keep you open. your fingers are tangled in his curls before you realize you’ve reached for him. “jack-” it slips out, breath catching halfway through his name.

he hums against your skin, low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s taking his time on purpose. he always does this. his thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin, and it’s enough to make something uncomfortable settle in your ribs.

you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising too fast. “you’re-” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath, grip tightening in his hair.

he moans in response, not letting up. just keeps going until your voice breaks and your body follows, tension snapping all at once. your climax hits hard. you arch as a breathless sound falls from your lips. he stays between your legs, licking you entirely clean before coming up for air.

you’re still catching your breath when he shifts up beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, tugging you into him like it’s second nature. he wipes your slick off his mouth and chin with his arm, licking his lips clean. your cheek presses against his shoulder, his skin warm, steady.

his hand comes up to your arm, fingers brushing lightly over your skin, slow and absent. “have fun?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it is anywhere else.

you huff a quiet laugh, still a little dazed. “yeah.”

he hums, like he expected that answer. his thumb keeps moving against your arm. up, down. up, down. it’s stupid how that alone makes you feel woozy. “you want something to eat?” he asks, turning his head slightly toward you. “i’ve got-” he pauses, scratching his chin. “i don’t know. something. probably.”

you smile. “yeah, i-” your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you. you glance over without thinking, reaching for it. a name you haven’t seen in a while lights up the screen. your face softens instantly.

no way you’re still alive. drinks?

you let out a small laugh, the sound light and surprised. “oh my god.” you type back quickly, thumbs moving without much thought.

next to you, jack stills. every muscle in his body tenses. his throat bobs as he swallows. he tries not to care, but that sound—that giggle—is reserved for him. his hand slows against your arm before stopping completely. “what?” he asks, attempting to sound nonchalant:

you shake your head, still smiling at your phone. “nothing.” you don’t mean it like that. you really don’t.

his jaw tightens just slightly. “doesn’t look like nothing,” he rasps, memorizing the cracks in his wooden floors.

you shrug, setting your phone face down on the cushion. “just a friend i haven’t talked to in a while.”

“mm.” he doesn’t ask who, and it eats him alive. something green and fiery pits in his stomach.

you sit up slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for your jeans draped over the arm of the couch. “actually,” you clear your throat, trying to stay normal, “i might meet them out tonight.”

the words ring in his ears. his hand drops from your arm. “tonight?” he repeats.

you nod, sliding your phone into your pocket. “yeah. i haven’t seen them in forever.”

he watches you now. “thought you were staying,” his tone is flat. his mind is anything but. the mere thought of you meeting another person—possibly a man—for a drink has him seeing red.

you pull your shirt back on, smoothing it down like it gives you something to do. “i was, i just—this came up.”

he leans back slightly against the couch, arms resting along the back, posture more stiff than it was a second ago. “right.”

“it’s not a big thing,” you add quickly. “just drinks.”

“with…?” he trails off, like he doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking. his fingers drum against the leather of the couch. he wanted this.

you hesitate for half a second too long. “just friends,” you say again, not feeling like explaining.

he nods curtly. “got it.”

silence settles around you. you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, suddenly very aware of the space between you now. how fast it showed up. he watches you pack up your things with no argument. his eyes follow your every movement like glue.

part of you wants him to fight. to tell you to stay. to tell you he needs you. when those phrases don’t come, you sigh. “i’ll see you tomorrow?” you offer, hovering near the edge of the couch.

“yeah,” he mutters, coughing lightly. “see you.” it’s the same tone he used this morning. like letting you go doesn’t cost him anything.

you linger anyway. just for a second. long enough that it almost means something. if he wanted to, he’d fill the space. maybe say your name, tell you to stay, give you anything to hold onto. but he doesn’t. you swallow, forcing a small smile as you turn toward the door.

you don’t look back this time. you know better now. for what feels like the first time, the crack in the canvas isn’t just something you imagine, it’s something he’s choosing not to fix.

~

the next time you step into the pitt, something is different. you’re smiling, and it’s not forced or fake. it’s real. you’re talking to princess, laughing at something stupid she says, coffee in hand, shoulders not as tight as they usually are at the start of a shift. you feel good. which is rare enough that you don’t question it too hard.

“you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” princess raises a brow, eyeing you with a grin.

you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “saw some old friends last night. i had fun.”

she snorts. “no way. taking time away from that casual relationship?” she lingers on the word casual, rolling her eyes.

“believe it.” you don’t elaborate. you don’t mention the drinks, the loud music, the way it felt to be something other than a resident for a few hours. to laugh with friends without checking the time. to not worry about him.

three feet away, jack notices everything. he got to work early just to see you walk in. his heart stutters as he watches you talk animatedly. you’re smiling—genuinely smiling. the sight sends goosebumps down his spine. you used to smile like that when you first started seeing him. how, he’s used to something more closed off.

he watches you longer than necessary before forcing himself to look at the labs on the screen. he lasts about ten seconds before looking at you again. you’re talking, explaining something to a med student, gesturing with your pen, that same easy smile still sitting on your mouth like it belongs there. it shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

the last twenty-four hours have felt…off. your texts came slower and often with shorter messages. he sent one this morning, sweet and teasing. he asked about your night (even if it made him clench his teeth at the thought). it took you three hours to respond, and all you sent back was good. no follow up. no teasing. no nothing.

he was the one to call it casual first. he meant it when he drew that line. so why does it feel like you’re the one pulling away now?

“abbott.” he looks up, blinking once.

robby’s watching him, eyebrow raised. “you good, man?”

“yeah,” jack says automatically.

robby glances past him, toward you, and then back again, something knowing flickering in his expression before he drops it. “right,” he sighs, slapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “well i’ll see you in about twelve hours.” he salutes before walking off.

jack exhales through his nose, humming and sending him a wave goodbye. he drags a hand down the back of his neck before pushing off the counter. he steps into a case, then another, falling into work the way he always does. it should be enough to keep his head clear. it was working for most of the shift. that was until he heard your laugh.

it cuts across the department, soft and sweet. he looks up before he can stop himself. nick barker, head of radiology, stands too close in proximity to you. he’s leaning against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be, one arm braced beside you, posture relaxed in. he’s practically melting into you.

“i’m just saying,” nick’s grinning, tone light, “if you’re gonna question my read, at least buy me dinner first. make it worth my time.”

you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “your reads are questionable on a good day, barker. i’m not rewarding that.”

“harsh,” he says, but he’s smiling wider now. “i like it.” his eyes drag slowly up and down your figure. jack’s molars grind.

you roll your eyes, clicking through the scan on your screen. “i’m sure you do.”

he leans in slightly, looking at the monitor, but it’s not the screen he’s focused on. it’s you. “so what’s the verdict, doc?” he asks, attempting a seductive tone. jack wants to see if he keeps that tone while he smashes his fist into-

breathe.

you tilt your head, studying the image. “small bleed. nothing crazy, but it’s there.”

“mm,” nick hums, still close. “good catch.” you glance up at him, and there’s that smile again.

jack feels something shift. his breathing labors. he looks away because he doesn’t like what that does to him. he doesn’t like that it bothers him at all. he agreed to this. no expectations. no exclusivity.

you laugh again, quieter this time, at something nick says under his breath. that gets him. he grips the closest counter to him, knuckles going white. it’s nothing. you’re just talking and being polite as usual. but when you barely looked at him all night. when your texts have gone quiet. when someone else is grabbing your attention—that’s when it feels like something else.

across the room, shen follows his line of sight and snorts under his breath. “yikes,” he mutters.

jack doesn’t respond. he just exhales slowly, forcing his attention back to work even though he imagines the sound of barker’s nose cracking under impact from his fist. he grips the counter harder to keep him from doing something beyond stupid.

he doesn’t get to feel this way—he reminds himself for the tenth time—not when he’s the one who made sure it stayed casual. yet, his eyes flick back to you. as much as he tries to keep it simple, nothing is ever simple when it comes to you.

~

the shift drags after that. the cases aren’t necessarily harder and the workload isn’t overwhelming. it’s the usual mix—some chest pain, a drunk guy with a busted eyebrow, a kid with a fever that has two terrified parents hovering like satellites. you mind your business, keep to yourself and try your best to get through the shift.

on the other hand, jack’s senses are heightened tenfold. he notices that you don’t linger near him at the desk anymore. that when you pass each other in the hallway, your shoulder doesn’t brush his the way it usually does. that you talk to everyone the same way you always have, but when it comes to him, you keep it strictly clinical.

“cbc and cultures,” you say at one point, handing him a chart without looking up.

he takes it. “already ordered.”

“good.” you murmur and that’s it. just work.

the distance sits in his chest like something heavy. when he thinks about it for too long, his eyes sting and his throat hurts from breathing harshly. and just to add onto it, nick barker keeps wandering back over. it’s not constantly. not enough that anyone could call it obvious. but it’s enough to have jack spiraling.

you still don’t flirt back, but you laugh and answer him a little too comfortably for jack’s liking. by the time the shift finally starts to wind down, the exhaustion has settled into his bones. twelve hours of adrenaline wearing off leaves him irritated.

the locker room is quiet when he walks in. most of the nightshift has clocked out already, leaving few lockers full. you’re already in there when he walks in. your back is to him, tugging your hoodie over your scrubs, hair falling out of your clip as you pull your bag from the bench. he just watches you. he does that a lot. it’s hard not to.

he exhales through his nose and drops his own bag onto the bench with more force than necessary. you glance over your shoulder. “long shift,” you say lightly, tone neutral.

“yeah,” he mutters. he starts shoving things into his bag, movements harsher than usual. the silence stretches for a moment. you zip yours closed, and that’s when he says it. “so what—was he the ‘friend’ you met out with last night?”

you freeze for half a second. you think you imagined the sudden outburst. slowly, you turn toward him. “…what?”

jack doesn’t look at you right away. he’s still digging through his locker. “barker,” he says flatly. “that who you were out with?”

your eyebrows pull together. “are you serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms.

he finally looks at you then. “just asking.”

you let out a small, incredulous laugh. this is classic coming from him. “you’re not asking. you’re accusing.”

“am i?” he shoots back, voice deepening. you swear steam is rushing out of his ears. his hair is tousled, probably from running his hands through it. his eyes are dark, like he didn’t get a wink of sleep. you haven’t seen whatever version of jack this is.

“yeah,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “you kind of are.”

he huffs, hands clenching by his sides. how can you not see it? how do you not understand his views? the thoughts only fuel his fire. “looked pretty cozy out there tonight.”

your eyes widen slightly. “cozy?” you sputter. “jack, what are-”

“laughing at everything he says,” jack interrupts with a growl. “letting him lean all over the counter-”

“oh my god,” you cut him off, disbelief bleeding into your voice. “are you actually jealous right now?”

the word hits something. his shoulders stiffen. “i’m not jealous.” he says quickly—too quickly.

“jack-”

“i’m just saying it looked a little-”

“no,” you shake your head before he can finish. “don’t do that. don’t pretend that’s not exactly what this is.” his mouth presses into a thin line. “you flirt with people all the time,” you continue, voice rising slightly. “patients, nurses, literally anyone who walks through the door.”

“that’s not-”

“it is,” you snap. “i’ve seen it.”

“i’m just being polite.” he mutters each word.

“and i’m not?” you raise a brow. “no one can be polite except for you?” you stifle a laugh. ridiculous.

“i’m not the one who went out with someone else last night.” he blinks rapidly, like he’s fighting emotion. his throat bobs after he says it.

silence fills the room. the overhead lights flicker under the tension. your eyes widen slightly, mouth falling slightly agape. “i was with my friends!” you’re quieter now. you don’t need volume to show how mad you are.

he doesn’t stop, just rolls his eyes. “doesn’t matter. you couldn’t even text me back, but you had time to go out drinking?”

“you don’t get to say that,” you fire back.

“why not?”

“because you’re the one who wanted this to be casual,” you say, the word coming out harsher than you mean it to. “remember?”

his chest rises slowly. “i never said you could-”

“no,” your voice cracks as you shake your head. “you just made it very clear there were no expectations.” the room feels smaller now. “so what,” you continue, voice quieter but cutting deeper, “now suddenly you care who i talk to?”

jack runs a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the curls. “that’s not what i said.” his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

“it’s what you meant.”

“you’re twisting this.” he holds a hand over his mouth before dragging it down. his stubble scratches his hand.

“oh, am i?” you shoot back incredulously.

footsteps near the entrance of the room grow closer before you can finish. robby steps inside, mid sip from a coffee. he immediately stops when he sees…whatever this is. his eyes flick between the two of you. jack standing rigid near the lockers. you looking like you’re two seconds from throwing your bag at him. “…wow,” robby mutters, closing his eyes.

neither of you notice. or maybe you do, but you’re too upset to care. “you don’t get to be mad at me for moving on with my life,” you mutter.

“moving on?” jack repeats, huffing a chuckle.

“yes.”

“from what?”

you blink at him. “exactly,” you say quietly.

jack opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. his chest heaves with every breath he takes. “how dare-”

robby exhales loudly. “okay,” he sighs, stepping between you. “both of you get some air.” he claps his hands together like a mother separating two children. neither of you move. “seriously,” robby adds, voice firmer now. “this is a hospital, not couples therapy.”

jack scoffs while you shake your head. you sling your back over your other arm harshly. “forget it.” you mutter, pushing past them toward the door.

“hey-” jack starts, reaching for your wrist. his hand falls short of your arm and you don’t stop. your heavy footsteps echo through hospital as you leave.

that leaves just jack and robby in the room. robby slowly looks at jack. “…casual, huh?”

jack stares at the closed door with his jaw tight. “yeah,” he mutters through clenched teeth. the word sounds a lot less convincing now.

~

three days pass in stubborn silence. friday night ends with raised voices and slammed lockers. no one apologizes. no one reaches out. saturday passes. then sunday. both of you check your phones more than you’ll admit to. both of you type messages that never get sent. stubbornness wins every time.

monday night comes slower than it should. the pitt is alive when jack walks in, the department humming under the harsh fluorescent lights. patients complaining, nurses exchanging updates, the board already full curtesy of the day shift.

though, he notices it the second he steps through the doors. you’re not there. you’re almost always one of the first residents on shift. clad in your colorful undershirt, coffee in hand, already scanning the board. jack usually comes in a few minutes after with his bag slung over one shoulder, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. he likes the routine of walking in and spotting you.

now, as his eyes flick instinctively to the usual spots—the workstation, the trauma bay, and the corner where you tend to hover when reading a case over. nothing. his jaw tightens. it’s dumb, the way disappointment creeps in so fast. it shouldn’t matter whether you’re there yet or not. people run late. people get pulled into things. he tells himself that as he drops his bag into the locker and heads out toward the floor. still, he keeps looking.

ten minutes pass. then twenty. you still haven’t walked through the doors. he checks his watch too often, paces back and fourth between stable patients, and pinches the bridge of his nose enough times to bruise. he’s leaning over the counter, staring at the doors as if you’ll magically appear when lena cuts in.

“you’re early.” she hums, smacking gum in her mouth. he glances over his shoulder. lena’s setting her bag down at the desk, tying her hair back into a loose knot as she looks at him.

“could say the same to you,” he mutters.

she shrugs, pushing her bangs back. “early bird gets the worm.” the contents in her bag clack as she reaches for something. jack makes an absentminded noise of agreement, eyes drifting back toward the entrance again. her mouth twitches slightly as she follows his line of sight. “she’s not here, you know?”

his shoulders stiffen just enough to give him away. “who?” he feigns innocence.

lena gives him a look that says don’t be stupid. “your resident.” she narrows her eyes, tilting her head.

he exhales through his nose, turning back to the screen. he clicks into the login, flashing his badge like muscle memory. “i have multiple residents.”

“yeah,” she says dryly, “but you only stare at the door for one of them.” she huffs a laugh. jack doesn’t respond. lena scans the board, tapping a pen against the desk. “she took a couple days.”

that gets his attention. he turns fully now. “what?”

“oh, now you know who i’m talking about,” she tsks with smug grin. he scoffs in response. “called out,” lena continues. “sunday morning, actually. said she needed a few days. scheduled off tomorrow too.”

jack blinks once, trying to shuffle the words together to make sense. “she sick?” he asks.

lena shrugs. “didn’t sound like it.”

his stomach sinks. the events of friday night flood his mind. the way you stormed out before anyone could stop you. how tired and angry you sounded. the slight crack in your voice at the end of the argument. he drags a hand down the back of his neck, feeling a dull weight settle in his chest. he hears his own words again—jealous, and so, so stupid.

was he the friend you met out with?

the look of hurt that flashed across your face, and how that hurt turned into anger quickly.

lena’s watching him now, quiet for once. “you two okay?” she asks.

jack looks away immediately. “fine.”

she doesn’t believe that for a second. she nods slowly, “right,” she raises her brows.

he nods once, already turning back toward the computer like the conversation’s over, but the screen blurs in front of him. two days. you took two days.

way to screw that up.

~

across the city, monday night looks very different. your apartment is quiet. the curtains are half drawn, thin streaks of the sun set slipping through the gaps and stretching across the floor. you haven’t moved much since yesterday…or the day before that.

your phone sits face down on the nightstand. you told yourself you wouldn’t check it again. you checked anyway. the outcome was the same as before—nada. no messages. no calls. no apologies. you would rather him reach out to argue more than to just ghost you.

you stare at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes swollen and raw from crying so much your body eventually just ran out of tears. you feel ridiculous. you’re a doctor. a grown woman. someone who handles trauma cases and dying patients without falling apart. yet, somehow this relationship (if you can even call it that) wrecked you.

your throat tightens again. “god,” you whisper hoarsely, dragging your hands down your face. the argument replays in your head whether you want it to or not. the jealousy. the accusations. you swallow hard, staring at the wall. “you knew what this was,” you mutter to yourself, but the words don’t help.

you didn’t mean to fall for him. you didn’t mean to care this much. now you feel stupid for every second you let yourself believe he might care the same way. you turn onto your side, curling tighter into the blankets.

outside, the city keeps moving, while you stay stuck. what’s worse is that jack has no idea you’re lying there, crying into your pillow, wondering if you just ruined the best thing you’ve ever had.

~

the next morning, your body wakes up before your brain does and for a few blissful seconds you forget everything. that’s until the ache in your chest reminds you. you groan softly, shifting under the blanket. the couch cushion beneath you dips awkwardly, and it takes a second for your brain to remember why you’re here instead of your bed.

last night you finally got up after spending most of the day rotting in your room. you brushed your hair, washed your face, and tried to feel like a functioning adult again. it lasted maybe twenty minutes before the tears came back. so you grabbed a pint of ice cream, curled up on the couch, and put on the stupidest, sappiest rom coms you could find. you cried through three of them before exhaustion eventually dragged you under.

now the tv is still on, volume low, playing the end credits of something you don’t remember finishing. an empty ice cream container sits crooked on the coffee table beside a crumpled napkin. your face feels puffy. your throat still burns faintly from crying. you stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle over you. you would’ve stayed there forever had you not heard the knocks.

knock knock.

your brain doesn’t fully register it at first. maybe it’s a neighbor. maybe you imagined it. you sit up slowly, blanket sliding down your lap.

knock knock.

this time it’s louder. yup, definitely real. you frown, glancing toward the door. nobody ever comes here unannounced. something deep in your body clenches. you push yourself up off the couch, wincing as your stiff neck protests. your bare feet pad quietly across the floor.

knock.

“geez, learn some fuckin’ patience,” you groan under your breath, reaching for the door, and peaking in the peephole, heart dropping straight into your stomach.

jack stands in the hallway still in his scrubs. his hair is more disheveled than usual, curls flattened slightly on one side. faint shadows sit under his eyes, the kind that only show up after a long shift. in one hand he’s holding a coffee carrier. in the other, he’s holding flowers with a small box of chocolates tucked awkwardly under his arm.

you stare at the door like it might bite you. your pulse starts racing.

“i know you’re home,” his voice calls through the door, tired but unmistakably his. “your car’s outside.”

you close your eyes for half a second. your hand hovers over the lock. part of you wants to pretend you’re not here. the other, bigger part is already turning the handle. the door creaks open slowly.

jack looks up immediately, his shoulders dropping slightly. “hey,” he says softly. you don’t respond, just blink. you probably look like a disaster with tangled hair, swollen eyes, and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. jack takes you in quietly. “so,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the flowers, the coffee, and the chocolate box. “i brought options.” his mouth pulls into a small, sheepish smile. “figured i’d give you a variety of things to throw at me.”

for a second, you just stare at him. jack abbot—veteran, doctor, and professional pain in your ass—standing in your hallway holding flowers like a nervous teenager. you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely over your chest. your voice comes out rough from sleep and crying. “you’re persistent.”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like that’s the closest thing to a victory he’s getting right now. “occupational hazard.”

the hallway light flickers softly overhead. neither of you moves. up close, he looks worse than you expected. the dark circles under his eyes are deeper than they should be. there’s stubble along his jaw he probably didn’t bother shaving after his shift. his shoulders sag slightly under the weight of the shift.

“you just get off work?” you ask.

“yeah.” he nods, rocking back and fourth.

“and instead of going home…you came here…?”

“yeah.” he nods once again.

you tilt your head slightly, unimpressed. “bold strategy.”

“desperation, actually,” a chuckle slips out before he can stop it. the smell of coffee drifts up from the carrier in his hand and your stomach twists. you didn’t eat anything besides ice cream yesterday. jack notices your eyes flicker to it. “one’s black,” he says gently. “one’s that…caramel thing you get. i don’t know the exact name because the menu looks like it was written by a wizard.” your mouth twitches despite yourself. he holds the flowers up a little awkwardly. “and these were the least offensive ones they had at the hospital gift shop.”

“high praise.”

“it was between these or balloons that say get well soon.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. that familiar ache presses behind your ribs. “jack…”

his expression shifts immediately. the joking drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “yeah?” he braces for impact.

you step aside. “come in.”

he hesitates for half a second—he’s surprised you didn’t slam the door in his face—before stepping into the apartment. the door shuts behind him with a soft click. the place looks exactly how it felt last night. blankets on the couch. empty ice cream container. credits still rolling silently on the tv.

jack takes it in without comment. he sets the coffee and chocolates on the table, then places the flowers down carefully beside them. you hover near the couch, arms folded again. neither of you speaks.

finally, jack exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. “so,” he mutters. “this is the part where i try not to screw this up worse.”

you lean against the arm of the couch. “good luck with that.”

he huffs quietly. “yeah, fair.” he inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling, before exhaling and looking at you properly. “you look like hell,” he states bluntly.

you glare. “thank you.”

“meant it affectionately.”

“i’m touched.” sarcasm drips from tone.

a ghost of a smile crosses his mouth, but it fades quickly. “look,” he says, “i’m just gonna say it straight because historically when i try to be subtle everything explodes.” he taps his fingers against his wrinkled scrubs. “the thing i said to robby,” you swallow immediately. “the casual thing,” he squeezes his eyes shut. “was a reflex.” your gaze sharpens. jack’s gaze drops to the floor before coming back to you. “he caught me off guard,” he sighs, “came outta nowhere. started asking what we were.”

“and your instinct was to say casual?” you retort. the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

“yeah,” he admits even though he’s shaking his head.

“why?” you ask.

jack opens his mouth…then closes it again. a muscle in his jaw twitches. you wait. “because i panicked.”

your forehead creases. “jack-”

“i didn’t know what the hell to say,” he says, throwing his hands up. “and before i could think, the word just came out.” you stare at him. “and when you went along with it…” his mouth tightens. “i figured that was what you wanted.”

your brows knit together. “you thought i wanted it to be casual?”

“well you didn’t exactly argue.”

“i was standing in front of my two bosses.”

“yeah,” he mutters. “realized that about ten minutes later.”

you drag a hand down your face. “i thought you meant it.”

he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “trust me, baby, if i meant it i wouldn’t be standing in your apartment right now holding flowers like an idiot.”

your heart gives an annoying little flip. you try to ignore it. “then why didn’t you say anything after?” your voice is sheepish.

he goes quiet again. his gaze drifts toward the window, like he’s watching something only he can see. when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. “because opening your mouth about stuff that matters,” he licks his lips. “is how you lose it.” jack rubs a hand across his jaw. “i’ve done this before,” he admits. “the whole loving someone thing.” he doesn’t look at you as he continues. “had a wife,” he lingers on the word. “she was…everything.”

you knew that vaguely. pieces of the story everyone in the hospital knows but never says out loud. hearing him say it like this feels raw.

“and then one day she wasn’t there anymore.” his throat works once. “you learn real quick after that,” he stutters, “that the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor.” he finally looks at you again. “so yeah,” he concedes. “i keep things,” he squints, racking his brain for the right word, “light.”

the room is quiet now. you’re processing and…well, processing some more. the early morning sun shines harshly through your windows. gour faucet drips repeatedly. “jack…” you murmur.

he stop you before you can continue. he has to say it now or he won’t ever. “because if you don’t say the important parts out loud,” he finishes, “then when it all disappears you can pretend it didn’t mean as much.”

your heart twists painfully. you step a little closer without realizing it. “that’s what you thought this was?”

“no,” he says immediately. he shakes his head. “that’s the problem.” his gaze flickers over your face. he memorizes your eyes, your mouth, the messy hair falling over your shoulder. “this stopped being casual for me a long time ago,” he admits quietly.

your breath catches. you take a step back. “then why-”

“because you’re younger than me.” your eyes widen. you rest a hand on your coffee table to stable yourself. he huffs out a small breath. “by a lot.” he looks to the side. “and i kept thinking,” his voice is tight, “one day you’re gonna walk into some bar and meet some guy your age who doesn’t have an endless supply of baggage.” you stare at him. “and he’s gonna look at you the way guys your age look at women like you.” the veins in his arms tighten at the thought. “and you’re gonna realize dating the grumpy middle-aged doctor was just a phase.”

you can barely breathe now. the room goes completely still. you stare at him. the tired lines in his face. the guarded way he’s standing like he’s bracing for something he fears. “jack,” your voice is like candy. he lifts his eyes. “i thought you didn’t want more.”

he frowns slightly. “why would you think that?”

you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “because you were the one leaving first,” you shrug. “drawing boundaries.”

“well-”

“and,” you continue, “we never talked about what we are.” he goes still. “and i thought that meant we were nothing.”

his expression shifts immediately. “hey,” he coos.

you shrug helplessly. “so i went along with it,” you admit. “because i figured if that’s all you wanted, i wasn’t gonna beg you to care.”

“god,” he mutters. it feels like a spear is lodged in his chest.

your arms drop to your sides. “i liked what we had,” you murmur. “but it never felt casual to me.” you blink back tears. “not once.”

jack steps forward instinctively. “so let me get this straight,” he recounts. “you thought i didn’t want more?” you nod once. “and i thought you didn’t want more?” you nod again. he exhales. “that might be the dumbest standoff in human history.”

a reluctant laugh slips out of you. he smiles faintly. the tension in the room loosens just a little. jack stops a step away from you now. “for the record,” he whispers, “i’m pretty sure i’m in way too deep for casual.”

warmth crawls up your neck and plants itself on your cheeks. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you tilt your head slightly. “took you long enough to say it.”

his mouth quirks. “cut me some slack. emotional honesty isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

you study him for a moment. “are you still scared i’m gonna run off with some guy my age?”

jack doesn’t flinch. “probably.”

you roll your eyes gently. “jack.” you’re not joking now.

he shrugs. “i’m working on it.”

you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth now. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’ve been told.”

the weight that sat between you yesterday feels lighter now. it’s not gone—that will take some time—but the cracked pieces are starting to fuse back together.

jack glances toward the flowers on the table. “so,” he says. “are you gonna forgive me or do i need to start groveling more dramatically.”

you consider it. “the flowers help.”

“damn right they do.”

“the coffee helps more.”

“excellent choice on my part.”

you step closer, your shoulders brushing together. jack’s voice drops a little. “we okay?”

Evans is unaware of his mental anguish. “Besides, what do you even sulk about? You’ve got a girl who knows her job and brings you sweet treats and walks around smiling. What’s not to like,” she adds, lazily tapping at the keyboard.

His silence doesn’t sound concerning — until the string of sentences on her computer screen comes to a full stop. And then it dawns on her that Jack didn’t reply. It isn’t a concern at first, but more so confusion: she hoped that her remark would earn her a dry joke or, at the very least, a chuckle. But when Dana looks up at Jack, she sees that he’s completely still.

All tensed up.

His jaw locked, like he is really trying to keep his mouth shut. Like he is struggling to hold it — emotions, words, an answer. A confession.

And then it hits her. “Wait a minute.”

Jack sighs and shakes his head, avoiding eye contact as he speaks — and he sounds miserable. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Abbot, you can’t seriously —”

“I have a patient I need to check on,” he lies and turns away, knowing full well that he is running from the conversation she’ll make sure to start again. And it won’t be a pleasant one.

Jack reaches for a sanitizer. He rubs his hands together as his eyes search for a distraction. For a short break from thinking (about you). He strides into a trauma room — only to find it empty. Then peeks into the exam rooms, one by one: Ellis and Shen are dealing with a compound arm fracture, Nazely and Crus got two teenage girls with a reaction to a DIY self-tan. Mateo calmly tolerates some grandma’s flirting while he draws her blood. None of them need Jack’s help. He feels ridiculously helpless against his own emotions.

He’s almost desperate enough to check the crowd in the waiting room.

But then he hears your laugh.

A quiet, soft sound that he’s learned to pick out from the noise. And just as easily, out of habit he built overnight, Jack turns his head to look for you. At you. He’s blind to everybody else.

You’re standing at the guards' post, laughing at something on Ahmad’s smartphone. Jack’s heart inevitably skips a beat as he watches the joy bloom on your face. It’s in the crinkles by your eyes, in how you tilt your head a little, your teeth pressing into the lower lip, like you’re afraid you’d be too loud, like your smile can be a distraction. It surely is for Jack. He’s spending countless seconds studying your mouth. He is eye-measuring the fracture of a distance that lies between your lips, he is imagining — unwillingly, like he’s under a spell — what your lips feel like, how they taste, what sounds you would make if he —

He walks right into an empty gurney.

Both of his legs bump into the metal railing, his body flinching at the contact. He manages to stay upright, but barely holds back a curse. Fuck, not again. Jack pushes the wheeled stretcher out of his way, not even bothering to check if someone saw it, his cheeks flushed pink as he rushes away.

And his misfortune doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Has Dr. Abbot always been this clumsy?” Trinity asks, narrowing her eyes at him, her body half-turned in the direction of the exit. “That’s the third time this week.”

“It would take more than just one gurney to throw him off his game,” Lena chimes in, carrying a stack of papers. “Don’t think too hard about it, he’s probably low on caffeine. You done with charting?”

“Yep, finally freed of the bounds of bureaucracy. At least, for today,” she bows out theatrically and walks to where Dennis is already waiting.

“Enjoy your freedom while you can, kids,” Lena calls after them. And then she wastes no time leaning to Dana to inform. “That was not the third time. Happens to Abbot basically every single night,” she wiggles her thin eyebrows with a smile. “Which is kinda cute.”

But while Lena moves to her chair cackling, there’s no hint of a smile on Dana’s lips. No, it’s not cute, she thinks. It’s actually gonna be a problem.

The wedding was nice. The tall windows in the Danforth estate ballroom illuminated a room decorated with white dahlias and yellow alstroemerias. Silk ribbons and twinkling fairylights wound around the columns and rows of oak chairs faced a glorious altar, with the Danforth ram’s head sculpted into the marble arch. An air of sophistication permeated the room, as it tended to do when the world’s most influential people were gathered together. You were seated in the third row, behind the immediate families and friends. Titus sat to your left, thigh pressing against yours. He held your hand in his, rubbing small circles with his thumb and playing with your wedding ring. The act made you smile. 

To the world, Titus Danforth was a brute- and that wasn’t untrue. He had a complex, you knew that, but he had never once done anything to purposefully hurt or scare you. One time after a hunt, he had that wild look in his eyes. And you’d be lying if it didn’t scare you a little. But the moment that his fingers touched your skin, he relaxed. Titus was like your guard dog, a position he wore like a badge of fucking honor. Sometimes he bit, but never the hand that fed him. You loved him. And maybe it wasn’t in a completely healthy way, but who gave a shit? Titus loved you in his own way. You fought occasionally, but damn if he didn’t bring you a bouquet of your favorite flowers the next day and spend the night on his knees making it up to you. He was your Titus. And he knew it, which is why he could be himself around you. He didn’t need to put on the mask around you like he did with his family. Titus was a complex man. Blood-thirsty during the games, and yet so very gentle to you in everyday life. In the early phases of your relationship, you had spent hours in the soft light of early morning talking, curled up in the luxury bamboo sheets of his bedroom with the fireplace coals still smoldering. He had spilled his heart to you, eyes wet and breathing uneven. How he had been trained as a killer since he was a kid, how he never felt like he was his own man, how his sister was the real ‘heir’ of the family name, how he was scared to have children (especially a son) because he might fuck them up like his father did to him. You had listened with open ears and kind eyes. You had pressed his head to his chest and covered him in kisses saying that you weren’t going anywhere, and thanking him for being so vulnerable. And when you survived your wedding night, he had proposed to you again, promising to never let any harm come to you as long as you both shall live. And you had accepted, the pendant he had gotten you resting gently against your blood-splattered skin. You soothed him, brought him down from edges that would result in casualties. Some might have said you made him soft. And to those people, Titus would nod and beat the shit out of them.

You had a distant look in your eye and Titus noticed. He stopped fiddling with your ring, the ring that made you cry tears of joy when you first saw it, and intertwined his fingers with yours. Titus leaned over slightly in your direction. 

“She can do so much better,” he murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. You gave a small huff of amusement.

“Be nice.” You scolded softly, eyes still locked on the couple exchanging vows. But he was right. The wedding was for a Danforth cousin, one you hadn’t been introduced to until that morning. Even though you and Titus had been married for the better part of five years. The acting heads of the Danforth family tried to keep the outer edges of the family away. Something about keeping secrets closely guarded. You supposed it was a wise idea, given the nature of the family’s pastimes. But every Danforth, no matter how far removed, was required to be married at the estate. The ancestral home. And, of course, required to participate in the matrimonial hunt. You knew every family did their hunts a little differently- some prioritizing certain aspects over others. But the Danforths were focused on their bloodline. Hunting down a new member of the family wasn’t done out of necessity or the fact that the entire family would combust if they didn’t (because that wasn’t part of the Danforth contract). No. Instead, the purpose of the hunt was to prove that the new member belonged. That they were cunning and a survivalist, willing to do whatever it took to live as a Danforth. If they survived, great! If they didn’t…well, then they didn’t deserve to be a part of such a prestigious family in the first place. And, if you were being honest, the man standing at the altar likely would not survive the night. But hey, he could surprise everyone. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened. 

“I just want them out of our fucking house.” You heard Titus sigh heavily beside you. His knee began to bounce. He was getting bored and impatient. You were sitting in the third row behind the friends and family of this unknown cousin. They had been exchanging vows for what seemed like forever. You moved your hand from where it was intertwined with Titus, an action that made him furrow his brow and pout slightly. But the look disappeared when you placed your palm on his knee, giving a reassuring squeeze. You shifted in your seat and fully tilted your head so that your lips were brushing against his ear.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” You whispered breathily. A sinister grin formed on your lips as you felt him go still beneath you. “Just think of all the excitement waiting for you tonight.” Titus’ gaze flicked to the groom and his breath started to grow uneven. He gave a nod and squeezed your hand with his. “Just a little longer, ‘kay sweetie?” You pulled back and captured Titus’ gaze. His eyes were growing dark, the way they always did before a hunt. The muscle in his jaw ticked and he nodded before returning his attention to the ceremony.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

Finally, the new couple was married. The room erupted into cheers and congratulations, though certain members of the family were notably more reserved, no doubt thinking about what was next on the agenda. The congregation rose from their seats as the bride and groom walked down the aisle together and through the large dark oak double doors into the reception area. You stretched as the people began to follow, rolling your shoulders and rubbing your neck. Titus noticed immediately, as he tended to do, even though you were facing away from him. 

“Is it bothering you again?” He said softly. His hand came to your neck and began massaging the muscle there with his thumb. You gave a small nod. During your hunt, you had been pushed down the stairs. The tumble had resulted in a herniated disc and a compressed nerve in your neck. Treatable, but pain still haunted you when you were forced to be in a single position for too long, like sitting at a wedding that felt like it would never end. Titus hummed behind you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Anything I can do to help?” You turned to face him. He looked heavenly with the light from the window illuminating his silhouette. It caught on his grey curls and perfectly punctuated his broad shoulders. Titus’ hands rose to your hips, pressing you against him. Your hand rested on his chest, smoothing out the coat of his suit and readjusting the tie. He felt so warm and sturdy under your palms. It made you smile. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. But before you pulled away, you murmured in his ear:

“You can win the hunt. And come back safely. For me.” The hands on your hips tightened. A promise.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” 

ˋ°•*⁀➷

Ursula had been disappointed to learn that you wouldn’t be participating in the festivities. Your relationship at first had been rocky. She was unsure if it was wise for Titus to take a wife, given his track record with violence. But after you had won your hunt by bashing someone’s head in with a bat and hiding in the woods until dawn, you had proved yourself capable of holding your own against Titus in her eyes. As the years passed and Titus began to mellow a bit, Ursula had started to act truly as a sister to you. You went shopping together, she taught you the unspoken rules of living as a Danforth in high society, you gave her book and movie recommendations, and most of your afternoons were spent lounging by the pool or playing tennis together. You didn’t have much family, and you would forever be grateful that Ursula filled in as a sister. She had been disappointed at your absence for the evening, but mainly because she had to spend a night dealing with Titus without you. Ursula had urged you to watch from the monitoring room, but you had a hot date with a bubble bath and a mug of herbal tea to ease the pain in your neck and the migraine it was bringing on. 

You sighed in contentment as you sunk into the tub, warm water and scented bubbles immediately putting your mind at ease. You got nervous during hunts. Most of the family believed that they were invincible simply because they were Danforths, the prime stock of the world. That they would succeed in their hunts and kill their target in time to catch the evening news. But you were a testament that they thought too highly of themselves. When someone is fighting for their life and weapons are involved, things can get very ugly very fast. Usually, these anxieties were calmed (at least slightly) by the fact that Titus was by your side every step of the way. You were basically just along for the ride. A tether to the real world so he didn’t get so lost in himself that he put himself in danger. But that wasn’t the case tonight. He would go without you and that made you nervous. If there was one thing that would never be quelled by you, it was Titus’ desire to prove himself. Prove himself as a man and as a Danforth and sometimes he pushed himself too far. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you looked out the window of your bathroom. The sun was dipping low in the sky. The horn would sound soon. The door to the bathroom creaked open, drawing your attention from the horizon. You smiled at Titus as he came into the door holding a steaming mug of your tea. He was already dressed for the hunt, the black fabric of his pants and vest contouring his body in a way that made your mouth water. In the dying light of the day, his eyes took on a more golden hue. A color that you memorized as he looked at you and held out the mug. 

“Here you go, honey,” Titus said, sighing as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the tub. You shimmied to sit up in the tub and took the mug graciously, careful not to get any bubbles in the tea. “Did you get a new shampoo?” Titus asked, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and inhaling deeply. You nodded as you took a sip of the tea.

“They came out with a new one. It’s called ‘Field of Dreams’ but I think that’s just a pretentious way of saying it has chamomile in it.” You swirled one of your hands through the water. Titus furrowed his brow and grabbed your wrist, pulling it out of the water. You knew what he was about to ask before the question could leave his mouth. You had taken off your bracelet. A thin leather strap that crossed over your wrist and clasped in a way that resembled a tiny horse’s bridle. Titus had given it to you during your six month anniversary when you were dating. You had been walking down the street window shopping when it caught your eye. You had immediately gushed over it, saying how sleek it looked. You preferred leather jewelry to metal, especially when it came to bracelets. Metal pinched at your skin and leather felt much nicer. You had only mentioned it once. And yet, three months later, Titus had pushed a small box across the table during dinner. He had remembered. You had thrown your arms around him, kissing him on the cheek as he put it on you, promising to never take it off. And you hadn’t. You had worn it every day. But you weren’t wearing it now, and Titus noticed. “It’s on the counter. I don’t want it to get wet, it’ll rust the clasp.” Another thought crossed his eyes. “I don’t care if you’d buy me another one. I’m sentimental.” 

With a small chuckle, he pressed a kiss to your wrist before placing your arm gently back into the water. He took a deep breath and stood from the tub, walking to the mirror and fiddling with his curls. You took the chance to sip your tea and rake your eyes over your husband’s form. A crisp black vest wrapped around his torso, silver fleur-de-lis checkering the silky fabric on his back. Beneath the vest was one of his favorite shirts, a deep navy blue that hugged his biceps but were easily unbuttoned at the wrists when he needed to roll up his sleeves and get dirty. The shirt was tucked into plain black slacks that were held up with a dark leather belt. God how you loved him in this outfit. He wore it for every hunt, his own ceremonial robes.

“Are you done ogling me?” Titus asked, catching your gaze in the mirror. Heat rose to your cheeks, embarrassed for being caught. But there was a playfulness in Titus’ eyes, a shit-eating grin on his lips. Damn him. He knew what he did to you.

“Never. It's not my fault you look so good.” You hummed, taking another sip of your tea. He chuckled and smoothed out his vest before turning. He paused for a moment, and you knew that he saw it. Your night dress hanging on the back of the door. 

“What’s this for?” He said slyly, running the silk between his fingers. 

“Hm?” You hummed, feigning innocence. “Oh, that’s for later.” He held up the fabric to his arm, comparing the shades of blue. Titus looked to you for confirmation and you nodded, taking another sip of tea. The color was deep blue, exactly matching the color of his shirt. You had ordered it specially for tonight, somehow eluding Titus and pulling his tailor aside and asking for a sample of the fabric during his last visit. You’d taken the color swatch to your favorite lingerie store and they had created the slip perfectly. The top edge was laced, a floral pattern perfectly accenting the curve of your breasts. Titus let out a low groan. Approval. 

“For later,” You emphasized, holding out your hand. Titus crossed the room and held it gently. The sun was almost below the treeline now and it wouldn’t be long before he had to leave. You took a deep breath and looked into your husband’s eyes. He seemed to pick up on your uneasiness and lowered himself to kneel beside the tub. You interlaced your fingers with his and took a steadying breath. “Please be safe,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper “And come back to me.” Titus lost the edge in his gaze and lifted your hand to his mouth. His lips pressed a kiss to your knuckles and brought your palm to his cheek. You caressed him, swiping your thumb over his cheekbones and the stubble that had grown in the past week of him not shaving. Titus pressed his own hand over yours, keeping it against his face until the very last moment.

“Nothing could keep me away from you,” Your husband’s voice was soft but also held a bit of a threat in it. A threat against the universe, perhaps, a promise that he would do whatever it takes to get back home to you.

“That’s what worries me,” You were only half joking. “Titus. I’m serious. Please.” Titus lowered your hand from his face and held it tightly.

“I promise.” A beat passed and you could tell an idea popped into his mind. “If he…You remember how to use the crossbow above the dresser, right?” You tilted your head in curiosity. 

“Yea,” you confirmed, brows knit in confusion “Why?” Titus shook his head and got to his feet, placing another kiss on your forehead. He lingers a bit longer than he would normally. Not weirdly abnormal, just enough for you to take note of it.

“Just in case. Just…maybe keep it near you, alright? I’ll be back in a few hours.” He captured your lips in a chaste kiss, like he was about to leave for a business meeting. Titus opened the door partially. You shared another look before he exited. 

By the time you were slipping into your laced night gown, the sun was down. You were applying your lotion to your legs when the horn sounded. A deep, whining noise that permeated the entire estate. Every time you heard it, you were transported back to your wedding night. An instinctual shudder ran through you and you paused. For a few moments, the world stood still. When you didn’t hear an immediate gunshot, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You sighed and went back to your lotioning. Guess tonight would be a party after all. 

ˋ°•*⁀➷

Three hours had passed. You had heard a few screams and shattering of glass, but it had been pretty quiet. You were laying in bed, plush comforter pulled up around your waist as you rested against pillows and the headboard. Your headache was subsiding now, the faint wisps of discomfort the only sign that it was there to begin with. The night was well underway, but the fact that you hadn’t heard anything definitive yet made you nervous. You had tried reading, but your fingers mindlessly flicked the edge of the page you were staring at for the past twenty minutes. You spared a glance over to the dresser where the crossbow sat. You had taken it down from its mount and loaded an arrow, but didn’t bother holding it with you. You began to second guess yourself. Maybe you should’ve suffered through the pain and gone on the hunt. You shook your head at the thought. Titus never would’ve allowed it. Your heart ached for him. Your Titus. You prayed to all that was unholy that he was alright. A small flicker in the back of your brain taunted you. Of course he was alright. You had seen what he was capable of, and heard stories of him doing even worse. He told you stories of his birthday hunt when he turned eighteen. His coming of age ritual. Titus had chosen the challenge of being completely unarmed and instead giving his Prey a knife. His whole family had thought he was crazy. But when Titus dragged the dead man back to the manor, face beaten so badly that pieces of skull had been left behind in the mud, they had stopped laughing. And he had only become more experienced since then. Titus had it down to a science, really, and you thoroughly enjoyed watching the master at work. But there had been a few times where he had almost gone too far. In fact, during the last hunt, he had tried jumping off the roof to capture the Prey. Only when you physically tackled him to the ground did he give up pursuit. It wasn’t really the groom you were worried about, but rather Titus himself. 

You threw down the book in exasperation. You swung your legs over the bed and walked over to the opposite wall, pulling back the drapes to look at the shadowed forest. To your surprise, you didn’t see any flashlights or golf carts out on the grounds. Perhaps the groom didn’t escape as well as you thought. Maybe he-

Creak.

You froze immediately. There was someone in the hallway. You could hear heavy breathing on the other side of the oak door. The door to your bedroom was shut, but not locked. Because there were no locks in this god forsaken house, they considered it cheating. You were afraid to move, to give your position away. Thankfully, you were wearing socks and you shuffled slightly backwards toward the dresser. But you didn’t get far. Because of course, out of all the doors in the hallway, the door to your bedroom opened and the bloodied groom crashed into the room, falling to the floor. You stood still, looking down at him. You tried to keep your breathing under control. Titus had taught you to never give another person the upper hand by appearing flustered. It was at that moment when you realized you didn’t even remember the groom's name. And here he was, panting on your floor, trying to get up but slipping on his own blood. He rose to his knees and seemed to notice you for the first time.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, throwing himself forward and grabbing the windowsill to pull himself up “Thank God you’re here! You’ve gotta help me! My in-laws are trying to kill me!” You did a quick inventory of the situation before responding. His leg was bleeding (all over your rug, by the way. Quite rude), but he seemed otherwise okay. Physically, anyway. He clutched a crowbar in his one hand, like it was his only way of survival, and his eyes were wild. Blood was splattered across his cheek, signaling that someone had been on the receiving end of a crowbar blow. He swallowed hard, not realizing that you weren’t reacting like a normal person in this situation. “What time is it?” 

“About midnight.” You stated calmly, hands bunched at your sides and shoulders tensed. His body was blocking the door. And he was in a position where, if you made a bolt for the crossbow, he would be able to stop you. A dull sense of fear began to settle at the base of your spine. You were trapped. Then he looked at you. Really looked at you and seemed to remember who you were. “Did they do this to you too?” You shrugged and nodded.

“It wasn’t really that bad,” you said honestly. “I made it out of the house and hid in the woods until dawn.” “Fuck, that’s smart.” It was. And he was quite honestly an idiot for not trying to escape the house. The house that belonged to the family who was trying to kill him. The house that the Danforths were raised in and knew like the back of their hand. The groom was still trying to catch his breath and you took the chance to take a few steps toward the dresser. He dropped the crowbar on the floor and reached into his waistband. He had a gun. Shit. You failed to hide your grimace at the new piece of information. That complicated things. It didn’t matter if you made it to the crossbow first, he could just shoot you. You didn’t recognize the gun, but it had the Danforth ram’s head engraved in the handle. Ah. It likely belonged to the same person whose blood was smeared on his cheek. 

“Listen,” you said, wetting your lips and taking another hesitant step toward the crossbow. “I get you’re trying to hide, but you can’t stay here. This room’s off limits.” The groom scoffed and pushed himself off the bedpost.

“Oh yea?” He scoffed, “Says who?” Irritation prickled in your chest. You opened your mouth to say that you were, in fact, the lady of the house, and he needed to leave you the fuck alone before your husband got back, but you caught yourself. Labelling yourself as important is a great way to get taken as a hostage. When you didn’t answer, the groom laughed. “Yea, I think I’m gonna stay here for a while.” He took your phone off the nightstand and tucked it into his pocket. “Just so you don’t go snitching on me.” He explained. He lifted the gun and pointed it at you. “I don’t want to hurt you, for the record, but if being in here gets me to survive until the morning, you’re fucking insane if you think I’m leaving.” You pursed your lips. Running some quick calculations in your head, you figured that if you could kick his bad leg out from under him, you could probably get to the crossbow before he had time to line up a shot. You took a deep breath, chest rising, and you caught the groom’s eyes flick to your chest. You remembered what you were wearing, a slip that was only meant for Titus’ eyes, and heat flooded your face. Self consciousness settled in your chest and you crossed your arms across your breast, earning a scoff from the groom.

“Y’know,” he mused, shaking his head “this is more what I thought my wedding night would be like. A pretty lady and I sharing a bedroom together.” Your brows furrowed.

“Ew.” your lip curled in disgust. “I wonder if your new wife would enjoy you speaking to another woman like that.” 

“Yea, I’m probably gonna ask for a divorce tomorrow.” He shrugged, “I’m not a big fan of marrying into a family who tries to kill me-” You took the chance to lunge at him, sliding across the wooden floor and kicking his ankle out from under him. As he fell, a shot rang out from his gun. The bullet was lodged in the crown molding, but he still had the gun in his hand. You used the chance to climb on top of him and slam his hand against the floor. His hand relaxed and you shoved the gun away. It skittered across the floor before being swallowed by the fabric of the floor-length drapes. The groom, while disarmed, wasn’t caught off guard for long. He brought the palm of his hand up and jammed it into your nose. Stars erupted into your vision and you instinctively brought your hands to your face, feeling the blood start to seep between your fingers. The groom used his hip to flip you over, pinning your arms against the side of your head. You snarled in his face, spitting blood in his eyes and jerking your knee into his crotch. He fell to the side and you scrambled to your feet, reaching the dresser and grabbing the crossbow. You heard the groom get to his feet as you set the arrow. You whirled around and before the groom could plead his case, you pulled the trigger, releasing the arrow from the bow and straight through his eye socket. Blood bubbled from the wound and he fell to his knees, falling face first onto the gorgeous persian rug underneath your bed. Gently, you lowered the crossbow to your side, finger still on the trigger. Stepping over the groom’s legs, you examined the scene before you. You stood for a moment, gulping large and frightened breaths into your lungs. It had been years since you killed someone by yourself. Tears clouded your vision and rolled onto your cheeks, mixing with the blood coming from your nose. You let a sob tear from your chest and all you wanted in that moment was Titus. 

As if the universe heard you, your door flew open again, crashing against the wall with a bang. And standing there, rumpled and panting and eyes blown wide with urgency, was Titus. Your dear husband. He was wielding a bolt-action rifle, pointed into the room. Without thinking, your hands flew up, telling him not to shoot. The only sound for several moments was his ragged breath. Titus’ eyes flicked from you, wearing the navy blue lingerie that was now covered in your blood, to the crossbow, to the man slumped on the ground with an arrow through the head. You were slightly unnerved at the way that Titus stared at you. You locked eyes with your husband and you could see the fear there. The fear that he was too late, that he had expected a very different scene in your bedroom. Perhaps he expected the roles to be reversed. For you to be on the floor, blood pooling around your head. His hazel eyes were shining with an emotion you couldn’t quite figure out. And without tearing his gaze from you, Titus cocked the rifle and unloaded round into the head of the already dead groom, splattering his brains across your floor. You let out a disappointed noise.

“You stained the carpet.” You murmured. Titus let out an incredulous laugh, tossing the rifle to the ground and crossing the room in large strides to get to you.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Titus growled, pushing you with his hips until your back thudded against the wall. He pressed himself into you and you could feel the hard bulge beneath his trousers. You were about to ask if he was okay, but his lips plunged into yours before you could speak. The kiss was rough and messy. His teeth nipped at your lips, and his mouth wandered all over the lower half of your face. You could feel your lips begin to swell from the force and your hand flew to his hair, tugging lightly on his curls. You felt a strange wetness on your cheeks and lips, but it wasn’t blood, it was tears. You opened your eyes and saw tears streaming from Titus’ eyes. He was gasping for breath in frequent sobs, bordering on hyperventilating. He continued to kiss between his pulls of breath, and you had to tug his head away from you.

“Titus,” You said softly, putting your hands on both his cheeks. Titus’ short inhales were high pitched and unfulfilling and you could tell that he was holding back true wailing. “Hey,” You led him to the bed and sat on the edge, bringing him down and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “What’s wrong, honey? I’m alright.”

“I thought…I thought I lost you,” He choked out, sobs ripping from his chest as he threw himself at you, pulling you close and resting his head on your shoulder. Snot and tears smeared his face but you didn’t care, you held him just as tightly. “W-When I heard the gunshot…when I realized what part of the house it came from…” he trailed off. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and petted his head as he sobbed into your chest. You shifted so that you were facing him, taking both his hands in yours and making him hold eye contact.

“Titus, breathe with me,” You placed one of his hands on your chest and took a deep breath. He mimicked the action, drawing in a deep breath, only hiccuping a few times, and holding the air in his lungs before breathing shakily out. You repeated the action several times, only stopping when Titus was breathing normally again. His shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes, dropping his head slightly. You brought your hand to his cheek and lifted his face. 

“I love you so much,” Titus whispered, “I couldn’t imagine living in a world without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, my love,” You assured him, pressing a small kiss to his lips. “You are, unfortunately, stuck with me.” Titus let out a breath of laughter and you gave him a small smile. He returned it with a nod, lip quivering slightly and eyes still wet and raw from crying. Titus took a deep breath and looked around the room. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he assessed the damage. “I’m sorry I took your kill,” you said, gesturing to the body “How was the hunt otherwise?” That earned a genuine smile from him, and you felt your heart soar in your chest. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart, you deserved it after your hard day.” Titus kissed your knuckles. “It was fine. I’m not hurt.” His brow furrowed and he brought his hands to your thighs, pinching the edge of your slip between his fingers. “I’m sorry your relaxing night was ruined. I can beat him up a little more if it would make you feel better.” You laughed and slung your arms around his shoulders. 

“I don’t think it would make him any more dead than he already is.” “That’s not the point.”

“I know,” you assented. “I appreciate it, but I’d rather just keep you here.”

“You want to keep me in bed, Mrs. Danforth?” Titus raised his eyebrow, putting his hands on your hips. You hummed and twirled a piece of his hair with a finger. He knew that using your honorific always sparked arousal.

“Guilty.” His face was closer to yours now and you captured his lips in a gentle kiss, a juxtaposition of the kiss from only a few minutes ago and a true testament to Titus’ complexity. One of his hands slid up from your waist and gently squeezed the sides of your neck. You broke the kiss and Titus let out a little whine of disappointment. “We don’t have to.” You didn’t want to push him after he had just been extremely vulnerable with you. After you had talked him down from an edge. But Titus just shook his head.

“I need you,” He whispered, nipping at your lower lip and using his weight to push you onto your back, caging in your head with his elbows “need to prove how much you mean to me. Wanna worship you.” Titus’ kisses moved down your neck and onto your chest. He paused at the edge of the lace. “When I saw you standing over him, covered in blood, I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.” His pupils were blown with lust, chest rising and falling with strangled breaths. Titus usually had no problem ripping your lingerie off you, but as he kissed down your stomach and settled between your legs, he left the slip on. He even paused for a moment to suckle the splotch of blood on your ribs, moaning slightly when it caused you to squirm beneath him. “Think I wanna see you wearing this every hunt. Remind me how fucking killer my wife can be.” You moaned his name softly and watched as his head disappeared under the edge of the dress. You yelped when he yanked your thighs over the edge of the bed, resting upon his shoulders. Titus laughed against your core and it sent a pleasant vibration that turned you into liquid. 

When he licked the first stripe between your folds, your hands bunched the bedding between your fists. The first swipe of his tongue was always criminal and your favorite part of sex with Titus. It was always his top priority, preparing you for him in the best, most pleasurable way possible. Once you had told him that he didn’t have to eat you out, that you wanted him to enjoy it too. He had been genuinely offended and made you cum six times on his tongue as punishment. And then he went to bed with a straining cock, stating that your release was what gave him the most pleasure and that it was enough for him just to taste you. 

Titus’ tongue plunged into your core, swishing from side to side to stretch you out before you took him fully. He removed his tongue and licked up to your clit, the pointed edge of his tongue catching on the small nub as he licked circles around you. He gave a slap to the outside of your thigh, a chastation that you weren’t being loud enough for him. So you let the next moan rip from your throat, a degenerate sound that made Titus whine against you. 

“Fuck, Titus, you eat me out so good,” you babbled, pleasure making the edge of your brain fuzzy and clouded the edges of your vision “You’re doing so well for me. Making me feel so good.” You noticed that his hips bucked up into the air at your words, trying to find friction where there wasn’t any. A smirk formed on your lips, but it was quickly replaced by a slackened jaw when Titus inserted two of his fingers into your heat.

“Don’t play games with me,” Titus growled, flexing his digits against your velvety walls. You nodded, even though he couldn’t quite see it over the navy fabric bunched at your hips. The combination of his tongue and his fingers was overwhelming. 

It wasn’t long before you felt the familiar tingling at the apex of your thighs and the base of your spine. Your fingers pried one of his hands off your thigh and entwined your fingers with his. Titus squeezed your hand to remind you that he was there with you. You clenched your thighs together, squeezing Titus’ head. He knew that it meant you were close and he locked in on his administrations, continuing the lapping and fingerfucking that had gotten you to the peak. You came with a shuttered moan, drawing a deep breath and squeezing your thighs tighter as you bucked against his face, drawing out the pleasure of your orgasm for as long as you could. Titus continued to lick you until your thighs fell wide, your belly heaving with stabilizing breaths. 

Titus sat back on his heels and wiped a hand across his mouth before climbing over you. His belt was already undone to give himself some relief and he tugged on his zipper and shimmied his pants off until his cock was freed. Titus swiped his head through your folds until he collected enough of your juices where he could push in without resistance. He lined himself up and locked eyes with you before pushing his length into you. This was his favorite part of sex with you- watching your expression change as he slowly split you open on his dick. You threw your head back in pleasure, but Titus wouldn’t have that. He gripped your chin with the hand not holding himself up and jerked your face back to him. Your eyelids fluttered as he bottomed out completely. Titus pressed his lips to yours, tongue swiping at the seam. You allowed him access and he stuck his tongue in your mouth, messily making out with you as he bucked his hips up into you for the first time. You whined needily. You could taste yourself on him and it made your walls clench harder on him. Titus set a harsh but not merciless pace, fucking you hard into the mattress while making the thrusts smooth. He never fully left your cunt, sliding in and out with ease as each thrust of his hips bumped against your clit in the most delicious way. You brought your hands to his cheeks and pressed your foreheads together. 

“I’m here, Titus, fuck, I’m here.” You moaned, kissing his cheekbones. Titus responded with a ragged whimper, breaths coming out in short pants and making all the noises he knew you loved. 

“I. Fucking. Love you. So much.” He moaned, punctuating each word with a thrust. You maintained eye contact with him as you pressed your heels into his ass, urging him to go harder, faster, deeper. He obliged. How could he not? You were everything to him and he would give everything to you. His hazel eyes were a rim around blown pupils, but his eyes were filled with so much care and love it made your chest hurt. 

“I love you too, Titus. I’m yours.” Your voice was small and breathy, all the air being fucked from your lungs by the force of Titus’ thrusts “I’m always yours. I’ll never leave you.” This earned a high-pitched moan from your husband and he tucked his face into your neck, kissing along the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You grabbed fists of his hair as he faltered slightly, knowing he was close. “Cum in me, please. Mark me.” Titus growled at your words, sucking a hickey onto your neck and readjusting his position so he could get a better angle for his cock. He lifted his head and you saw his face contort into an expression of pure pleasure, puffs of air leaving his lips as he chased his orgasm. He came with another whine, bucking and stilling deep into you as thick ropes of cum painted your insides. Titus gave one final thrust, to make sure his cum stayed inside of you. He gasped and huffed and fell to his elbows, brushing the hair from your forehead and peppering your face in gentle kisses. His dick pulsed and twitched as you squeezed him. The two of you stayed there for a while, neither one of you wanting to pull away. 

“I love you,” you said softly, wiping some sweat from his brow. “I got so lucky.” Titus shook his head fervently.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” The two of you shared another, gentler kiss, as his dick softened inside you. One that was filled with devotion and appreciation. Titus cupped your breast and ran a finger along the lace line of your lingerie. 

“I was serious, you know,” he mused, kissing the skin of your chest. “I want you to keep this. I don’t care that it has some asshole’s blood on it.” You exhaled through your nose. 

“If that’s what you want,” You give “but I want another one. A clean one.” Titus nodded. “And you’re gonna pay for it. For letting him get even close to me. One that he’s never touched.” A flash of possessiveness crossed his eyes.

“Of course,” he gritted, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave you one more kiss to the forehead and pulled out. You whined at the sensation, feeling the mixture of your juices and his cum run down your leg. Titus stepped into and pulled his boxers over his hips. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a washcloth soaked in warm water. Your husband cleaned you reverently, using a single finger to wash away the stickiness between every fold of your skin. He gave you a kiss on your thigh before walking over to the body still laying on your floor. He ran a hand over his face.

“I should probably deal with this.” Titus sighed. He put on his pants and kicked the body over onto his back. Titus’ brow furrowed in a frustratingly attractive way as he calculated the best mode of transport of his now dead cousin in-law. He glanced over to you, searching your face for something. You realized he was waiting for your permission. You waved your hand. 

“Please,” you agreed, “get him out of here.” Titus nodded. You had given him a task. A priority. He grabbed the man and hoisted him over his shoulder. It helped that the groom was a twig of a man, but the show of strength reignited the flame in your lower belly. You licked your lips and gave your husband the best bedroom eyes you could muster. “Hurry back.” Titus snickered and shook his head.

To his relief, you don’t immediately break up with him. Instead, you smile, your lips brushing his cheek. “It looks like meat stewed in sauce. And I think it’s very appetizing.”

“It looked a little better in the picture,” he sighs, his tone letting the frustration in. “And by a little, I mean hell of a lot, and I —”

You put your finger under his chin to turn his face to you — and kiss him. And all Jack’s worries burst like soap bubbles. It has become his cure for everything: the soft, unhurried movement of your mouth against his, your hand that traces soothing patterns on his back, the tenderness that leaves him breathless. You smile into the kiss, too. He loves it — that small twitch of your lips as their corners curl up, like he is making you so happy, you can’t help it. He could kiss you all day.

“I’m telling you, it looks great,” you reassure him, pads of your fingers caressing his jaw. “And I really appreciate the effort.”

Jack hums, calmed and contented, the sound muffled by your mouth when you peck him on the lips again. One of his hands settles at your hip.

“Not sure the spice level will be to your taste, though,” he chuckles.

But you can tell by his studying gaze that it’s an actual concern of his. It’s something you are still getting used to — him putting so much care into everything, without question, all the time. Your fingers travel up to brush through the grey curls at his temple.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m looking forward to not seeing you cry into your plate,” you tease.

“I didn’t cry,” he argues, not aggravated but abashed. “That curry thing was spicy. They labeled it with four out of five hot peppers on the menu.”

“Vindaloo,” you recall. “The waitress thought you were about to have a heart attack.”

Jack huffs a laugh, then tugs you closer with both hands. You watch a hue of pink spreading over his freckled cheeks.

“I was trying to impress you,” he tells you, voice raw with sincerity that warms your heart.

“Your dedication was impressive,” you bite your lip to bite down a giggle at the memory. “But I would prefer you not to suffer.”

A corner of his mouth twitches up. With barely covered amusement, with an uncovered gratitude: he hasn’t had a single bad day since you two started dating. His own happiness is sometimes overwhelming. (He’ll gladly suffer through a thousand more spicy dishes just to hear you laugh).

“Your wish is my command,” he isn’t even trying to be subtle with his feelings. He never is — he wants you to know. You do. It would be impossible not to.

“Then I’m wishing for a taste test,” you say, your gaze mellow, your whole body relaxing against his.

Jack’s hand only leaves you for a few seconds — to grab one of the spoons he laid out. You take it, enthusiastically leaning over the pot to carefully scoop up a piece of meat and bite right into it.

He takes this moment to get a better look at you. (His girlfriend; the word makes his blood rush).

His eyes catch on your blouse — a dark, deep red, the same silk that you like, the fabric hugging your upper body just the way he likes. His gaze glides up, over the dip between your collarbones, over your neck, the bowed lines of your lips — a drop of sauce glistens in the corner of them while you’re chewing —

Then, you moan. The sound low, drawn-out, very satisfied.

“Oh, this is good.”

Jack feels his face flush. “You can’t be serious.”

“When it comes to food? I always am,” you retort cheekily, and he uses his thumb to wipe away that oily drop. A smile tugs at your mouth when he reluctantly removes his finger. “Gonna start telling everyone I’m dating a doctor and a chef.”

“Says Gordon Ramsay,” Jack mumbles, fully aware that his cheeks now likely match your blouse. It’s something he is still getting used to — you being generous with praise, with kindness, with showing him appreciation. All the time.

“Exactly,” you insist softly. “Since I’m Gordon Ramsay, I know what I’m talking about. So your objections are overruled.”

There’s barely any space between you — his hands back on your waist, your body half-turned but still touching his, your shoulder to his chest, two ribcages leaning into each other. Jack fixes his gaze on your lips.

“I think I want a taste test too,” he says, barely a warning. More of a confession — before he moves to close the distance between your faces.

You meet him halfway.

There’s more intention and way more intensity: it’s in the eagerness he kisses you with, in how you snake a hand into his hair, and Jack hastily pulls you flush up against him. He can taste it — the burning flavour on your tongue, the heat of cinnamon, cumin, coriander, chiles. (To be fair, he only knows the names because he added them). He savours it: you and your softness, pliancy, desire that overtakes you two shamelessly fast. You don’t fight it; you kiss him until your lips are wet and tingling, until you have to stop to gulp some air.

Jack doesn’t move away — instead, his mouth moves to the side, under your cheekbone, then to that small spot behind your ear that makes you breath heavy.

“This was supposed to be the part where we build the tacos,” you whisper as his kisses (predictably, much to your delight) start shifting lower.

“I’ll be quick.”

“You never are.”

He grins, his words tickling your neck. “And you never complain about it.”

That’s true, you don’t — you can’t, not when he’s so adept at touching you exactly where you want to, and your body is already heating under his hands. His lips find your collarbone, his fingers readily unbuttoning your blouse. Button by button. And that sweet, dizzying anticipation hums under your skin, in tact with your heartbeat, a low and rhythmic buzzing —

Like a phone’s. Yours.

“Someone is calling,” you mutter. You both turn to the sound of the device persistently vibrating on the kitchen counter.

The caller is unknown — it’s just a number on the screen, without any name or photo, but you don’t hesitate to take it. You swipe right and pick up the phone, freeing yourself from his embrace so you can focus better. Jack feels a little smug about being the reason you can’t think straight.

He keeps an eye on you as you answer the call. It takes about three seconds for your features to relax.

“Oh, hi, Victoria! Of course I remember —”

But it’s cut short — your greeting first, then your tranquility, and Jack watches your smile disappear. You listen closely to what the caller has to say, with that same concentration you shift into when it comes to work. For a long moment, nothing in you moves, nothing betrays your thoughts or feelings. But Jack knows what to look for — and so he can discern it in your face, as if you mentally flip a switch: your gaze hardens as your brows pinch together, lips thinned into a straight line.

This isn’t just concentration, this is you planning, strategising, picking criminal code articles to use. To weaponize. This is the look that tells him it must be something bad.

“Victoria, I need you to stop,” you tell her with an even tone. “Now, please take a deep breath for me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Your fingers move to button up your shirt. You take another step away from Jack. Without thinking, he closes the pot and puts it off the stove.

“Tell me, are you safe in there? Were you hurt?” you delicately choose your words. “Okay, that’s good. Can you walk me through the events again? I don’t need all the details, just the basics will do.”

You rush out of the kitchen to grab your bag and take out your laptop, tapping away at the keyboard as you look something up — names, profile pictures, streets on a city map. Jack watches you in worry, in a helpless wonder. And it takes an embarrassing amount of seconds for his mind to throw him a hunch: Victoria. That’s not Javadi, right?

Jack catiously taps you on the shoulder, then whispers her last name to you — unsure, like a question. You simply nod. The furrow in between your brows stays.

“Yes, they absolutely cannot do that,” you tell her, chest rising on a long inhale, like you’re holding back a sigh. “Do you know which room he’s in right now? I need you to put me on speaker and then walk into that room. Don’t knock and immediately tell Mateo to stop talking. After I’m done, walk out, don’t speak to anybody and wait for me somewhere nearby. Alright?”

Jack stands close, his fingers carefully working on fastening your last two buttons. He wants to somehow make it better, easier for you; he can’t. That thought stings like a thorn.

You take another deep breath. You wait. Your free hand curls into a fist you put behind your back. But when you talk, your voice comes out unfazed.

“This is Mr. Diaz’s attorney, and I’m very curious why you didn’t allow him that one call he has the right to make. Mateo, did they explain your rights to you?”

You roll your eyes at the reply. Jack figures it’s a no.

“Which means anything he says or has already said is inadmissible in court. Are there any injuries I need to be aware of, apart from a possible nose fracture?... Well, I hope it stays that way. I’m twenty minutes away, I’ll be there in fifteen. Which interview room?”

You end the call without any pleasantries to spare. And you can feel Jack’s stare, so you spill it all out before he even puts the words into a question.

“Some inadequate patient was pissed that they didn’t fix him in record time, so he threw a fit, got his ass kicked out of the ER — and didn’t think of anything better than to wait for Victoria outside. Apparently, to share more of his dumbass complaints. He grabbed her,” your voice wavers — a tiny giveaway of how upset you actually are. But you push the emotions down. “I don’t know what his plan was, but thankfully, Mateo showed up. They got into a fight. The cops were driving by, and for some stupid reason, they decided Mateo was the one to blame. So they took him in. Ignored all of Javadi’s explanations. The other guy got away.”

Jack frowns. “How the fuck is that legal?”

“It’s not. It’s just how cops do their job,” you huff, grabbing a blazer you left hanging on a coat rack.

“What was it about a fracture?” Jack looks for his car keys.

“The guy clocked him on the nose, Javadi said it wasn’t that bad. But then one of the cops slammed Mateo face flat against their car. And I suspect that kind of impact can break bones.”

He can’t stop an involuntary grimace as his mind paints that picture; you are correct in your suspicions.

“Can they arrest him?”

“They will not,” you say, certain, unwavering. With just a bit of anger peeking through. “They are stalling and trying to intimidate him into a confession of some sort. They have no legal grounds to even hold him there.”

Jack goes to take his jacket; there is no question that he’ll drive you. But then he absentmindedly looks at his watch, and what stings him this time is guilt.

It’s 9 pm.

This was supposed to be your first evening together in the last five days. He thinks about the excitement you brimmed with when you came in.

He also thinks about the meat that’s getting cold, about your hectic schedules that never align, with him being on nights and you being so busy you sometimes forget to eat. He leaves you voice messages that serve as a reminder. He sneaks protein bars and fruits into your bag, he learns to cook for you, something that would bring you joy after an exhausting day. It is the only goal, it’s at the core of everything — to get to see you, smiling, happy. His. Your face relaxing only when you fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you.

He hoped that his apartment would be the only place where you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

“I didn’t give your number to anyone at the hospital,” Jack tells you quietly. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this off the clock.”

You shake your head and look at him, eyes softening for a brief moment as you reach out a hand to caress his arm, a touch that says there’s nothing to be sorry for. “She knows I’m Cassie’s lawyer, so she called McKay for help. I am actually glad she did.”

You give yourself a look-over in the mirror: everything still sits impeccably, no crinkles on the fabric of your clothes, no stray hair, nothing to give away just how long of a day you’ve had. And you’re unusually quiet, which Jack finds unsettling.

“Glad why?”

“The police station Mateo is at has a reputation. That cop who dragged him into the car, I think I know who that is. Wasn’t his first misconduct. Hopefully, it will be his last.”

That almost puts a smirk on Jack’s face; it doesn’t feel appropriate, so he stays serious. He asks you for the station’s address to be useful.

“It’s less than ten minutes away,” Jack muses. He can make it there in eight.

“I love a good old element of surprise,” you say, matter-of-factly, already texting someone, feet moving toward the door. But then you pause and glance at him again. He can almost see the wheels in your head turning fast, faster. “Any chance you’ve got a pair of scrubs at home?”

He doesn’t have to ask why.

You two don’t talk during the ride — you make calls and send messages, gaze mostly focused on the screen, only short sentences leaving your mouth:

Yes, got it. Just send me the whole thing. No, I don’t think so, not today. But please look up the chief’s number. And text me when you reach the hospital’s security.

Jack figures it’s your secretary on the line. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling nervous. Also a little bit protective. He knows Javadi — a 4th-year medical student, smiley and sometimes clumsy, that wide-eyed girl who’s capable of outsmarting half of the ER. He likes her, Robby likes her, there is a solid chance she’ll get a job offer at the PTMC. He’s trying not to think what could’ve happened if Mateo wasn’t there to help her. He keeps his focus on the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack also watches you.

He’s seen you angry — in that uncovered, fervent kind of way, when the emotions spill out of you, and he’s allowed to witness it, because he’s earned your trust. He doesn’t ever patronize or pity you, he loves it — that you are caring, empathetic, tenacious in your pursuit of justice. He’s also painfully aware of how unjust the system is. He has been witness to that too: self-righteousness people in power use to cover their prejudice, the poison of which still slips through — it’s in the cruel treatment and harsh words, in the belief that certain skin color and gender grant you impunity and liberties the others can be stripped of. And it’s not easy appealing to the law when your opponent doesn’t believe in human rights.

So Jack is glad he will be there for you to offer some support. He also cannot help but feel a bit of pride: whatever are your feelings, you don’t have any trouble keeping them in check. He knows you’re fucking good at this. He’s dying to see you in action.

Your ride only takes seven minutes. Jack quickly parks, opens the door for you, fixes the badge clipped to his chest and grabs his first-aid kit. All the police stations are the same to him: greyed out walls, the smell of sweat and beer, the never-ending echoes of footsteps and voices. You lead the way.

The cop at the front desk — seemingly fresh out of the academy, a little chubby, visibly bored — stops slouching in his chair when he sees you. He tries to act cool, tries for his voice to sound more solemn. His act barely lasts a minute.

“You are here for that nurse guy?” he asks while checking your ID. “Damn, they roughed him up.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m coming with a doctor,” you note, merely polite. “I thought you guys also had one?”

“Yeah, our doc is here... Somewhere. But they were in a rush to question your client, I guess. Just gave him a few paper towels to stuff into his nose, he had to walk all the way up to the interview room with his head tipped back to stop the bleeding. It was painful to watch.”

“It surely sounds painful. Also, isn’t that use of force a little extreme?”

“Tell that to officer Nordwin,” the guy huffs.

“I plan on doing exactly that,” your voice stays steady, but now there is an edge to it. A coldness. And your promise doesn’t sound empty.

The guy looks up at you from his computer and drops his smile immediately. It dawns on him that maybe he told you too much. He only gives Abbot’s ID a glance, then points you in the right direction, with not very concealed concern.

You don’t waste time on pointless goodbyes, and now you move with purpose, a bit quicker. Jack has to keep up — still, he is opening the doors for you, and his eyes scan the corridors for threats, out of habit.

You spot Javadi from a distance: she’s all alone on some cheap-looking beam seating, hands clasped together, one foot nervously tapping on the floor. She looks unharmed but pretty shaken up. The second you come up to her, Victoria springs to her feet.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know who else to call,” she babbles, her words frantic, eyes glistening with fear. “My mom doesn’t know that Mateo and I are a thing— I mean, dating,— and she would go freaking ballistic if she finds out, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my studies, and my residency, and if I call my dad, he will tell her, and that is the last thing —”

“Deep breaths,” you remind her, keeping your tone quieter, softer. “You don’t have to worry about anything, now that I’m here. Did they take your statement?”

“No,” she tells you on a long, shuddering exhale. “I kinda feel like they forgot about me. Is that bad?”

“It means you get a chance to have me by your side when the time comes. Which is good,” you reassure.

Her repose barely lasts a second — before her eyes go woeful and teary. “They were so rude with him, so harsh,” she whispers. “One of the cops in particular, I didn’t catch his name. He didn’t even let either of us explain, just grabbed him, and I think— I’m pretty sure he broke Mateo’s nose. I did my best to stop the bleeding on our way here, but they were rushing, and the car kept bouncing on the road, I couldn’t see anything back there.”

“They made you ride in the back of the police car with him? In the cage?” you clarify, your voice veiled with the same steeliness Jack’s only now discovering.

“I don’t have my own car, and they didn’t want to wait, they just shoved him in there. And I couldn’t leave him alone. I think— I’m not sure, but I think they are mistaking him for someone else. But he didn’t do anything bad, he—he just tried to help me,” Victoria insists, already bordering on desperation. Because her prior explanations clearly fell on deaf ears.

“He did the right thing. You’ve got yourself a hell of a boyfriend,” Jack steps in, lowering his head a little so he can catch her gaze. He waits for her to register his words, to realize he means it. “I’ll check his nose, make sure it’s nothing serious, alright?”

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” Victoria breathes out, a wobbly smile on her lips. She wipes her nose and moves back a little, then points toward the row of doors down the corridor. “They took him in the last room on the right.”

You turn your head to find what room she means. And narrow your eyes at the number written on it.

“That’s where he is?” you ask, gaze boring holes into the wooden door, like it offended you somehow.

Javadi nods. Then hesitantly asks: “Should I go with you?”

“There is no need. You stay here, maybe get yourself some water from the cooler. I’ll try to make it quick,” you promise, and she lets out a small sigh of relief.

You turn to Jack, eyes meeting his — and under the bright fluorescent lights, he picks out new shades of you: you are decisive, steadfast, cool-headed. And he gets a peculiar inkling: maybe you didn’t bring him for support. Maybe you will not need it.

“I don’t want you talking to them,” you explain hastily. “You are only coming in to check on Mateo. You are allowed to take your time and do whatever’s necessary. I want it confirmed that he was hurt, and they didn’t do anything about it.”

“Got it,” Jack says and follows after you.

But what he thinks — playfully, holding back a smile — is that he likes you bossy. He also can’t help but appreciate the way your hips sway as you walk. He clears his throat and clears his thoughts just as you push the door open.

The interview room’s got no windows and no air conditioner, stuffy and small. Your eyes instantly find Mateo — he’s sitting at the table with his hands cuffed, half of his t-shirt stained with blood, red streaks of it dried under his nostrils, all over his chin. He smiles at the sight of you and winces; his nose is definitely broken.

There are two cops standing with him — one in plainclothes, older, a police badge secured on his belt. The other wears a uniform, blond hair slicked back, his tan clearly fake, too orange.

“This is officer Nordwin, and I’m detective Harrelson,” the older man reacts first, a bit surprised. He goes for a handshake. “We didn’t expect you for another few minutes, that was fast.”

You do not shake his hand, don’t even glance at it. Your gaze lands on his face — your words land like a punch:

“This is a negotiation room number five. You can’t count to five? Or is there another reason you gave me the wrong number?”

Jack freezes at the door.

Mateo’s brows shoot up at your remark.

There’s an immediate shift in the room. Like someone just brought a bazooka to a gunfight. Except, these men didn’t expect a fight at all. Neither did Jack.

The younger cop is quick to take offence. “Hell of an introduction. How about you tone down your attitude, and then we can talk,” he bristles, his body leaning just a little in your direction.

Jack tenses up. He has to fight that dog-like instinct to interfere any time he thinks you are in danger, or mistreated, or someone just looked wrong your way. But you stay calm as ever. Your tone is polished down to civil when you say:

“I simply don’t want us to start on the wrong foot. Anyone here has a law degree?”

They don’t. And you are very well aware — because in just a second, you’re back to being firm and unapologetic:

“So it’s just me. Which means I will do the talking. You need —”

“Maybe I should repeat myself,” Nordwin sneers. “I don’t think —”

“I’m sorry no one ever taught you that it is rude to interrupt people. Never too late to learn,” you cut him off, then quickly pull up an empty chair and sit down next to Mateo. “Take off his cuffs.”

The cops share a look. You keep eye contact with the older man.

“Is Mr. Diaz under arrest? Is he posing a threat? The answer to both of these questions is no. So you need to uncuff him,” you insist. “Or you can give me the keys, and I can do your job for you.”

Harrelson studies you for a few seconds. At last, he goes to sit across from you and gives the other man a nod. Nordwin does very little to hide his scowl. You make a point to keep your eyes on him, like he’s a toddler who may need your guidance. The cop hates it. You find his reaction satisfying.

Mateo rubs his wrists once they are freed, and you notice that he is breathing through his mouth.

“Dr. Abbot?” you call out. Nonchalantly, two syllables of his last name stripped off of any warmth you usually address him with at home.

Both cops turn their heads to him. And by the looks on their faces, Jack realizes: they didn’t even notice him before. Because all their attention has been drawn to you. He can’t really blame them.

Abbot snaps into a doctor’s mode: he puts the gloves on, then takes a penlight out to check Mateo’s nasal septum. Then does the hand examination. It is too quiet in the room for him to talk, so he just gives the nurse a wink. He also cannot stop himself from glancing at you, which you ignore completely.

Nordwin’s now seated too. He watches Jack suspiciously. “I didn’t know lawyers now play dress-up.”

“He’s an attending physician at the PTMC’s emergency department. Look for a big plastic card clipped to his chest, it’s hard to miss,” you deadpan. “Do you happen to know the symptoms of a deviated septum or septal hematoma?”

The corner of Mateo’s mouth curls up in an unvoiced approval. Both cops shake their heads no.

“Neither do I, and that’s why he does need a doctor. A pity that you don’t have one here.”

“We do,” Harrelson retorts, albeit reluctantly. “The precinct put new protocols in place this year.”

“So it was a conscious choice to refuse him medical care? Good to know.”

The old man exhales sharply through his nose. His gaze flicks to Mateo and stays on him, like he’s assessing damage and weighing their options. Whatever his conclusion is, he decides to play it nice.

“Listen, it was an honest mix-up with the room number,” Harrelson gives you a tight smile. “And we appreciate that you were able to join us on such short notice. Now, how about I lay out all the facts, so you can... get the drift of things.”

Your jaw shifts. Barely. Followed by a movement of your brows — up, quick. This is a new expression Jack is yet to find the meaning of. He somehow instantly knows he doesn’t want to ever get that look from you. His thumbs lightly press on the sides of Mateo’s nose. His tension doesn’t ease up.

Harrelson takes your silence as agreement.

“Officer Nordwin and his partner were on patrol this evening. We had to bring in a few extra cars because there’ve been reports of car thefts in the neighborhood. The officers heard sounds of a struggle and obviously had to check it out. As their duty requires,” he notes with just a touch of condescension. “Upon approaching the hospital area, they saw two men involved in a physical altercation. And one of them, as per officer Nordwin’s recollection, matched the description of a suspect in a recent theft. The decision was made to take him for questioning. Mr. Diaz, unfortunately, did sustain an injury, but it was clearly not life-threatening.”

Nordwin chimes in to argue. “Wasn’t even a real injury, it was nothing. He just —”

As if on cue, Mateo yelps. Jack mumbles an apology and grabs an instant ice pack to put over his nose. Both cops are startled, both staring at the nurse.

You don’t even flinch. “Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

Harrelson’s confidence falters a little. He moves his eyes to Jack. “Pushed the bone back in its place, doc?”

“That I did,” Abbot replies through gritted teeth while wiping the dried-up blood off Mateo’s face.

“Any of you ever got your nose broken?” you ask coldly.

Nordwin nods, all smug, like it is something he takes pride in. “I did, actually.”

“That makes sense,” you say without even sparing him a glance. “I take it, compassion isn’t one of your job’s requirements. But you clearly aren’t qualified to make statements regarding the severity of someone’s injury. Unless you’ve got a medical degree, which I sincerely doubt.”

His nostrils flare at your reply. A treacherously bright redness creeps up his neck and ears. You couldn’t care less about his anger.

“What’s the description of the suspected thief you mentioned?”

Harrelson shoots the younger cop a glance. Nordwin forces out:

“Male, in his thirties. Around 5' 11", medium build, dark hair at shoulder length.”

“Half of my Facebook friends match that description,” you tell him, unimpressed. Then you start firing off your question with no concern for his growing discomfort. “Any chance your forensic artist did a better job?”

“We are still working on the identikit.”

“Based off what?”

“Video footage. He was caught on CCTV.”

“Any DNA on the crime scene? Partially recovered fingerprints? Eyewitnesses?”

The silence hangs in the air, way more uncomfortable than the swelter of the room; you do not let it stretch.

“So, to summarize, you have no detailed description and no sketch, no real forensic evidence and no witnesses. Which begs the question, why exactly you thought to connect two absolutely unrelated incidents.”

This is a tone Jack’s never heard you use — uncompromising, sharp, commanding. And weirdly enough, he’s latching to your every word. What’s even weirder is that Abbot — who’s worked in pitch dark, under fire, in all weathers and all hours of the day — has trouble focusing on anything but you. The tension coils somewhere in his stomach.

“I also find it interesting that you prioritized the unproven connection over the very real threat a man posed to a defenseless woman. And the two dutiful officers just let that man go,” you punctuate, and this time, you’re looking straight at Nordwin.

He’s only able to hold your gaze for a few seconds before averting his. He is not winning this staring contest. Or this argument — you’ll make sure of both.

“I’d like to get my facts from each party involved,” you turn to face the nurse. “Mateo, how about you tell me what actually happened.”

Not tell us, just you, Jack notes. He closed his med kit and took off the gloves, now standing just a step behind you, not to draw attention. His gaze keeps coming back to you — to trace lines of your profile, down from your focused eyes to cheekbones to lips. He’s always found you beautiful, but in this moment, something makes his undeniable attraction grow tenfold.

The orange-faced cop chuckles dryly. “I’m sure he will be unbiased.”

“I don’t think your name is Mateo. So I’m not talking to you,” you easily dismiss him. Your eyes stay on the nurse, and you give him a nod to prompt him to start talking.

Mateo tells everyone what Jack already heard from you. About the impatient man who came in with an unspecified chest pain, then got progressively annoyed, lashed out at a couple of doctors and was escorted by the security and —

Jack’s only catching pieces of his story. From where he’s standing, he can catch the scent of your perfume. He also notices that you are leaning slightly against your chair, one hand tucked into your pants’ pocket, the other lying on the table. There is no stiffness in your body, nothing that would suggest you’re nervous or unsure. Instead, you flourish under pressure. Jack finds it hot. He finds it hard to look away.

“— He got out his car keys, and I didn’t want that asshole to just get away, so I grabbed 'em—”

“Speaking of the connection,” Nordwin points out. “The man yelled that he was trying to steal his car.”

“That’s not true!” Mateo eagerly protests. “He yelled that street theft was all us latinos are good for, and I said I didn’t need his damn car, but I won’t let him just drive off like nothing happened. And that’s when you walked up to us.”

You cast the cop an openly disdainful glance. “A man holding someone else’s keys to stop that person from escaping made you think he steals cars for a living?”

Nordwin grows redder, but he cannot come up with a reply. The older cop side-eyes him. The look on Harrelson’s face suggests he does not think too highly of his colleague.

You gesture for Mateo to continue and listen to him talk, despite already knowing all of it. You want to show him that his story matters. You want him to speak up the truth. You only get distracted when your phone vibrates — you take it out to read a message on the screen. Then take a moment to ponder over it.

Nordwin tries poking at you. “Bad news?”

“Not for me,” you counter, looking at him like a rottweiler would look at a hysterical lap dog. And you keep looking while you ask, “Mateo, when officer Nordwin tackled you, did you or Victoria try to explain the reason for the fight?”

“We did,” he answers, obviously displeased. “Multiple times.”

“Did he have any questions for the other man involved in the fight?”

“No.”

“Did he check on Victoria or show any concern for her well-being after she got assaulted?”

“No.”

“Okay, I get it,” Nordwin snaps. “He’s your client, and you are on his side. But you and I both know that in the end, it’s his word against mine.”

“No,” you state simply, your stare unblinking, your restraint unmatched. “It will be your word against the surveillance footage from the parking lot.”

The cop’s annoyance ebbs a little, eclipsed by his surprise. “They have cameras at the parking lot?”

“Yes, it’s where they park those big white cars that cost up to three hundred thousand dollars each,” you explain coolly. “I sure hope you aren’t up for a promotion with that lack of critical thinking.”

There is no comeback he can think of.

Jack almost wants to laugh. But then he feels that his own face is burning, and his heart rate went up, fluttering warmly in his chest. The tension that’s been building in him forces the realization out — the molten truth that rises to the surface, like magma from the depths of Earth:

he isn’t watching you out of worry, or in anticipation or amusement.

Instead, Jack is extremely, unspeakably turned on.

He takes a breath and takes a step toward the wall, so he can use it for support, pressing a palm to it. To something cold and steadying. But this new spot grants him a better view — of the curve of your lower back, your hips and thighs. That look so good in those tight pants you’re wearing. He briefly squeezes his eyes shut, he makes an effort to stop staring at your ass.

The cops, thankfully, are busy worrying about their asses. You give them enough reasons to be.

“The hospital security is looking through the footage as we speak. But I can give you a quick summary of what’s in there: an aggrieved man approaches a med student half his age. He starts harassing her, not only verbally but also physically, grabbing her by the arm. He is then interrupted by the student’s boyfriend, who tries to resolve the situation, but also gets assaulted by that man. The fight attracts the attention of the patrol car. Instead of trying to de-escalate the conflict or make any attempts to understand what’s going on, one of the officers decides to detain the boyfriend, while also using excessive and unnecessary force to do so,” you stare Nordwin down as you speak. “My favorite part is when the offender walks away, and the police do nothing.”

There is a ringing silence. Almost as loud as Jack’s heartbeat. Nordwin is seething, red all over; and yet, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Harrelson tries to mitigate their failure. “We are already looking for that man.”

“Define looking.”

“Excuse me?”

“That was just two words, which one do you need me to explain? Define?” you aren’t making this into a joke — you talk to him like he is actually stupid. “Because it seems to me that you are definitely not looking for the person who assaulted two health workers. The man you targeted instead is one of the victims, who did nothing wrong.”

“He is so innocent, he had to get his attorney involved?” Nordwin quips.

A pause falls in the room, and he can’t help but gloat, thinking he caught a gap in your defence. Thinking it is his chance to finally walk over you. Instead, he walks into a trap.

“His girlfriend called me. You know, the one that was attacked,” you tell him sharply. “And what exactly is she guilty of?”

You sit up straighter. There’s danger in how swiftly your whole body moves, in how your eyes bore into him, in just how easily you own the room.

“Please, don’t be shy, I really want to know your reasons,” you push, throwing each word at them like daggers. And you don’t miss. “A man walks in on his girlfriend being assaulted. What do you think he should’ve done? Watch her get beaten? Raped? Should’ve just given you guys a call and patiently wait for someone with a badge to show up. Since the policemen would never let the attacker get away, right?”

Wrong, your tone implies. Your gaze confirms. Both cops stare at you, dumbfounded and speechless.

“But hey, the police did show up. And the two officers present at the scene failed to assess the situation, didn’t identify the real perpetrator, didn’t bother questioning the third person, who was both a victim of the attack and a witness to the fight,” you list, unbothered and unyielding. “Instead, they wrongfully presumed my client guilty and detained him by force, which was criminally disproportionate to the nature of his presumable offence.”

Mateo turns his face to Abbot and mouths “wow”. Jack manages to give him a small nod. He knows that he’s not winning any arguments if you ever decide to talk to him like that. He’d be too stunned to speak. Just like he is right now.

You stand up from your chair abruptly. Nobody else moves.

“Let’s cut the crap. You had no real grounds for detaining him and not a single damn reason for using force. The mere insinuation that he’s complicit in some theft is not only unfounded, but also defamatory and will be treated as such,” you put your hands on your hips, your blouse red like fire, your eyes and words burning no less. “So let me save us all some time and tell you what happens next. You will let Mr. Diaz go, drop your ridiculous allegations, own up to your fuck-up and apologize like men. Or I will sue you, your station, and the whole police department for — let’s see,” you hold up your right hand and start counting on your fingers. “Failure to intervene in misconduct, use of excessive force, racial discrimination, slander, failure to provide medical help, intentional infliction of emotional distress and mental anguish... And that’s what I just came up with on the spot. When I wake up tomorrow after a good night of sleep and have my morning cup of coffee, I will double this number,” —

and then you lean over the table, your palms pressed flat against it as you look Harrelson dead in the eye,

“Are you catching my drift?”

Jack thinks that never in his life has he wanted to kiss someone as much as he wants to kiss you. Here, now, when you’re arguing and harsh and fuming, with deadly gaze, sharp on the tongue. His eyes are helplessly fixed on your mouth. His want doesn’t stop there — it’s only spreading, it’s abyssal.

And he would gladly kneel in awe between your legs.

Jack’s thinking of how your voice will crack when he’s eating you out, of your leg muscles tense and shaking while you ride his face, of how your slickness will drip all over his tongue —

A chair creaks against the floor. Abbot snaps out of his daydreaming to see that Nordwin’s glaring at you.

“Is that a threat?”

“That is a promise,” you say with simple, cold-blooded assurance.

You pull back and stand by Mateo’s side. The young cop’s trying very hard — his neck vein bulging, his mouth smirking — to be intimidating. “You think you can handle me?”

You could’ve laughed at him (you should — he’s looking really fucking stupid, Jack notes). Instead, you let him feel the weight — of your words and your confidence that’s built on crushing men like him:

“I charge nine hundred dollars an hour because I’m very good at handling things. And you better believe I do deliver on my promises.”

His smirk fades. Nordwin opens his mouth — then closes, failing to master a reply. Before he tries again, Harrelson puts his hand up (which very clearly reads as “Please, keep your mouth shut”). The old man looks like he is mentally composing his resignation letter. Still, he picks a conciliatory tone:

“Alright, point taken. We’ll get in touch with the PTMC’s security and ask the hospital to give us that patient’s name. Typically, you would need someone to report the incident first, but since the officers actually saw the fight,” he sends Nordwin a disappointed glance, “That is enough to start the investigation. We’ll obviously need a witness statement from Mr. Diaz and his girlfriend.”

“Once they receive medical evaluation and get some rest,” you emphasize, you tone brooking no argument.

Harrelson doesn’t bother holding back a sigh. He’s got no wish to argue. “Yes, of course. It’s been an eventful evening,” he’s mostly looking at Mateo’s nose as he adds, “Mr. Diaz is free to go.”

You gesture for him to get up. But your eyes stay on the detective. Your looming presence forces the old man to meet your gaze. You pull a white paper rectangle out of your blazer’s pocket with two fingers — and throw it on their table.

“Here’s my card. Don’t even think about contacting my clients directly,” and then your mouth stretches into a smile. Teeth-baring, bright, only a tad mocking. “Apology means verbal acknowledgement of failure, in case that word wasn’t in your vocabulary. But you’ve got enough time to practice until tomorrow.”

You let Mateo walk out first, your head held high as you stride out of the room behind him. Jack has to summon all his self-control to keep his eyes up as he follows you. His girlfriend — fierce and competent and nothing short of perfect. That image of you is a revelation. It makes his blood rush.

It makes desire spread through his whole body like a blaze.

The walk to his car takes barely a minute. Victoria keeps checking on Mateo, her hand carefully wrapped around his arm, her eyes two pools of adoration. He keeps smiling at her, despite his broken nose. You’re on the phone with Robby, who is still on shift. Jack lets the lovebirds take the back seat while he waits for you. He puts his hands in his pants’ pockets to fight the urge to touch you.

“Robby will meet them, he wants to do the evaluation. Apparently, the cops are already trying to contact him,” you let out a chuckle, turning off your phone. The sunset drapes a veil of violet over the blushing sky. You can hear chatter, cars honking, the noises of the city full of life. But your remark is met with silence.

“...Jack?”

His face expression is unreadable. He blinks and looks up from your blouse to meet your gaze.

“Um, yeah,” his voice is quiet, almost... strained. “Let’s get out of here.”

He walks to open the car door for you, but it feels like he keeps some distance. You sit and watch him go around to take the driver’s seat, his gaze purposefully rooted to the ground. Something is off about him.

“I can’t believe you made them apologize,” Victoria gasps, in equal parts shocked and pleased. “You weren’t afraid?”

“They weren’t the worst people that I’ve dealt with. And I only asked them to,” you correct her. “You both are yet to hear those apologies. Seems like the bare minimum after the way they treated you.”

Jack starts the engine. Out of habit, his hand moves to the side to check your fastened seatbelt. He feels it briefly with his fingers. But he doesn’t look. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable with other people in the car.

“Will they do anything about that Nordwin guy? Like, put him on suspension?”

“He should’ve been suspended months ago,” you note, although you do not plan on giving her the details.

She’s had a rough day as it is, and you know that she only needs a long, hot shower and a good night’s sleep. Everyone in this car does. Your gaze involuntarily flits to Jack. The broad canvas of his black t-shirt tightens a little with his every breath, his hands both on the wheel.

“He’s done it before? So it’s not a one-time thing,” Mateo muses. “It should at least raise some questions if there is a pattern.”

“Of course, there is a pattern. He looks like a guy who’d fuck his cousin to make sure his kids are the right shade of white,” you comment, not meaning for your words to bite. They do. It does earn you a glance from Jack. It also makes him grab the wheel tighter.

“I think we’re paying that man too much attention,” you add, calmer this time. You turn a little in your seat to look at them. “Robby said Mateo needs a head CT, but they will try to speed it up. Just hang on for a little bit, an hour tops.”

Mateo nods, his arm resting on Javadi’s waist. He cocks his head at you. “Speaking of paying.”

“No, don’t.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, with naive and sincere stubbornness. “You saved my ass out there. Feels fair to cover your hour fee.”

“Mateo, I know your heart is in the right place, but I need you to think with your head. You’re telling me you don’t still have student loans to pay?” you get your answer when he drops his gaze. You give him and Victoria a small smile. “Better spend your money on the things that matter. I can afford to help people out for free. You owe me nothing.”

Javadi whispers a timid “thank you”, her hand rubbing Mateo’s leg. You notice just how fast the colors of the city flash behind the windows. It feels like Jack is speeding.

“If you have extra money, order some takeout tonight. There’s a nice Indian place on Eloise Street,” you mention, eyeing Abbot. “Be careful with the spicy dishes, though, they aren’t for the faint of heart.”

You only catch a flicker of his mouth, an almost-there smirk. It’s not enough to put you or him at ease, and you are still left clueless about whatever troubles him. He stays out of all your conversations and runs a yellow light three times.

When you reach the emergency department, Robby is already waiting outside. Jack stops the car right next to him, and he yanks the closest rear door open.

“Jesus Christ,” he frowns when he sees Mateo’s face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the nurse tiredly chuckles as Robby helps him out.

“Wish I could say it’d get better in the morning,” Robby’s brown eyes immediately move to Javadi. “You alright, kid?”

“I’m fine. This one got the worst of it,” she sighs and steps out of the car, readily clinging to her boyfriend.

Mateo pulls her closer, his fingers caressing her shoulder. “Oh come on you guys, it’s just a nose. I will survive, no need for coddling.”

“Me, coddling? Just wait until you see Evans. She may try and strap you to the hospital bed,” Robby cackles and waves at you. You wave back and roll down your window.

Mateo asks him in a hushed voice, clearly touched. “Dana stayed too?”

“Of course she did. Better not keep her waiting,” Robby then pats him on the back and motions for them both to go inside.

He keeps an eye on them for a few seconds before turning to you. The brunet has to lean down, poking his head inside the car. He’s grinning.

“I think you should know that I just got off the phone with Chief Burgess. He wanted to apologize on behalf of the police department,” Robby crinkles his brow at you. “What the hell did you do in there?”

You shrug. “My job?”

Robby can’t stop a laugh, eyes glinting with amusement. “Jack patched up one of their guys after Pittfest, they all praised Abbot as a hero. And then you come out of nowhere and stir things up, so much so that they had to get the chief involved. You two make quite a couple.”

Jack doesn’t look amused. He stares at Robby from his seat, his gruff tone hinting that he’s in no mood for talking. “Any more sentiments you feel the need to share?”

But Robby doesn’t take offence. He takes a step back, still smiling, his gaze darting between you two, like he sees something you are yet to notice. “Gonna go check on our local Zorro. Enjoy the rest of your evening, guys.”

And Abbot hits the gas without another word.

He keeps his eyes front, taking the turns on autopilot, taking deep breaths that somehow feel too shallow for his lungs. His heart is hammering. His muscles taut like strings. And now that you’re all alone, you cannot help but ask:

“Are you okay?”

By every definition of okay there is, he’s very far from it. And Jack’s always believed he could rein in his feelings, but clearly, you challenge that belief.

Your palpable confusion is quickly turning into guilt.

“I know it took longer than planned. I’m sorry —”

“No, don’t be. You did great, I just —” Jack takes another breath (he is just trying not to fuck you right here in his car). “Want to get home faster.”

He has to stop at a red light. His jaw ticks. And then his hand moves to your leg, in an attempt to offer you some comfort. (In hopes that it will also ground him). But under the thick fabric of your pants, there’s the same tension that’s been tormenting him. Unwittingly, he makes you nervous, he can feel it. He also knows what he can do to make it better.

The ride back passes in a blink.

He parks the car. He takes you by the hand once you are out. He leads the way — into the lobby of his apartment building, into the elevator; his fingers tightly intertwined with yours. You watch him, searching for some hints, waiting for him to talk to you when he finally locks the front door from the inside.

Instead, Jack drops the keys on the side table in the hallway and darts into the bathroom to wash his hands. You’re left guessing. You know he’s usually open to any conversations, but you aren’t sure how to start this one. You hear that he turns the water off. You have your questions at the ready: is he upset about something? Is he feeling worn out?

Jack is on you before you can utter a word.

His lips crash into yours, hot, eager, unquestionably hungry. It is the kind of hunger he can no longer curb: he grabs you by the waist, his touches desperate as his hands move to cup and squeeze your ass. It makes you gasp. But you meet him with zero hesitation — your fingers curl into his t-shirt to pull him close, two wild heartbeats colliding when your chests do. You kiss him with the same amount of need and desperation. Until your lungs burn, and you pull back to suck in a shaky breath.

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Jack rasps, his mouth already on your neck.

Your mind stumbles over your thoughts as his lips find your pulse point. Someone should study the way his kisses lower your IQ. Belatedly, you guess what’s going on:

“The legal talk turned you on this much?”

“You have no idea,” he mumbles as he untucks your blouse, his fingers back to working on the buttons, way more impatient than last time.

“And here I was worried—” your voice trembles when his tongue traces your collarbone. “Worried that I went too far.”

Jack lets out a short laugh. “I didn’t even know you had it in you,” his tone is warm and teasing. “You just walked in and tore them into pieces. Never seen cops looking so dumbstruck.”

The gloom around you is diluted with a faint golden glow, a small lamp on the wall being the only source of light. Its glimmers sneak into his silver curls.

“I thought about apologizing for dragging you into that mess,” you tell him as his hands move to the waistband of your pants.

Jack stops. He locks his gaze with yours. His eyes are a dark shade of green, a restless sea that’s churning with emotions. He moves his face closer to you:

“I thought about fucking you at the police station,” he tells you in a low voice, dragging your pants down to your hipbones, “And in the car,” his fingers brush your naked stomach, “And at the parking lot.”

When you pull him into another heated kiss, you know that you won’t make it to the bedroom. Jack proves you right: he blindly sweeps things off the table with one hand — then pushes you to sit on it, lips never leaving yours. He shoves your pants down to your knees, and then you wiggle your legs out of them, the piece of clothing falling to the floor. You catch his lower lip between your teeth, pushing a groan out of him. Jack hooks your panties with his fingers, and his thumb slides to caress the inside of your thigh. It’s hard to choose between the need for air and your need for him.

Jack makes the choice for you when he pulls back. Barely a fraction of an inch. Your hand keeps grasping his t-shirt, your noses touching.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he whispers vaguely.

And then he rips your underwear off, thin lace torn into a few useless pieces. You are still struggling to catch your breath, you’re watching in a daze — how Jack is sinking to his knees, how he pushes your legs apart, his big palms gliding up your thighs, his gaze fixed on where you are already wet and wanting.

“This is what I’ve thought about the most,” Abbot avows. And he is ready to devour.

He glides two fingers through your folds and parts them, making your hips jerk forward, smirking appreciatively at how responsive you are. Without a warning, Jack leans in and licks a broad stripe up your slit.

“Fu-uck,” you breathe out, one hand immediately coming down to grip his shoulder.

His tongue moves firmly from your entrance to your clit. Then back down and back up, repeated motion that allows him to taste your wetness, to drag more sounds out of you. He loves you vocal, loves you loud, he loves the stutter in your voice that comes when he is making you feel good. He knows exactly how to.

Jack seals his lips around your clit, making the pleasure jolt through you, so sudden that your head falls back, hitting the wall. He hears you wince. He flicks his tongue over your bundle of nerves, then gently sucks on it — turning your wince into a moan. And Jack starts lapping at your cunt, obscene wet noises filling the hall, while his forefinger rubs small teasing circles at your weeping hole. He does not push in, doesn’t yet need to: your hips already buck into his mouth, your nails digging deeper into his shoulder — until his steady efforts throw you over the edge. Your legs shake, your walls clenching around nothing as your arousal coats his tongue. He doesn’t find it satiating.

“One more,” Jack mutters hungrily between your legs.

His hands come up to pull you closer to the table edge, to him. He leaves a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. “Lean back on the wall, don’t want you to hurt your head again,” and then he glances up at you — your chest heaving and face blissed-out, so he taps on your knee. “Sweetheart.”

“Yeah-yes, leaning back,” you echo incoherently, your shoulder blades pressing against the stable surface.

Jack gives your other thigh a kiss. He keeps his gaze on you as he moves his two fingers up and down your leaking cunt — before pushing them both in, one fluid motion, up to the very knuckles. Making you cry out his name. His pace is slow at first as he stretches you open, letting your orgasm build again, letting you put a hand into his hair as your hips move to meet his thrusts. And then he expertly curls up his fingers to hit that spongy spot that makes your vision blur.

“Oh my— fuck, Jack,” you whine, voice cracking, “Right there, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he grins against your thigh. “C'mon, honey, want you to soak my face.”

Jack fucks his fingers faster into you as he drinks up the sight: your eyes are half-lidded in pleasure, the red blouse open, and breasts ready to spill out of the bra. He adds a third finger — and barely a second after, he sucks hard on your swollen clit. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, hand tugging sharply at his curls. He doesn’t care that it hurts, and he doesn’t let up, his lips and hand working in tandem to make you come undone. It only takes four — five more quick flicks of his tongue — and you are trembling all over, his mouth’s flooded with your release. Jack doesn’t miss a drop. He licks you clean, shamelessly groaning at the taste, waiting for you to come down from your high.

“T-too much,” you tell him breathlessly, your fingers caressing his scalp as he pulls back. His mouth and chin are drenched, but Abbot doesn’t bother wiping them.

He has to lean a little on the table to get back on his feet. Jack thinks you need a moment — of silence and reprieve — but your hands tug him closer by his t-shirt. You pull it up and over his head, and then the softness of your lips touches his chest. Jack feels his heart leap. Warmth spreading through his bloodstream. Your kisses slowly travel higher, to his neck, over his throat and jawline.

“We really need to take this to bed,” you press a teasing whisper under his ear.

He doesn’t answer you with words — instead, Jack hoists you up, one of his hands secured under your ass, the other pulling you into a kiss. You wrap your legs around his waist. This kiss is slower, the tenderness woven into your shared breaths, the space around you growing dim as he brings you into the bedroom.

The night already slinks in through the floor windows, with glittering streetlights under the indigo sky. You lose his t-shirt and your blouse somewhere along the way. Jack lowers you on the bedcovers, and you impatiently pull down both his pants and boxers, his body flinching when you brush his cock. He’s hard, painfully so, he’s been like that ever since he kissed you in the hall. You know. You’re trying to be gentle as you marvel at him — flushed, thick and leaking in your hand — you give him a slow stroke, and then another one, watching his stomach muscles tense —

Jack stops you.

“Don’t,” he says huskily, closing his fingers around your hand to move it away. “Tonight’s about you.”

He dips his head down, bringing his mouth back to yours, his palms cradling your ribcage to lay you down on the bed. He skims his fingers up your sides, then finds your bra strap with ease. The piece of underwear flies somewhere on the floor. The air is cooling against your heated skin — Jack’s lips paint it with goosebumps. He leaves kisses between your breasts, unrushed featherlike teases, and then he seals his mouth over your nipple. One, then the other. And he is relishing the way you’re arching into him, the way your body instantly reacts to light strokes and firm touches of his hands (he’s very skilled in that, indeed). Jack moves to take the condoms from the nightstand —

“I’m on the pill.”

His breath catches. You can tell — his chest just freezes on the inhale. You reach a hand out to him, gliding your fingers up his arm.

“Been on it for a couple of days, just didn’t know when to mention it,” you explain quietly, watching him take your words in, watching astonishment bloom on his face. Your voice drops to a whisper. “I missed you.”

It seems like your confession gives him air: his lips part as he takes a breath, his gaze on you. His hand catches your wrist. He leaves a kiss on the inside of it. You use that same hand to draw him closer, his muscles countroured by the moonlight as he comes back, as he holds himself over you, his eyes shiny and filled with adoration.

“Missed you too, missed you so much,” Jack murmurs.

He lays his forehead against yours, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, he wants to see your face — when he nudges your legs open, shifting his hips to drag his cock through your soaked folds. He watches the desire swell in you as you spread your thighs wider, your arms looping around his neck. And you both shudder at the contact.

You hold your breath when he starts pushing into you, inch by agonizing inch — and your walls suck him in. Wet, tight, heavenly. Jack sinks his teeth into the lower lip, the sharpness of the bite helping him hold on for a little longer. Until his cock is fully seated in you, bare for the first time. Jack makes a choked sound.

This is the closest he has ever been to awestruck. This is the closest he can be to you. And you feel absolutely perfect, just like he knew you would.

“You’re so warm,” he says, his voice already wrecked. “I need to— just give me a minute.”

He hides his ragged breath in the crook of your neck, nudging his nose against the spot where your pulse is trashing under your skin. The rising of your chest suggests your breathing is equally unsteady. Because you have been wishing, aching for it, too — this fullness, and this intimacy, and nothing in between you two. He feels your walls spasm around him. His long exhale skates across your shoulder as he looks down, his gaze moving to where you’re joined together. Jack can’t help but pull back — only a little, only to catch a sight of his cock glistening with your arousal. And then he snaps his hips forward, back into your heat.

“Fuck, this feels—” so good, too good, a tipping point he doesn’t know how to come back from; Jack can’t find the right words.

“I know,” you say, your own voice tremulous. Your palm skates up from his neck to his cheek to make him look at you, and your words are a plea:

“Want you to move, please, I just— Please, Jack.”

Your wish is his command.

He props himself up on both elbows and leans closer, covering your lips with his — to drink the whimpers that escape you as he starts moving. Jack knows he won’t last long, but he is trying not to rush it: he sets a steady rhythm, his thrusts measured as he fucks you deep. And you lose all your self-restraint with him. You kiss him back, mouth desperate and open to let your breathy moans out, your nails scraping down his back, your hips pressing against his.

And Jack is losing himself in the feel of you.

“You’re squeezing me so tightly,” he growls, pumping in and out faster, harder. And watching as your head falls back against the pillow, the dim light sparkling on your sweat-covered skin. His hot breath trails up your throat, his voice a low rasp tucked behind your ear. “Perfect, you feel fucking perfect.”

He can tell that you won’t be able to hold off much longer.

It’s in the way you cling to him, supple and surrendering, your mouth opening to gasp for air and to breathe out his name. It’s something he can almost see — a radiant, intense heat that mounts up in you, unstoppable and all-consuming. He sneaks a hand between you two, thumb firmly circling your clit.

“I need you to cum,” Jack mouths at your skin, “Cum for me.”

He feels you pulse under his thumb, and then the orgasm ripples through you, making your body shiver, your juices dribbling down his cock. And he can’t help but follow right behind. Jack’s hips stutter, breath hitching as he fills you up, a little dizzy from how overpowering this new sensation is — of your warmth, of your walls milking him. He can’t remember if he’s ever cummed this hard.

Jack drops his forehead to your shoulder, waiting for his heart and breath to steady. He feels your hand brushing his elbow, signaling for him to lie down. Which he is grateful for (he doesn’t want to pull out just yet). Jack shifts his weight a little to the side so he won’t crush you, draping an arm across your hips, head resting at your chest.

The silence settles for a fleeting moment. You run your fingers through the damp grey curls that frame his face.

“So,” he hears you say, mirth in your voice. “You have a competence kink, huh?”

Jack breathes out a laugh. He doesn’t even ask if competence kink is a thing — his own reaction is proof enough of that.

“Guess so,” he leaves a kiss under your collarbone, before his gaze darts up to yours, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Only when it comes to you.”

You smile at him, so brightly that his heart swells. And Jack feels himself smiling back. Because you’re making him so happy, he can’t help it. His gaze moves to your mouth, his face’s about to follow it —

Your stomach growls. You groan.

“Would it be a bad idea to have tacos this late at night?”

“It’s bad to go to bed with your stomach growling, that’s for sure,” he moves closer, meaning to peck you on the lips. But it inevitably turns into a proper kiss, because he is too eager for you, too comfortable in your embrace. He pulls back only to whisper softly, “Let me clean you up.”

“No, you stay here, you’ve been on your feet all evening. I’ll be quick.”

He slips out of you, and your body slips from under his as Jack moves to the side. You hastily get out of bed, keeping your thighs together, so nothing drips onto the covers. He doesn’t bother holding back his smirk as he watches you hurry in the direction of the bathroom.

His smile fades as he wonders when was the last time you ate.

Jack sits up, stretching his arms and legs, no tension pulling at his muscles, his whole body warmed up. He grabs his briefs and puts them on, catching the sound of your approaching steps. You leave the light on in the hall. You come back with a glass of water — and wearing his t-shirt. It is the view he’ll never get tired of: your hair down and your face softened, your curves barely covered by his clothes. That now will smell of you (at least, that’s what he hopes for).

“Want me to bring your crutches?”

Jack shakes his head and leaves the emptied glass on the nightstand. “I’m good,” he leans forward a little to rest his forehead against your stomach. “I was thinking, I can switch to days next week. And then on Friday we will get off work around the same time,” his arms wrap around your legs. “I still owe you a date.”

“Technically, we’ve been on a few already.”

Judging by technicalities, he’d argue that what you mean weren’t exactly dates. It first happened one random evening, when he decided to give you a ride home, and you excitedly asked him to pull over next to some street food truck. You told him it was the best jerk chicken in the city (you were right — it was so good, Jack licked his fingers clean). You two soon made it into a habit to grab a bite on his days off or when you’re free from work. You go to places that he hasn’t heard of — some tiny cafes, food carts and family-run stalls, bolivian, korean, mexican, ingredients and dishes he could barely pronounce. And Jack, who’s never had the appetite for something new, is suddenly so keen on trying all of it. With you.

Your fingers trace unknown shapes on his upper back. “This can be a date, too.”

“Tacos at my apartment? That doesn’t sound very romantic,” his words are hushed as his lips ghost over your navel.

“I’d take this over any fancy place,” he can discern a smile in your voice. “I also know that dates usually start with food and end with sex, but I’m okay with the reversed order,” you add, running your fingers through his hair.

You feel his mouth moving higher, stitching a kiss into the cotton fabric, right below your heart. “Then we can start at a restaurant and finish here.”

“You don’t actually have to pick anything expensive,” you say quietly, with the sincerity that almost sounds like concern.

And Jack is thankful for the darkness of the room that hides his heated cheeks. Okay, so flying you to Paris on the weekend is a no-go. Noted.

“I hope to pick something you’d like,” he tells you just as honestly.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll like any place if you’re there with me.”

Jack tilts his head back, chin pressed against your stomach, eyes looking up at you like you’re his source of light. He lets himself enjoy this moment, save it in his memory, another snapshot in his mental album. He hopes to get at least a million more.

He stands up, slowly, palms following the contours of your legs to settle at your lower back. “How does Friday at 9 sound?”

“Sounds like a plan,” and you are smiling when you kiss him. You taste like happiness; it takes you two a while to pull apart. “Now I just need to find a dress. But first, we need to eat.”

And as you tug him by the hand to lead toward the kitchen, he thinks he needs to ask Shen about the new restaurant that he keeps bringing up.

Jack also needs to find the words and the perfect moment to tell you that he is in love with you.

✧ FYI: I was inspired by a scene from “Landman” that YT recommended me (I haven’t watched the show; that scene deals with SA, beware if you wanna look it up); ✧ this oneshot is a second part of my mini series: part 1: mad about you; part 3: love-filled (WIP); (I will probably post the series masterlist soon bc I need to keep things in order lol).

To his relief, you don’t immediately break up with him. Instead, you smile, your lips brushing his cheek. “It looks like meat stewed in sauce. And I think it’s very appetizing.”

“It looked a little better in the picture,” he sighs, his tone letting the frustration in. “And by a little, I mean hell of a lot, and I —”

You put your finger under his chin to turn his face to you — and kiss him. And all Jack’s worries burst like soap bubbles. It has become his cure for everything: the soft, unhurried movement of your mouth against his, your hand that traces soothing patterns on his back, the tenderness that leaves him breathless. You smile into the kiss, too. He loves it — that small twitch of your lips as their corners curl up, like he is making you so happy, you can’t help it. He could kiss you all day.

“I’m telling you, it looks great,” you reassure him, pads of your fingers caressing his jaw. “And I really appreciate the effort.”

Jack hums, calmed and contented, the sound muffled by your mouth when you peck him on the lips again. One of his hands settles at your hip.

“Not sure the spice level will be to your taste, though,” he chuckles.

But you can tell by his studying gaze that it’s an actual concern of his. It’s something you are still getting used to — him putting so much care into everything, without question, all the time. Your fingers travel up to brush through the grey curls at his temple.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m looking forward to not seeing you cry into your plate,” you tease.

“I didn’t cry,” he argues, not aggravated but abashed. “That curry thing was spicy. They labeled it with four out of five hot peppers on the menu.”

“Vindaloo,” you recall. “The waitress thought you were about to have a heart attack.”

Jack huffs a laugh, then tugs you closer with both hands. You watch a hue of pink spreading over his freckled cheeks.

“I was trying to impress you,” he tells you, voice raw with sincerity that warms your heart.

“Your dedication was impressive,” you bite your lip to bite down a giggle at the memory. “But I would prefer you not to suffer.”

A corner of his mouth twitches up. With barely covered amusement, with an uncovered gratitude: he hasn’t had a single bad day since you two started dating. His own happiness is sometimes overwhelming. (He’ll gladly suffer through a thousand more spicy dishes just to hear you laugh).

“Your wish is my command,” he isn’t even trying to be subtle with his feelings. He never is — he wants you to know. You do. It would be impossible not to.

“Then I’m wishing for a taste test,” you say, your gaze mellow, your whole body relaxing against his.

Jack’s hand only leaves you for a few seconds — to grab one of the spoons he laid out. You take it, enthusiastically leaning over the pot to carefully scoop up a piece of meat and bite right into it.

He takes this moment to get a better look at you. (His girlfriend; the word makes his blood rush).

His eyes catch on your blouse — a dark, deep red, the same silk that you like, the fabric hugging your upper body just the way he likes. His gaze glides up, over the dip between your collarbones, over your neck, the bowed lines of your lips — a drop of sauce glistens in the corner of them while you’re chewing —

Then, you moan. The sound low, drawn-out, very satisfied.

“Oh, this is good.”

Jack feels his face flush. “You can’t be serious.”

“When it comes to food? I always am,” you retort cheekily, and he uses his thumb to wipe away that oily drop. A smile tugs at your mouth when he reluctantly removes his finger. “Gonna start telling everyone I’m dating a doctor and a chef.”

“Says Gordon Ramsay,” Jack mumbles, fully aware that his cheeks now likely match your blouse. It’s something he is still getting used to — you being generous with praise, with kindness, with showing him appreciation. All the time.

“Exactly,” you insist softly. “Since I’m Gordon Ramsay, I know what I’m talking about. So your objections are overruled.”

There’s barely any space between you — his hands back on your waist, your body half-turned but still touching his, your shoulder to his chest, two ribcages leaning into each other. Jack fixes his gaze on your lips.

“I think I want a taste test too,” he says, barely a warning. More of a confession — before he moves to close the distance between your faces.

You meet him halfway.

There’s more intention and way more intensity: it’s in the eagerness he kisses you with, in how you snake a hand into his hair, and Jack hastily pulls you flush up against him. He can taste it — the burning flavour on your tongue, the heat of cinnamon, cumin, coriander, chiles. (To be fair, he only knows the names because he added them). He savours it: you and your softness, pliancy, desire that overtakes you two shamelessly fast. You don’t fight it; you kiss him until your lips are wet and tingling, until you have to stop to gulp some air.

Jack doesn’t move away — instead, his mouth moves to the side, under your cheekbone, then to that small spot behind your ear that makes you breath heavy.

“This was supposed to be the part where we build the tacos,” you whisper as his kisses (predictably, much to your delight) start shifting lower.

“I’ll be quick.”

“You never are.”

He grins, his words tickling your neck. “And you never complain about it.”

That’s true, you don’t — you can’t, not when he’s so adept at touching you exactly where you want to, and your body is already heating under his hands. His lips find your collarbone, his fingers readily unbuttoning your blouse. Button by button. And that sweet, dizzying anticipation hums under your skin, in tact with your heartbeat, a low and rhythmic buzzing —

Like a phone’s. Yours.

“Someone is calling,” you mutter. You both turn to the sound of the device persistently vibrating on the kitchen counter.

The caller is unknown — it’s just a number on the screen, without any name or photo, but you don’t hesitate to take it. You swipe right and pick up the phone, freeing yourself from his embrace so you can focus better. Jack feels a little smug about being the reason you can’t think straight.

He keeps an eye on you as you answer the call. It takes about three seconds for your features to relax.

“Oh, hi, Victoria! Of course I remember —”

But it’s cut short — your greeting first, then your tranquility, and Jack watches your smile disappear. You listen closely to what the caller has to say, with that same concentration you shift into when it comes to work. For a long moment, nothing in you moves, nothing betrays your thoughts or feelings. But Jack knows what to look for — and so he can discern it in your face, as if you mentally flip a switch: your gaze hardens as your brows pinch together, lips thinned into a straight line.

This isn’t just concentration, this is you planning, strategising, picking criminal code articles to use. To weaponize. This is the look that tells him it must be something bad.

“Victoria, I need you to stop,” you tell her with an even tone. “Now, please take a deep breath for me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Your fingers move to button up your shirt. You take another step away from Jack. Without thinking, he closes the pot and puts it off the stove.

“Tell me, are you safe in there? Were you hurt?” you delicately choose your words. “Okay, that’s good. Can you walk me through the events again? I don’t need all the details, just the basics will do.”

You rush out of the kitchen to grab your bag and take out your laptop, tapping away at the keyboard as you look something up — names, profile pictures, streets on a city map. Jack watches you in worry, in a helpless wonder. And it takes an embarrassing amount of seconds for his mind to throw him a hunch: Victoria. That’s not Javadi, right?

Jack catiously taps you on the shoulder, then whispers her last name to you — unsure, like a question. You simply nod. The furrow in between your brows stays.

“Yes, they absolutely cannot do that,” you tell her, chest rising on a long inhale, like you’re holding back a sigh. “Do you know which room he’s in right now? I need you to put me on speaker and then walk into that room. Don’t knock and immediately tell Mateo to stop talking. After I’m done, walk out, don’t speak to anybody and wait for me somewhere nearby. Alright?”

Jack stands close, his fingers carefully working on fastening your last two buttons. He wants to somehow make it better, easier for you; he can’t. That thought stings like a thorn.

You take another deep breath. You wait. Your free hand curls into a fist you put behind your back. But when you talk, your voice comes out unfazed.

“This is Mr. Diaz’s attorney, and I’m very curious why you didn’t allow him that one call he has the right to make. Mateo, did they explain your rights to you?”

You roll your eyes at the reply. Jack figures it’s a no.

“Which means anything he says or has already said is inadmissible in court. Are there any injuries I need to be aware of, apart from a possible nose fracture?... Well, I hope it stays that way. I’m twenty minutes away, I’ll be there in fifteen. Which interview room?”

You end the call without any pleasantries to spare. And you can feel Jack’s stare, so you spill it all out before he even puts the words into a question.

“Some inadequate patient was pissed that they didn’t fix him in record time, so he threw a fit, got his ass kicked out of the ER — and didn’t think of anything better than to wait for Victoria outside. Apparently, to share more of his dumbass complaints. He grabbed her,” your voice wavers — a tiny giveaway of how upset you actually are. But you push the emotions down. “I don’t know what his plan was, but thankfully, Mateo showed up. They got into a fight. The cops were driving by, and for some stupid reason, they decided Mateo was the one to blame. So they took him in. Ignored all of Javadi’s explanations. The other guy got away.”

Jack frowns. “How the fuck is that legal?”

“It’s not. It’s just how cops do their job,” you huff, grabbing a blazer you left hanging on a coat rack.

“What was it about a fracture?” Jack looks for his car keys.

“The guy clocked him on the nose, Javadi said it wasn’t that bad. But then one of the cops slammed Mateo face flat against their car. And I suspect that kind of impact can break bones.”

He can’t stop an involuntary grimace as his mind paints that picture; you are correct in your suspicions.

“Can they arrest him?”

“They will not,” you say, certain, unwavering. With just a bit of anger peeking through. “They are stalling and trying to intimidate him into a confession of some sort. They have no legal grounds to even hold him there.”

Jack goes to take his jacket; there is no question that he’ll drive you. But then he absentmindedly looks at his watch, and what stings him this time is guilt.

It’s 9 pm.

This was supposed to be your first evening together in the last five days. He thinks about the excitement you brimmed with when you came in.

He also thinks about the meat that’s getting cold, about your hectic schedules that never align, with him being on nights and you being so busy you sometimes forget to eat. He leaves you voice messages that serve as a reminder. He sneaks protein bars and fruits into your bag, he learns to cook for you, something that would bring you joy after an exhausting day. It is the only goal, it’s at the core of everything — to get to see you, smiling, happy. His. Your face relaxing only when you fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you.

He hoped that his apartment would be the only place where you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

“I didn’t give your number to anyone at the hospital,” Jack tells you quietly. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this off the clock.”

You shake your head and look at him, eyes softening for a brief moment as you reach out a hand to caress his arm, a touch that says there’s nothing to be sorry for. “She knows I’m Cassie’s lawyer, so she called McKay for help. I am actually glad she did.”

You give yourself a look-over in the mirror: everything still sits impeccably, no crinkles on the fabric of your clothes, no stray hair, nothing to give away just how long of a day you’ve had. And you’re unusually quiet, which Jack finds unsettling.

“Glad why?”

“The police station Mateo is at has a reputation. That cop who dragged him into the car, I think I know who that is. Wasn’t his first misconduct. Hopefully, it will be his last.”

That almost puts a smirk on Jack’s face; it doesn’t feel appropriate, so he stays serious. He asks you for the station’s address to be useful.

“It’s less than ten minutes away,” Jack muses. He can make it there in eight.

“I love a good old element of surprise,” you say, matter-of-factly, already texting someone, feet moving toward the door. But then you pause and glance at him again. He can almost see the wheels in your head turning fast, faster. “Any chance you’ve got a pair of scrubs at home?”

He doesn’t have to ask why.

You two don’t talk during the ride — you make calls and send messages, gaze mostly focused on the screen, only short sentences leaving your mouth:

Yes, got it. Just send me the whole thing. No, I don’t think so, not today. But please look up the chief’s number. And text me when you reach the hospital’s security.

Jack figures it’s your secretary on the line. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling nervous. Also a little bit protective. He knows Javadi — a 4th-year medical student, smiley and sometimes clumsy, that wide-eyed girl who’s capable of outsmarting half of the ER. He likes her, Robby likes her, there is a solid chance she’ll get a job offer at the PTMC. He’s trying not to think what could’ve happened if Mateo wasn’t there to help her. He keeps his focus on the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack also watches you.

He’s seen you angry — in that uncovered, fervent kind of way, when the emotions spill out of you, and he’s allowed to witness it, because he’s earned your trust. He doesn’t ever patronize or pity you, he loves it — that you are caring, empathetic, tenacious in your pursuit of justice. He’s also painfully aware of how unjust the system is. He has been witness to that too: self-righteousness people in power use to cover their prejudice, the poison of which still slips through — it’s in the cruel treatment and harsh words, in the belief that certain skin color and gender grant you impunity and liberties the others can be stripped of. And it’s not easy appealing to the law when your opponent doesn’t believe in human rights.

So Jack is glad he will be there for you to offer some support. He also cannot help but feel a bit of pride: whatever are your feelings, you don’t have any trouble keeping them in check. He knows you’re fucking good at this. He’s dying to see you in action.

Your ride only takes seven minutes. Jack quickly parks, opens the door for you, fixes the badge clipped to his chest and grabs his first-aid kit. All the police stations are the same to him: greyed out walls, the smell of sweat and beer, the never-ending echoes of footsteps and voices. You lead the way.

The cop at the front desk — seemingly fresh out of the academy, a little chubby, visibly bored — stops slouching in his chair when he sees you. He tries to act cool, tries for his voice to sound more solemn. His act barely lasts a minute.

“You are here for that nurse guy?” he asks while checking your ID. “Damn, they roughed him up.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m coming with a doctor,” you note, merely polite. “I thought you guys also had one?”

“Yeah, our doc is here... Somewhere. But they were in a rush to question your client, I guess. Just gave him a few paper towels to stuff into his nose, he had to walk all the way up to the interview room with his head tipped back to stop the bleeding. It was painful to watch.”

“It surely sounds painful. Also, isn’t that use of force a little extreme?”

“Tell that to officer Nordwin,” the guy huffs.

“I plan on doing exactly that,” your voice stays steady, but now there is an edge to it. A coldness. And your promise doesn’t sound empty.

The guy looks up at you from his computer and drops his smile immediately. It dawns on him that maybe he told you too much. He only gives Abbot’s ID a glance, then points you in the right direction, with not very concealed concern.

You don’t waste time on pointless goodbyes, and now you move with purpose, a bit quicker. Jack has to keep up — still, he is opening the doors for you, and his eyes scan the corridors for threats, out of habit.

You spot Javadi from a distance: she’s all alone on some cheap-looking beam seating, hands clasped together, one foot nervously tapping on the floor. She looks unharmed but pretty shaken up. The second you come up to her, Victoria springs to her feet.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know who else to call,” she babbles, her words frantic, eyes glistening with fear. “My mom doesn’t know that Mateo and I are a thing— I mean, dating,— and she would go freaking ballistic if she finds out, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my studies, and my residency, and if I call my dad, he will tell her, and that is the last thing —”

“Deep breaths,” you remind her, keeping your tone quieter, softer. “You don’t have to worry about anything, now that I’m here. Did they take your statement?”

“No,” she tells you on a long, shuddering exhale. “I kinda feel like they forgot about me. Is that bad?”

“It means you get a chance to have me by your side when the time comes. Which is good,” you reassure.

Her repose barely lasts a second — before her eyes go woeful and teary. “They were so rude with him, so harsh,” she whispers. “One of the cops in particular, I didn’t catch his name. He didn’t even let either of us explain, just grabbed him, and I think— I’m pretty sure he broke Mateo’s nose. I did my best to stop the bleeding on our way here, but they were rushing, and the car kept bouncing on the road, I couldn’t see anything back there.”

“They made you ride in the back of the police car with him? In the cage?” you clarify, your voice veiled with the same steeliness Jack’s only now discovering.

“I don’t have my own car, and they didn’t want to wait, they just shoved him in there. And I couldn’t leave him alone. I think— I’m not sure, but I think they are mistaking him for someone else. But he didn’t do anything bad, he—he just tried to help me,” Victoria insists, already bordering on desperation. Because her prior explanations clearly fell on deaf ears.